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The Laird's Lady
Joanne Rock
A Forbidden Attraction…When Malcolm McNair sees the ethereal beauty on the battlements, wielding her crossbow, he swears he's been bewitched by a powerful fairy queen. But Rosalind of Beaumont is definitely all woman, a lady of fierce determination, ready to do all it takes to safeguard her home from invasion.Never has Rosalind seen a warrior to equal Malcolm MacNair, and her resolve to hite her attraction to this burly Scot proves impossible. But she is English born–a guarded truce is all she can hope for. Why, then, does Malcolm's merest touch promise so much?



The Laird’s Lady
Joanne Rock


For Joyce Soule, thank you for encouraging me and
for reading my earliest attempts at writing this book.
And to Catherine Mann, who read a few other versions
of Rosalind and Malcolm’s tale on its journey to
publication. Thank you, my friends!
Finally, from Braveheart to Rob Roy and
The Highlander, my hat’s off to Hollywood for the
tales of Scotland that have made those misty moors
such an intriguing setting for my imagination.

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
Epilogue

Chapter One
August 1307
Married women never had these problems.
Barbarians swarmed at Beaumont’s gate, and the unwed daughter of the house was the only person who could lift a finger to stop them. Rosalind of Beaumont pounded her fist in frustration, causing all the miniature flower-filled urns on her worktable to jump.
Where was Gregory Evandale and his promise of marriage when she needed a man to lead her people to battle?
Rosalind’s steward burst into the solar, scattering her thoughts. John’s sprint across the rushes belied his fifty years as he skidded to a halt a scant step from her. “The brutes demand to speak with the lord of Beaumont, my lady.”
“Too bad Beaumont Keep has no lord.” Rosalind massaged her throbbing temple, willing an idea to manifest. It was a well-kept secret that the ruler of Beaumont was not a son, but a daughter. After the fire that had devastated their lands three short years ago, Rosalind’s loyal people had helped her perpetuate the notion that her brother had not perished in the blaze along with their parents. The guise had been a matter of safety until she could one day petition the king to wed her father’s former squire, and all would be well again.
Now this.
To compound her troubles, she had awoken this morning plague-ridden with a fever and headache.
“We have nigh twenty knights within the walls,” John reminded her. He leaned over her table to right an urn that had fallen over when she’d banged the table.
“Knights?” Rosalind scoffed. “Most of those untried men you call knights have never seen battle. And what good are twenty knights, when the heathens at my door have—how many men would you say?”
“Over one hundred, my lady.” He mopped up a small puddle of water from the spilled flowers with his tunic.
“—when the Scots have over one hundred men?” She turned to her audience, which had grown from John to half her household in a matter of moments. The people of Beaumont had been attacked by Scots before, and all were terrified of another massacre. Saints protect her, she could not allow them to suffer again.
John cleared his throat. “Who will speak with the invaders?”
A single answer came to Rosalind’s mind. Only one person could talk to the Scots savages in lieu of the lord.
She sighed to think of Gregory, far away when she needed him desperately. The son of a neighboring lord, Gregory had been like a brother to her during the years he’d served her father. In the weeks following the fire that had claimed her family, Gregory had vowed to wed her as soon as he could procure the king’s blessing so they might one day restore Beaumont. Until then, he had joined King Edward’s wars, and they had agreed to allow the world to believe her brother still lived, a fiction that protected Beaumont from a harsh lord of the king’s choosing. The story hadn’t been all that difficult to perpetuate, given the king’s preoccupation with battles throughout Scotland, followed by his recent death.
Still, Rosalind longed for the security of marriage to Gregory after three years of sorrow and fear. Why wasn’t her champion here now to defend her people from this threat? She grew so weary of fighting all her battles alone. Until she could get word to him, she needed to protect the keep herself. She had not safeguarded her father’s beloved holding this long only to lose it to the scourge of the north that had nearly burned the whole keep around her ears a few scant summers ago.
“Gerta, attend me in my father’s bedchamber.” She called to the maid warming her hands by a dwindling blaze in the hearth. “John, accompany us and wait outside the door for consultation.”
“But—” John and Gerta began.
“I shall speak with the Scots savages as the lord of Beaumont.” Rosalind silenced their mutual protest with a meaningful glare. Her raised chin defied any to argue with her.
Her confidence failed several minutes later when she climbed to the windy battlements of the outer bailey, dressed in her father’s aged garb. Assailed by doubts, Rosalind wondered how she could disguise her voice when she shouted down to the enemy. Perhaps her hoarse and scratchy throat would prove useful on this one occasion at least.
What if the leader demanded they meet face-to-face? Her ruse might work from afar, but she could never pass for a man at close range. Her father’s garments hung from her pitifully, and even when she concealed her long hair under the collar of the tunic, her smooth complexion made her look like a young boy.
It did not help that Rosalind shivered with alternating chills and fever.
“My lady, it is not too late to get someone else to play this role,” John hissed in her ear, for the third time since she’d donned her father’s raiments.
Rosalind shook her head, having already dismissed that idea. She couldn’t risk this confrontation going awry. She must be the one to speak for her people.
Grudgingly, John extended his hand to lift her up to the outer ward wall atop the gatehouse. Their positions were far enough above the Scotsmen to keep them safe, but close enough to be heard.
“Is there any way I can look down first, without showing myself?” Rosalind whispered, her voice betraying her trepidation.
John nodded. “Chances are they won’t have their eyes trained up here anyway. Just stay low.”
Gingerly, she raised herself up and peeked over the smooth, lime-washed stones of the parapet.
“Oh.” She gasped at the spectacle below. Cold fear swept through her, chilling her far more than her illness’s icy grip. John had said there were over one hundred men, but Rosalind would have guessed there to be twice that many.
Scots warriors congregated en masse at Beaumont Keep’s front gate. Many of them bore blue-painted faces, a tradition passed down through their fearsome Pictish bloodlines. Even from Rosalind’s high perch, the men looked monstrously big. The brutes, she amended, recalling the devastating fire the rebels had set.
She shook her head to clear her mind of the haunting visions. No time for that now.
On more careful inspection, Rosalind decided there were indeed just over one hundred Scotsmen. Their size, along with the war paint and animal skins they wore, enhanced their savage aspect.
Although most of the combatants seemed to blur into a sea of blue faces, one man caught Rosalind’s attention. Dark hair brushed his shoulders, the black locks as unrestrained as Rosalind’s own tresses. Broad shoulders supported a long leather cape that was clamped about his throat with a silver brooch.
Flanked by two warriors wearing similar devices, the man in the center stood a bit shorter than the hulking giant to his left, a bit taller than the more refined knight to his right. All three possessed a proud nobility amid the hectic siege preliminaries, but Rosalind’s gaze repeatedly fell upon the Scotsman in the middle. He wore a mantle of authority as easily as his cloak, and something about him called forth a trembling sensation in the very core of her being.
Fear. He could be the man responsible for this siege.
Forcing her eyes from the dark warrior, Rosalind concentrated on measuring the might of the gathered force on the sunny fields surrounding the keep. They didn’t have many horses, but then again, neither did Beaumont. The Scots had a huge battering ram, though, and Rosalind had no doubt the weapon could shatter their portcullis with a few of the immense invaders wielding it.
Slipping behind the shelter of the wall again, she sank down beside John.
“It is the battering ram I fear most,” she confided, picking at loose pebbles along the stone partition. “If not for that, we might be able to stave them off until they run out of rations.”
“What if we were to concentrate our efforts over the portcullis? The men could shoot flaming arrows, and the women could haul boiling water and whatever else we can find to dump on their heathen heads.”
If she hadn’t been scared senseless, she might have smiled at the notion. Her people would relish the opportunity to finally deal retribution. When the warmongering Scots had come, they’d attacked in the dead of night and retreated as the fire waged their battle for them.
“Do we have many rocks stored up here that the younger boys might throw?”
“Of course.” John nodded eagerly. “That is one of our few well-maintained defenses. Gerta often sends boys to gather stones for throwing over the battlements. It is a chore mischief-making children relish.”
“Hmm…” Rosalind considered their choices as time ran out. She would have to speak with the invaders at any moment. Should she begin preparing her people for battle, risking their lives to protect her home? Or should she relinquish her keep quietly and mayhap risk more lives to the Scots’ famed brutality?
She glanced in John’s direction, wondering what his advice would be. His grim expression told her all she needed to know. He’d lost his wife to the fire. He knew the same fears as Rosalind.
And the same determination to live in spite of them.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself for a fight she’d prayed she would never have to face. At least not alone. “I will try to discourage them, but failing that, we fight.”
John nodded and scrambled down the wall faster than many men half his age could have done. Rosalind looked after him, thinking how much she had grown to love him like a father. All the survivors of the Beaumont fire were family to her now. She could not bear to lose any of them.
She swallowed hard and whispered a hasty prayer. At least today she had an option of fighting. Struggling to stand in spite of the headache that threatened her balance, she drew herself up to her full height and faced the invaders.

Malcolm McNair scanned the parapets of the borderlands keep, searching for weaknesses with the practiced eye of an experienced battle tactician. He’d traveled far to secure the Beaumont holding—both for his king and for more personal reasons. If the need arose for a siege, he would be ready.
He’d long dreamed of a holding of his own. A lofty goal for a second son of a Highland laird who possessed more might than wealth. Still, the dream had not left him, especially since Robert the Bruce had hinted Malcolm was due for some recognition by the crown. Perhaps Malcolm could start a family here, escape from the endless violence of war and extend the reach of his clan’s power.
Now Malcolm sat tall in the saddle, bracketed by his brothers as he had been at birth. His McNair kin had accompanied him on this siege—Ian to escape the memories of his dead wife and Jamie to quench his thirst for adventure. After ten years away from his family seat, Malcolm had proved useful to his family. His battles gave his brothers a place to belong until they sorted out their lives.
Ian McNair, the burly oldest of the trio, nodded in the direction of the keep, where a slight man had appeared on the battlement. “It seems the rat has emerged from his hole. He looks as the Bruce thought he might—an inexperienced wee lordling.”
Malcolm narrowed his gaze in the sunlight to see the young lord positioned between the squat towers of the northern gatehouse. A small head swam above ridiculously large robes. The man’s features were indistinct from this distance, but the face looked to be that of a boy, smooth and pale.
Beaumont was held by a young son who had come into the holding upon the death of his father. Ever the clever strategist, the Scots king had known the sprawling stone fortification would be an easy target.
Malcolm expected no fight from the border keep.
“Aye. This should be an easy day,” he agreed, striding forward against a mild summer wind to speak for the Scots. The McNair banners snapped in the brisk breeze, while his men quieted to wait for the confrontation.
“I am Malcolm McNair,” he shouted. “I come to claim Beaumont in the name of my king, Robert the Bruce.” The yard became still as the antagonists faced one another, the silence broken only by the occasional snort of a horse.
Finally, a response tripped down from the parapets.
“I am William, Lord of Beaumont, and I do not recognize this king you claim.” Though he shouted in a voice scarcely beyond puberty, the lad stood tall against the relentless chill of the wind, his stance defiant. “Scotland and England share but one sovereign, Edward II, and your presence here is an insult to his royal highness.”
“And I tell ye, young sir, we willna leave until Beaumont is held in the name of Robert the Bruce.” Malcolm pressed his claim with calm authority, convinced his cause was just. If the English king possessed a shred of common sense, he would never have left a prize such as Beaumont to be guarded alone by this wee lordling. “If ye surrender to us peacefully now, ye have my solemn oath that none of yer people will be harmed.”
The young man’s face twisted. Was it anger? Fear?
“No harm will come to my people?” His voice rasped, more high-pitched and charged with feeling. “And I am to take your solemn oath on that fact?” His tone dripped with disdain. “I trust the word of no Scotsman, least of all one who would camp uninvited at my gate in direct defiance of our king.”
The raw emotion in the lord of Beaumont’s voice did naught to sway Malcolm’s resolve. He would hold Beaumont within the sennight, whether the young man said yea or nay.
“I have explained to ye that I dinna share yer king. And ye might question yer own loyalty to a sovereign who would abandon his people at a time of such great unrest. Yer young King Edward willna be here to help ye anytime soon, as he has made it clear that folk of the borderlands will have to fend for themselves until spring.”
There was a pause from above, and Malcolm hoped maybe his words swayed the lad.
“I do not believe it will be so long until our new king comes to settle this dispute,” the Beaumont lord finally replied. “But it does not matter, because one way or another, you will leave my grounds.”
Damn. Malcolm did not particularly wish to cross swords with an opponent scarcely older than a squire. After ten years of battle, Malcolm craved peace. But he would do whatever he must to secure the holding for his king and his clan.
“I have made it abundantly clear that I willna, sir, and I am afraid I canna afford to give ye more than a quarter of an hour to change yer mind, or ye will feel the brunt of our convictions in this matter.”
There was another pause.
“Then I accept that time, sir, to confer with my people in regard to your proposal.” The younger man disappeared once again, leaving Malcolm confident as to what the outcome would be.
He might have lost his taste for battle, but he had yet to lose a fight.

Rosalind hadn’t fought a battle before, but it seemed she needed to win one today.
In one breath she cursed Gregory Evandale for deserting her, and in the next prayed he would come back soon. Why hadn’t he married her before joining King Edward’s wars? He’d claimed he needed to acquire loyal men and the king’s approval for their marriage. Hadn’t he done so by now?
After descending the outer walls, she flew across the courtyard, the thin soles of her decorative slippers providing little protection from the hard stones. Men and women, young and old, busied themselves making preparations to defend the keep. Several large fires were already lit to heat cauldrons of water. Men hauled rocks up the walls with pulleys, along with garbage from the kitchens and, Rosalind guessed, the contents of the chamber pots. Beaumont’s crude knights moved stealthily up the walls, positioning themselves with arrows to shoot at a moment’s notice.
Looking about her, Rosalind knew they were makeshift efforts, but that could not quell the immense pride she experienced to see their hard work. She was almost to the keep when John intercepted her.
“Well?”
“We have a quarter of an hour in which to confer.” Rosalind snorted in disgust, her heart still slamming erratically in her chest after her confrontation with the enemy warrior. “The arrogant Scot thinks we will give in to him and his band of heathens without a fight.”
“Your father would be proud of you today, Rosalind. I know it with every old bone in my body.” John clapped a reassuring hand on her shoulder before hastening off to continue preparations.
A wealth of emotion squeezed her insides, the familiar ache of loss accompanied by fear. Hope. Desperation. Heaven help her, she wanted to make her father proud. And her mother. And dear William, whom she’d adored…. Praying for strength, Rosalind darted inside to help Gerta in spite of the chills that wracked her weakened body. In all likelihood, their defense of the outer walls would not last long, maybe not even through the night. But the inner bailey and keep were much stronger and built to withstand a long siege.
Yet…
Something bothered her. She tried to push aside the pain in her pounding head long enough to think clearly. To plan her strategy and plot for all possibilities. She could not shake the sinking feeling she’d overlooked something.
For the life of her, she could not remember what. Cursing her illness and muddled thoughts, she hurried to the great hall to see Gerta barking orders to everyone in sight.
“We have less than a quarter of an hour until we must defend ourselves,” Rosalind shouted over the din of villagers scurrying to carry crates of harvest fruits and root crops into the keep. Gerta hesitated for only a moment upon hearing the message, then redoubled her efforts to move foodstuffs and other provisions inside the inner walls.
Scrambling up the stairs to her chamber, Rosalind dispensed with the last of her father’s robes as she sailed through the door. Throwing open the chest at the foot of her bed, she rummaged through her few treasured possessions—a gown of her mother’s, a poem Gregory had penned for her long ago, her box of herbs—and finally found her father’s jeweled dagger.
Although she doubted she would ever have use for a weapon meant for hand-to-hand combat, Rosalind felt more protected with Lord William Beaumont’s blade on her person. Perhaps she might gain a bit of her sire’s strength today when she needed it so desperately.
Glancing briefly into a small looking glass, Rosalind blinked in surprise at the banner of bright flaxen hair swirling about her shoulders. Since her parents’ death, she had worn her locks in a severe fashion, pulled tightly back in an intricate knot of braids. Even in her sleep, she’d kept the waist-length tresses plaited.
Her neatly dressed locks had not fit under her father’s head covering, however, so she’d unfastened them. Now it was rather disconcerting to see the abundance of hair floating around her body like a veil. For a moment, she almost resembled the girl she had once been before marauding Scots had robbed her of so much.
But she was that gentle girl no longer. The amethysts on the hilt of her father’s knife shone in the dull glass, reminding her how far she would go to protect her people. The fever that weakened her body gave her cheeks deceptively healthy color. Rosalind’s luminescent green gown shone none the less for being crammed beneath her father’s heavy houppelande and outer robe. She remembered her mother’s lesson that in order to command respect, your demeanor must warrant it. And although her hair floated recklessly about, all else about her person befitted her station.
Beaumont might not have a lord in place this day, but she remained mistress of the holding. As lady of the keep, she would not hesitate to take up arms to defend all that was left of her father’s dreams for his family and his people.
Thus armed with his blade, Rosalind prepared to lead her people into battle.

Chapter Two
“Ready? On three. One…” Wiping the sweat from his eyes two hours later, Malcolm shouted above the noise of battle. The cursed castle folk were fighting with the desperation of the damned. Scorched fur on his cloak and a smear of rotted quinces on his forearm only stirred his anger.
Devil take young Will Beaumont for risking lives in a battle he had no prayer of winning.
“Two…” With the last surge of the battering ram, his men would break through the outer ward and then the people of Beaumont would be trapped inside the keep, at Malcolm’s mercy.
“Three!” Twelve men, with Malcolm at the lead, hefted the battering ram on their shoulders and ran at the portcullis once again.
This time the shuddering crack reverberated through Malcolm’s bones as the stubborn oak gate relented. Victory teased him, close enough to taste. Beaumont was a mix of old and new fortifications, the four round outer towers strong and stalwart, but the northern gate a weak spot with its wooden reinforcements.
Now, Malcolm’s warriors poured through the freshly made breach into the outer courtyard, their boots pounding over the stones so heavily that the earth trembled with their weight.
They were close now. Beaumont would be a jewel in the crown of the Scots’ defenses along the borderlands, and Malcolm would make it impregnable. The keep had not been well maintained, with signs of old battles evident along the outer walls. Now that he was inside the village, he could see well-tended gardens between the crofters’ cottages. Underneath the stench of rotting kitchen remains tossed down on his men from the outer walls, he could still smell fresh hay from the nearby stables. Beaumont was indeed a prize.
Forcing his thoughts back to the victory now well within his grasp, Malcolm directed his men to imprison the enemy knights who scurried across the ward to the keep. Malcolm’s were faster, and more than a little angry that the English had fought them with flaming arrows, boiling water and worst of all, the contents of the castle chamber pots. His younger brother was still railing at having his garments soiled in such ignominious fashion.
But the Scots took their vengeance now. Fifteen of the nearly thirty men who defended the outer walls were quickly taken prisoner. Judging by the look of the captives, a mixture of old and young, the Beaumont defenses were on their last legs. No true warrior fought among them. Malcolm allowed himself a moment of satisfaction, knowing this siege would not last much longer.
His gratification vanished as an arrow sailed past his head, a mere hairbreadth from his ear.
“Christ’s bones,” he muttered as a fresh slew of arrows rained down upon the heads of his men.
Shouting orders to take cover, he sought the protection of a slender sapling, the outer ward of Beaumont boasting few trees or bushes. He slapped his helm back into place over his eyes, but the shower of arrows halted as quickly as it had begun.
No doubt such desperate men sought to use their arrow supply judiciously. Even so, two of the Scots were struck in the most recent onslaught, and six other of his men had been either killed or seriously wounded in the battle at the outer walls. A needless waste of life. He lay the loss of his comrades at Will Beaumont’s feet.
The cursed fool. Apparently Lord Beaumont possessed enough bravery to order a hopeless battle against his conquerors, but lacked the grit to participate in the skirmish himself.
“What say ye now, Malcolm?” Jamie McNair shouted from his position behind a small stone well. “Shall we poison their water?”
Malcolm stifled a chuckle, mentally thanking Jamie for diverting his dark thoughts. “Still a bit out of sorts about yer fine garments, I see. Ye’re not usually so bloodthirsty.”
Jamie plucked at the sodden fur lining his leather houppelande, his dark eyes narrowing. “’Tis ruined, brother, and well ye know it. Damn foot-licking English.” He glanced up at the walls of Beaumont and then back to Malcolm. “How do ye plan to get inside their keep?”
“We’ll explore the outside.” This was the part of battle Malcolm enjoyed the most—the tactical preparation, the search for a chink in the defenses. Once he ruled his own lands, he would use the knowledge he’d gained at war to maintain peace. “I’ll meet ye around the back of the keep and we’ll see what we’ve found.”
Beaumont Keep was hardly a feat of fresh construction with its low towers laced with centuries-old Roman bricks. Yet the four-rectangular-tower layout had proven solidly defendable when well manned and Malcolm had no doubt that with a bit of effort the keep could be impenetrable.
Not today, however.
“Och. Ye would bring down more pox-bitten English arrows on yer flesh and blood?”
Malcolm grinned as he prepared to bolt to the next tree, more than twenty yards away. “Stay low.”
He could hear Jamie muttering even as he started to run, until the unmistakable hiss of an arrow whizzing through the sky reached Malcolm’s ears. Resisting the urge to raise his small wooden shield above his head, Malcolm put all of his effort into reaching the tree before him. The hissing grew louder, forcing him to dive headfirst for the shelter of the thick walnut.
Thwack!
The force of the arrow roared through him as it struck the shield still clutched in his hand. Bemused, he stared as the flaming arrowhead ignited the shield with lightning speed. The heat of the burning wood finally penetrated his dulled wits, and Malcolm withdrew his grip from the rapidly disintegrating armor. Although not an heirloom, the shield had been crafted by Laird McNair for his son. Malcolm was disappointed to see it ruined, but it had served its purpose today, protecting him from what would no doubt have been a mortal blow.
From the stout defense of the walnut tree, he peered up to the northern watchtower, from whence the missile had come. He blinked to clear his vision, knowing his eyes must deceive him.
Yet there she was.
A woman.
Standing defiantly on the crenellated parapet, she did not even bother to duck behind the safety of the wall now that she had discharged her deadly shot. She lowered her crossbow, her gaze never leaving her intended victim.
Briefly, Malcolm wondered why none of his men were firing upon such an exposed target, but a quick look around the bailey showed him those few who spotted her now gawked in disbelief.
The fey creature was no kitchen maid. She reeked of nobility. Her green-yellow gown shimmered with the precise hue of newly unfurled spring leaves, and even from Malcolm’s considerable distance, he could see the voluminous folds and rich color conveyed wealth. A golden girdle sparkled around her hips in the sinking sunlight.
And her hair…
The woman’s hair outshone her adornments. It floated in a halo about her head and shoulders, rippling clear down to her waist. Loose flaxen strands caught by the breeze gave the impression of gentle disarray. She looked like a pagan sacrifice to the ancient gods of spring. Her appearance bespoke purity, yet her stance remained insolent and proud, her eyes trained on her quarry with the instincts of a natural predator.
His blood surged hotly through him—part lust and part fury—as he watched the noble beauty turn away and descend from her post. Who the hell was she to be up on the keep walls, practicing her archery skills on his head?
Cursed she-demon.
Distancing himself from the undeniable temptation the woman presented, he turned to his task of surveying Beaumont Keep. The mystery of the green-gowned siren would wait until later.
“Malcolm McNair, ’tis mighty slow ye’re moving.” A familiar voice hissed at him from the cover of a few bushes nearby.
“Ye canna tell me ye made it all the way around the keep, Jamie.” But there was his younger brother, hidden behind a tall hedge, now on the other side of Malcolm.
“Aye. And what has taken ye so long? Could it be ye were beset by a fairy from above, to be still standing there, gaping upward?”
Malcolm made a mental note that he owed his brother a pounding. “Nay, ye quarrelsome wretch, merely a crossbow-wielding strumpet who wished to incinerate me with a flaming arrow.” No matter that she’d tried to torch his arse, Malcolm had to admit he admired her skills with a bow. “What did ye find?”
Jamie leaned close, heavy eyebrows waggling with good tidings. “I found a southern tower half in ruins and plenty of options to gain entry. But we best wait until night falls to cover our activities.”
The news negated the pounding he owed Jamie. Malcolm grinned at his brother, reminded of his good fortune to be a McNair.
“Well done.” He gestured toward the setting sun, mere inches above the horizon. “We willna have long to tarry. Come explain to us all at once.”
Stealthily, they moved back to the front of the keep to rejoin Ian and make their plans for wresting Beaumont from its unfortunate lord. And although Malcolm knew his thoughts should be fixed on his impending victory, he couldn’t stop an unwelcome surge of lust over the prospect of meeting the she-devil up close.

Rosalind had kept her gaze trained out the narrow slit in her solar for the past two hours, to no avail. All she had to show for her effort was a headache grown steadily worse. The sky loomed black as pitch under the new moon, and she perceived no movement of any kind in the outer bailey.
“Perhaps they have camped outside our walls for the night,” John suggested. He perched beside her, as nervous and restless as his liege lady.
“Perhaps.” But don’t rely upon it. Something was definitely afoot. Rosalind could sense it in the deep chill that had taken hold of her bones. Where could the invaders have disappeared?
The inner keep of Beaumont was secure enough….
Or was it?
A thought hit her with all the force of a Scots battering ram as Rosalind realized what had been niggling at her all day. “John, did we post men around the south tower?”
Color drained from the steward’s face. “I never thought—”
Rosalind pushed past him and tore through the keep, the foursquare plan of the fortification mirroring the design of the outer walls on a smaller scale. She raced down the stairs from her living chambers, across the great hall and through the southern chapel to the crumbling staircase that led to her parents’ former rooms. At first she thought his footsteps followed behind her, echoing her own. But by the time she reached the abandoned old tower, she realized he must have been waylaid for she was well and truly alone. Unease tickled her spine.
The narrow southern tower, built of timber and rock, had been completely destroyed in the fire. The wood had burned out from underneath the stone, leaving the tower a crumbling heap of rubble. Under Gregory’s guidance, Rosalind’s tenants had helped her wall off the tower from the rest of the keep, and now no one ever cared to go there. The past was better left forgotten in that heap of stone.
Until today.
Why hadn’t she recalled the weaknesses of the southern end of the keep? It was the illness, she knew, that made her fuzzy-headed. She never would have overlooked such a thing if she had been well. The wall the serfs had built stood strong considering the unskilled workmanship that had fashioned it, but lacked the solidity of the rest of the structure. The makeshift barrier wasn’t as high as the watchtower bastions on the other three corners of the keep, nor was it as thick.
Fear twisted her gut as she finally beheld the wall with her own eyes. But there were no savage Scotsmen in the southern tower. No sledgehammers chipping away at the stones.
All was well.
Weak with relief, Rosalind turned on her heel to fetch sentries for the southern wing, but was yanked back by two strong arms.
A yelp of fear rose in her throat, squelched when a large palm covered her mouth. The arms around her were thick as tree trunks, crushing her against a heavily muscled chest.
Rosalind’s heart pounded until the beating deafened her.
“What a surprise.” Though her captor’s words were a hoarse whisper against her ear, Rosalind detected the lilt of Scotland in his speech.
Her blood chilled in her veins.
“The coldhearted siren is a living, breathing woman, after all. But I warn ye, dinna make a sound.” The huge palm edged away from her mouth.
She remained pressed to the hard wall of his chest, and although she could not see her enemy, his chin hovering over her head attested to his intimidating height. Some barbaric fur that he wore tickled her neck, the scorched scent of the cloak intensifying her fears. He wouldn’t be pleased with her just now, after their resistance.
Rosalind fought the terror that filled her by remembering the people of Beaumont who counted on her for protection. She must remain calm. Steady. Seeking her voice, she forced herself to edge words from her lips.
“Are you the only one who has made it inside?” Perhaps if she screamed, her people would arrive before the rest of the Scottish slime oozed through the cracks.
“Aye, but dinna doubt there will be others any moment.”
At her sharp intake of breath, his hand clamped tightly over her mouth once again. “I warned ye, lass, ’twill go the worse for ye if ye call out.”
True to his words, a soft thump sounded nearby in the darkened corridor. From the shadows, another Scots voice echoed over the stones.
“’Tis the lass from the watchtower,” a blue-painted beast of a man observed as he dropped softly to the floor beside them. “She’s no phantom, but a wee fair maid.”
“Aye, fair of face and a fair shot, too,” another Scots voice chimed as a third blue savage appeared, climbing down a rope she spied dangling along the wall. The third warrior was not quite so massive as the other two, but still a head taller than Rosalind. The newcomer wore a silver broach of a mythical griffin, the same device she had spotted on the warlord’s cloak earlier. “’Twas yer head she was aiming for, Malcolm. If ye were a damn sight slower she might have taken it.”
Malcolm.
She knew whose broad arms now held her fast—the dark-haired warrior who had drawn her eye earlier. The same Scots knight who had called up to her from the battlements.
Her whole body trembled with fear, with memories of the Scots’ wrath the last time they had visited her borderlands keep. The hulking giant stood to one side of her, the more refined knight to the other. As a cold sweat broke over her brow, still more of the blue-painted knights materialized, dropping down one by one from the rope slung over the southern edifice.
All Rosalind’s preparations for a siege were for naught because she had never given the crumbling tower a second thought. The people of Beaumont would suffer for her oversight.
She had to find a way to warn them.
“I am going to remove my hand from yer mouth and ye will direct me to the hall, wench.” Her captor’s voice, low and threatening, turned Rosalind’s skin to gooseflesh.
Thinking she might be able to aid her captor to her own advantage, she nodded.
“Out this door.” A plan took shape in her mind, a desperate measure for a desperate time.
Replacing his hand on her trembling lips, the warrior headed the direction she pointed, while his men spread out behind him. Rosalind waited for her chance, leading the Scots closer to the main hall. There would be but one opportunity to scream. She must be heard.
Her captor opened the chapel door and peered inside. The scents of pinewood and sweet incense reached her nose, the fragrances she’d long associated with comfort giving her little succor now. His hand slid from her mouth again, as if he expected her to instruct him. Rosalind saw her chance.
Gripping the hilt of her father’s small dagger for whatever courage the weapon might lend, she let loose a scream to raise the rafters.
The Scotsman’s cold blade pressed to her neck halted her cries. Her hand flexed around her own weapon in turn.
“Demon wench, I warned—” The man’s words died in his throat as Rosalind’s jeweled dagger sank into his side.
Horrified by the sticky warmth that covered her hand, she fought the roll of her belly. Her cause might be noble, but she did not mean to actually kill a man.
A roar of fury erupted behind them, and Rosalind fled from the slackened grasp of the captor. She launched herself forward through the cover of darkness, leaving the stunned invaders in a turmoil of oaths and shouts behind her. Knees quaking, she shot through the door and into the hall, where her people scurried about in confused response to her shriek. A young maid dropped a heavy decanter on the stone floor, the clang of the silver urn echoing through the huge room as Rosalind struggled to speak.
“Scots…within the walls.” She gasped for breath, still recoiling from the memory of her act.
The people of Beaumont needed no further urging, for the pounding of the enemies’ footsteps in the corridor emphasized her words. A wave of shrieks greeted her ears, accompanying a mass exodus toward the far door.
“Halt!”
A deep voice boomed throughout the hall, amplified by the echoing stone walls.
Even in their terror, many of the fleeing English turned at the commanding voice. An eerie silence grew as the residents of Beaumont fixed their gazes behind Rosalind, where she knew the blue-painted Scots must be arriving.
“No one leaves this hall.”
Rosalind froze at the familiar sound of the speaker’s voice behind her. It couldn’t be. Turning, she looked over her shoulder. It was him. The man she had just plunged her dagger clear through. Rosalind glanced down at her hands, as if to assure herself his blood still stained them.
“Fear not, wench, yer blade dinna miss.” The warrior before her bled profusely down his side, staining the rushes red. Yet any pain from the wound remained absent from his livid visage.
Do not let him take out his wrath on my people.
Rosalind trembled as she faced him. He was enormous. She had known that before, when he’d held her from behind, yet in the darkness she had not fully realized his size. He was the most intimidating man she had ever seen, and right now his expression was nothing less than ferocious.
“Ian, take ten men about the keep and round up whoever is missing. I would have all of Beaumont before me.” The Scot’s gaze never left her as he barked orders. “Jamie, head outside and see if anyone escaped. Angus, ferret out my squire to tend this damn bleeding gut of mine.”
He stepped closer to Rosalind, and a collective gasp rose among the English as he glowered down at her, his expression hard and cruel. “Where is the young lordling, Will Beaumont, and who in Hades are ye?”
Rosalind felt the anger radiate from him in waves, but fought to face him boldly. She could not allow her people to see her falter. Not when they counted on her to be strong. “Lord William left the keep hours ago to fetch the king and bring us aid. I am his sister, Rosalind.”
“Yer lack-witted brother started a war with hostile invaders, then left his sister to fight his battle while he trots off to London to find yer hedonistic king?” One heavy black eyebrow lifted in disbelief.
She gulped for air, as if the brute who cornered her had somehow robbed her of that, too. Glaring back at the Scots heathen, she merely tilted her chin in defiance.
“Tell me, Lady Rosalind, does it not shame ye to have such a coward for a brother?” He glared down at her from his intimidating height. At such close range, Rosalind noticed patches of bronzed skin under his blue paint. Dark hair brushed his broad shoulders. Heavy black brows perched over angular features slashed in a fearsome scowl.
She bristled under his criticism, but knew her lies did indeed make the man sound like a coward. “He did what he felt necessary, knowing we were outnumbered by barbarians.”
“Ye call us barbarians, lass?” A sudden stillness came over the Scotsman. “We, who sought to shed no blood in the inevitable conquering of yer keep?”
“You have no right to Beaumont,” Rosalind retorted, her loathing of the invaders pouring fresh through her veins. “We have previously experienced the Scots’ brutal notion of war and will not be misled by your claims of no killing. We have lost too much at your people’s hands to blindly give over our home to bloodthirsty marauders.”
“I will address yer slander of my people at a later date. For now, I suggest ye keep yer venomous tongue in check lest ye find yerself cooling yer temper in the dungeon.”
A soft exclamation echoed among the English that their lady would be threatened so cruelly.
John Steward stepped forward. “We mean no offense, sir, but my lady has lost—”
“Yer lady? And who might ye be to speak for her?” The Scot moved toward John.
Rosalind stepped between the men, willing herself to remain calm. There was nothing she could do to change the past, but she could try to negotiate with the barbarian to guard against any more deaths.
“Please, I will speak for myself and endeavor to do so in a more subdued manner.” She nodded to John, silently assuring him she would be more reasonable. When she turned to the Scotsman, smug satisfaction marked his stark features.
But she could not afford to be proud at a time like this. Lives might depend on how humbly Rosalind could beg the warlord for mercy. “I would speak with you in private, sir.”
His laugh boomed, dark and echoing to the high ceiling. “And give ye an opportunity to thrust yer dagger more deeply into my gut? I think nae, but ’tis an amusing suggestion.”
“You have my word that I will do nothing of the sort.” Panic swirled through her. What if he killed them all in retribution for fighting? “I merely wish to discuss a peaceful shift of power from me to you.”
“Yer word means naught to me, as ye have attempted to kill me twice already today.” In spite of his words, he did not look the least bit frightened for himself. In fact, he grinned down at her now, as if her words were a great jest.
A Scots voice called out across the hall. “We found the stragglers, Malcolm.”
Both Rosalind and the wounded warrior turned to see the remaining Beaumont folk being ushered in, along with the Scotsmen who had gathered them together.
“Aye. And ye’ll have my thanks for it. Take some sort of count so we can keep track of them in the days ahead.” He turned back to Rosalind, good humor still playing about his lips despite the gaping hole in his side. “Ian, do ye see who has asked me for a private audience to discuss a peaceful shift of power?”
“Ye dinna say?” The man called Ian eyed Rosalind carefully, his gaze detached. “’Tis the lass with the crossbow…the same one who raised her dagger to ye.”
“Aye. Think ye I should grant her this boon?”
They attempted to shame her by discussing her as if she were not present. She itched to rail at them all, but to do so would be but a selfish indulgence of her temper. Instead, she settled for hoping the warlord would collapse from blood loss as quickly as possible.
“I think there are nae many men who would refuse such a fair maid a private audience.” Another man, younger and more mischievous looking than the others, spoke up.
Embarrassment spread like wildfire through Rosalind’s veins. Her virtue meant naught to such men. If anything, her maidenly status could be one more thing for brutes like these to plunder. What would Gregory think to find his bride defiled by savage Scots?
Surely her cheeks flamed with the heat of her discomfiture. Then again, her cheeks had been flaming all day with the bout of fever that had taken hold of her.
The Scots leader laughed again. “Jamie lad, that is why I will live a good many years beyond ye. ’Tis not wise to think with yer manhood.” The jesting ended when he turned back to Rosalind, his face devoid of expression.
She prayed his words meant her virtue was safe.
“I will grant ye a meeting, lady, all in good time. For now, however, I must keep ye safe from harm and from interfering in my business. Understand, I do this because I can see ye would not allow me to take over Beaumont peacefully, yet that is what I want above all things.”
His blue eyes glittered, icy and merciless. Rosalind shivered, both with fear and the chills of her illness, as she waited for his pronouncement. Vaguely, she wondered how a man so outwardly attractive could be so cruel inside.
“Ye will stay in the dungeon until I have yer holding well in hand, and then I will give ye a private audience in which ye can defend yer actions today.”
The English people gasped at the sentence.
Rosalind’s head swam with images of what might happen while she was locked in her own dungeon. An outright massacre because of her foolish actions. Why had she bothered to put up a fight against such a strong invading force? All of Beaumont would pay for her rash decision.
Every death would be on her hands.
Her fears got the better of her as her knees went weak at the thought. Dizziness assailed her. And her hated enemy’s face became a blur as she sank heavily to the floor at his feet.

Chapter Three
Rosalind could not remember ever being so cold. Shivering under her quilt, she pulled it more tightly about her shoulders. Why wasn’t the fire lit? Just as she started to call out for Gerta or her maid, Josephine, she remembered what had happened.
She was in her own dungeon.
Rosalind groaned aloud as she recalled the damning words of the Scotsman responsible.
Malcolm McNair. The formidable Scot had consigned her to the dungeon until things were “well in hand” at Beaumont.
Blinking away the fog of sleep, she peered around her quarters. Food had been left for her, but the bread and cheese held no appeal. She even slept on a pallet instead of the cold floor, so her lot was not too bad. Yet all she could think of was the brutality the Scots could be inflicting on all the people who looked to her for protection.
Steady streams of tears rolled unchecked down Rosalind’s cheeks. Reaching blindly in the dark for a chamber pot, she retched as terror knotted her belly.
She envisioned the huge heathen setting fire to the keep, locking everyone she loved inside so they might burn with it. Just as they had before.
Stomach empty, she collapsed in a heap, too weary to move. She fell into nightmarish sleep, with one breath cursing Malcolm McNair for stealing her home, and with the next, cursing Gregory Evandale for allowing him to do so.

The next morning Malcolm knew his endeavor must be blessed. The people of Beaumont were not welcoming, but they had not revolted, either. They made the best of an unhappy situation, which was all he could reasonably expect.
Since his arrival the day before, everything had moved according to plan. He controlled the keep, thanks to his brothers’ help. Soon the south tower would be rebuilt, not as a comfortable living space, but as part of the defense fortifications.
Now he broke his fast in silence in the Beaumont great hall. A few of his men still slept on the floor of the hall near the keep’s hounds, their snores mingling with the crackle of a low flame in the hearth. The sun had not fully risen, a purple haze penetrating the chamber’s high windows.
He frowned as he bit into a quince and thought of his first task for the day—retrieve the former mistress of Beaumont from the dungeon. He could not regret his decision to lock her up, since her defiance could have cost lives. The wench had shot a flaming arrow at his head.
And yet how could he blame her? He’d attacked her home, after all. Perhaps he’d locked her up because her strong-willed determination reminded him too much of his faithless Isabel. She had teased him with the notion of marriage until she’d found a wealthier lord to share her bed.
Now that he could think clearly, Malcolm decided Will Beaumont deserved the dungeon far more than his sister. The bastard had stupidly chosen to fight a battle he must have known he had no hope of winning, and six of Malcolm’s men had paid for his foolishness with their lives. His thumb smashed the quince he held, his grip tightening as he recalled the men he’d buried.
How could the English knight have gambled so carelessly with his own men? Beaumont could not have known the invaders would refrain from killing anyone seized in battle. Indeed, it ranked as highly unusual for a conqueror to take prisoners in the midst of warfare. Beaumont had been willing to sacrifice everyone at his outer bailey wall.
Malcolm itched to face the fainthearted Beaumont lord and tear the coward limb from limb to avenge the six men he’d lost, but the former ruler was nowhere to be found. The only target for his vengeance had been Will’s fierce sister. Her skills with a crossbow would have made any Highland father proud. Malcolm did not want to reward Rosalind’s bravery with a stay in the dungeon, but he could see from the pride in her eyes that she would never sit idly by while he took over her home.
Safer for everyone if she were locked out of harm’s way.
But now that things were well in hand, Malcolm finished his quince, left the table with the hound at his heels and descended into the dungeon.
“Lachlan Gordon!” he shouted in the sleeping jailer’s ear when he located the door to the keep’s bowels.
The wiry old man jumped, jangling the keys at his waist. “Yes, sir, she is locked away safe and sound.”
“Then let me in, my good man. We canna leave the lady of the keep locked up all week.” Malcolm grinned at the aged Highlander guarding the door. He had not wanted to bring Lachlan on a siege with him, but the old man had been too cantankerous to deny. The McNair lands had been safe for so long under Ian’s rule that some of the men itched to leave solely for the sake of adventure.
Malcolm could only hope he would one day have the chance to be as strong a laird as his brother.
“We canna?” Lachlan rubbed his beard and seemed to consider that news. “’Tis sorry I’m being then, for I fear I have nae given the prisoner much care.”
“What do ye mean?” Malcolm stood very still, digesting the old man’s words.
“Well, she hasna been fed, and I only let her little maid in for a few moments. I dinna know I was to be treating her different than any other captive.”
Unease crept through Malcolm at the thought of how Lady Rosalind might have fared. He tried to recall the image of Beaumont’s mistress up on the battlements. She was a strong lass and a fearless one at that. She would not be frightened by imprisonment. Then another memory entered his mind: of Rosalind crumpling to the floor when he’d announced she would stay in the dungeon.
“Open the door now.”
Lachlan fumbled with the keys, but managed to turn the rusted lock.
Grabbing a torch as he brushed past the jailer, Malcolm raced down the stairs, cursing himself for entrusting the keep’s mistress to a failing old man. He peered around the dank stone walls. There were several cells, but he could see no movement in any of them.
A sneeze emanated from the farthest chamber.
Hastening toward the sound, Malcolm shoved open the door to the last cell. Hell and damnation.
Curled into a tight ball and tangled in threadbare blankets slept the former lady of Beaumont, now looking more like an urchin straight off Edinburgh’s streets.
Kneeling beside her pallet, he scooped her into his arms. She still wore the green gown he’d last seen her in, though its radiant spring hue had faded beneath a layer of grime. Her body radiated feverish warmth against him, yet she shivered violently. As he headed for the stairs, her eyelashes fluttered.
“They are dead,” she whispered, her gaze glassy and unfocused as she stared at him. “All of them…” Her eyes closed once again, and in the growing light Malcolm discerned heavy purple shadows beneath them.
“Find Gerta, the busybody nurse,” Malcolm shouted to Lachlan as he emerged from the dungeon.
“Aye.” Though the old man hurried off, Malcolm did not miss the distraught look upon his weathered face.
Traversing the steps to the main living quarters, Malcolm puzzled over Rosalind’s words. Who had died?
Guilt pricked him as he peered down at her weary form, his fingers sinking into soft feminine curves he would rather not notice. The McNair men had been taught to cherish women. Malcolm knew firsthand how frail they could be. Ian’s young wife had died in childbirth last winter, too gentle for the harsh demands of life in the Highlands.
Not all women possessed the resilience of Scottish thistle and a heart of stone like the woman he’d once planned to wed.
Malcolm searched Lady Rosalind’s face, struck anew at how young and slight she appeared, her body sweetly warming his where he held her. Was this the same lass who just yesterday had boldly fought off a small army and slid her dagger into her enemy’s gut? She did not look capable.
Yet she had done these things and more, he reminded himself, ignoring the way her cheek settled softly against his arm as he carried her. He must not be foolish enough to soften toward her because she was a woman. She had tried to kill him twice in one day. Heaven knew, the English felt no such sympathies for the women of their enemies.
Tamping down any compassion he might have felt, Malcolm deposited his delicate burden in a chamber at the top of the stairs and strode out the door without a backward glance. He nearly knocked over Gerta in his haste.
“She’s in there,” he barked, leaving the old woman to nurse the Beaumont she-demon back to her former good health.

Rosalind awoke to a light so bright she feared she had passed into the hereafter.
“You awake, love?” asked a familiar feminine voice.
An angel?
“You are awake, I can tell. Open your eyes, Rosalind Beaumont, and cease this nonsense.”
No angel. It was most certainly Gerta.
Rosalind peeked out blearily to see her childhood nurse frowning at her. Sunlight filtered in through a small window high above her. The normal courtyard sounds of carts rolling and crofters shouting drifted on the cool breeze, while a fire burned merrily at the foot of her bed.
“I knew ’tweren’t nothing wrong with you that a bit of sleep would not cure.” Gerta smiled, a rare display for the perpetually irritable elder woman.
Rosalind marveled how the change in expression transformed her wrinkled face. Gerta was a fair woman yet.
“Everyone has been fretting about you, but old Gerta knew you were too stubborn to let the dungeon get the best of you for long.”
The dungeon. Memories of the cold, endless night assailed Rosalind.
“Is everyone…” Her belly roiled again. She could not finish the question, but she had to know if anyone still lived after the Scots invasion.
“You thought those Scotsmen would slaughter the lot of us, didn’t you, my poor little lamb?” Gerta squeezed her mistress’s hand in her own. “I had a feeling that is what worsened your health these past days—fear for the rest of us and none for yourself.”
“How long has it been since the siege?”
“Three days. One in the keep’s underbelly for you, two up here convalescing.”
For Rosalind, time had been a blur. “What did they do to me?” Had they beaten her? She honestly couldn’t remember much.
“They did naught to you, sweeting, but neither did they take very good care of you. I let that old goat Lachlan Gordon know what I thought about his neglect, you can be sure.” Gerta’s gray coronet bobbed in time with her emphatic words. “Treating the lady of Beaumont like a common prisoner of war. But at least Lord Malcolm remembered to go fetch you out.”
“Who, pray tell, is Lord Malcolm?”
“No offense to you, but the McNair does run the keep now. The servants did not know how else to call him.”
Rosalind pondered this, appeased but not pleased. She could hardly ask Gerta to purposely bait a barbaric Scotsman.
“At any rate, it has been two days since he brought you upstairs and asked me to care for you.”
“The same man who locked me in my own dungeon to start with?” The thought of herself in Malcolm McNair’s arms disturbed her.
“Aye. But at least we have not lost any lives. A bloody miracle, considering the fight we put up.”
Rosalind’s annoyance fled. Had she heard properly?
“It is true,” Gerta continued, as if sensing her disbelief. “All of the prisoners they took in battle were spared if they would but give the Scots their allegiance.”
“They did what?” Rosalind shot upright, anger pulsing through her even though her head swam at the quick movement.
“Not to the Scottish cause.” Gerta patted her shoulder. “Just a promise not to turn on the new lord.”
“It is the same thing.” Rosalind threw aside her covers and slid out of bed. “You mean to tell me all of Beaumont has sworn loyalty to these Scots?” She yanked a surcoat out of the closet, snagging the fabric in her haste.
“I knew you would be upset, but—”
“Upset does not begin to describe my feeling on the matter.” Rosalind pulled the torn surcoat over her kirtle. “My whole household has given loyalty to the same people who only a few years ago burned half of Beaumont to the ground? The same murderous lot who took all my kin?”
Tears glistened in the old woman’s eyes. “John Steward refused to swear loyalty. He was banished.”
“Banished?” Rosalind croaked, pausing for a moment in her battle with her garters. “What will he do?”
“The rest of us did not have the courage to defy them. I could never be banished from Beaumont, my lady.” Gerta dabbed her eyes with a worn scrap of linen from her cuff.
Rosalind’s heart softened. “Did John say anything to you about his plans or where he was headed?”
“I do not know, but John mentioned he hoped to get word to Lord Evandale.”
An enormous weight seemed to slide from her shoulders. Gregory would come. He would come if only to save her, she knew, but as her betrothed he had another interest in expelling the Scots—Beaumont would be his once they wed with the king’s approval.
“Perhaps all is not lost.” Smiling, Rosalind squeezed the older woman’s shoulders. “If Gregory comes, he will rid us of these barbarians.”
“In the meantime, will you try not to rile the new Scots lord at every turn? Sometimes you can learn much more if you are smart enough to go along with things.” Gerta fiddled absently with the hem of her sleeve as she rose from the bed. “Shall I call Josephine for you? It would seem you need help getting dressed.”
Rosalind glanced down at her wrinkled gown. The tear in her seam glared from her surcoat. Her kirtle was crooked. One garter already slid sadly to the floor. Knowing she would never be able to conduct a rebellion if she wasn’t at least properly garbed, she nodded.
Two hours later, she was glad she had listened to Gerta even if she hadn’t been allowed to leave her chamber. An aging Scots warrior loomed outside her gate, his thick brogue almost unintelligible, but his refusal to let her pass into the hall had been clear enough. She was as much a prisoner in her chamber as she’d been in the dungeon, but at least here she could be comfortable enough to think and plan. To recover her health. To plot against her captors.
Now, she sat in an unforgiving chair draped with a weathered tapestry, her supper on a tray beside her. Picking at a bit of stuffed pigeon to help regain the strength she’d lost to her illness, she barely tasted the food. As much as she resented Malcolm McNair’s arrival, she counted her blessings that he had spared so many lives. Most conquerors would not be so generous.
Malcolm. The very name roused anger and…curiosity. Although she bitterly resented his invasion of her home, she could not deny that his war tactics had surprised her. Who was this warmongering Scot who spared English lives? And had he truly spared them, or was he merely biding his time to wrest hard labor from her people?
Savoring a sip of mulled wine, she recalled the strange sensation that had assailed her from the first time she’d looked at the man. She could appreciate his warrior’s might even if she despised him as her enemy. In the time that Gregory had been away, Rosalind had come to long for a man’s strength at her side. Life would be so much easier with a powerful lord as a mate. Surely the fact that she noticed Malcolm McNair’s capabilities as a warrior only underscored how much she missed Gregory.
Satisfied that she’d uncovered the source of her strange response to Beaumont’s unwanted visitor, she returned her knife to the trencher as a knock sounded at her door.
“Come in, Josephine, your timing is perfect.” She pushed away her half-eaten meal.
The door opened, and a cool gust of air blew into the solar as a heavy footstep crossed the threshold. “I fear ’tis nae Josephine, but I hope ye find my timing equally pleasing.”
Rosalind did not need to look over her shoulder to know who had just entered the chamber. The man’s presence radiated from a league away.
“I am afraid I find your timing deplorable. I would have you depart my chambers immediately.” Rosalind’s hand shook as she replaced her cup on the tray. Had he come here to dislodge her from the master chamber, to oust her from what small domain she still held?
“Can ye be forgetting so soon that ye wished a private audience with me? I am merely fulfilling yer wish.”
She refused to turn around and look at him. Instead she stared fixedly at a silver Celtic cross mounted upon her wall. How could he sound so lighthearted and full of good humor when her whole world had crashed around her ears, her future destroyed by the Scots’ quest for domination?
“My wish,” she ground out through clenched teeth, “was greeted with smug hostility. You threw me in the dungeon rather than listen to me. I have no desire to say anything to you now.”
The heathen did not reply, but Rosalind could hear his footsteps as he moved to the sideboard, followed by the splash of wine into a cup.
“Perhaps ye need another drink, lady. Ye look rather…tense.”
A huge hand reached around her to take her cup from the tray. Rosalind stiffened at his sudden nearness, but still declined to look at him.
When he returned with her drink in hand, however, she had no choice but to do so. He sank onto a low footstool as if he belonged there.
“Here’s to yer health, lass, and to yer very successful recovery.” He clanked his cup heavily against hers and drank the contents down in one gulp.
What did he think he was doing here, making himself at home in her solar, drinking her wine, smiling like a cat that just swallowed the first spring robin? The insolent Scotsman looked a far sight more grand than the last time she’d seen him. When he had ordered her to the dungeon, he had been the very image of a barbarian with his leather cape askew and his blue war paint.
Now he appeared more refined. And surprisingly clean for a heathen. In fact, Rosalind could detect the scent of Gerta’s soap about him. His tunic boasted a fine weave of silk, though the garment had not been decorated after the fashion of noblemen.
His hair shone with cleanliness, as well, falling to his broad shoulders and tied neatly at his nape. Black as sin, the locks seemed indicative of his character. Thick sable brows sheltered eyes that were a clear and vivid blue, perhaps a sign of Nordic ancestry. They should have been raven’s wing dark, too. ’Twould be more reflective of his soul. Still, fine creases around his eyes suggested he was no stranger to laughter. A straight and somewhat prominent nose hinted at pride or mayhap intelligence.
Overall, he was rather pleasing to the eye for a warmongering miscreant. But a fair countenance did not change the fact that he was still a conqueror. And above all, Rosalind craved peace. This was a man to be wary of, no matter what lighthearted jests issued from his mouth.
He seemed to be studying her as intently as she perused him. Attempting to quiet her jittery fears, Rosalind raised her cup to her lips and drank.
“’Tis no Scotch mead, of course,” he commented, his gaze steady upon her, “but ’twill do on a warm eve like this one. Would ye care for some fresh air, perhaps?”
“No,” Rosalind lied, refusing to be affable to a man who’d robbed her of her keep. In truth, she longed to tell him she was not sorry she’d stabbed him, that she would do it again in a heartbeat.
Concern for her people forced her to hold her tongue, along with a healthy dose of good sense that told her not to enrage this man and risk being thrown onto her back and defiled. He might seem trustworthy in that respect, but she could not afford to let her guard down. It was fortunate no lives had been taken in the siege. She would not risk any more by provoking the Scots leader.
“Then we will talk here.” He stood abruptly and paced the length of the solar, his quick gait betraying no sign of the wound she’d given him, which surely must pain him even as it healed.
Her feminine chamber, draped with rich tapestries and gossamer silks, seemed an odd backdrop for a warrior who exuded such maleness. Did he mean to take her chamber for his own and displace her? For a fleeting moment, she envisioned his muscular body reclined on the dark coverlet that graced her bed.
Regrettably, the image was not as absurd as she anticipated. A very clear picture came to mind, burning her cheeks as hotly as if she’d spoken the thought aloud.
“We need to come to some agreement.” His solemn manner assured her he had not somehow divined her misplaced thoughts. “When last we met ye mentioned a ‘peaceful shift of power’ from ye to me. I want to discuss this transition. But first I want to know why this shift of power would come from ye, and nae yer brother, William. Does he hold no authority at Beaumont?” He sat again, waiting for an answer. His eyes never left hers.
She longed to stand, to walk away from him and the peculiar stirring he seemed to arouse in her, but to do so would make her appear intimidated. Her bout of illness had left her too weak to walk steadily, and his presence only made her knees more unsteady.
She found him as disconcerting as his pointed questions. Had he guessed the secret of her brother’s disappearance? “In my brother’s absence, I speak for Beaumont.”
“Tell me again about this strange departure of his.” Malcolm’s hand strayed toward her leg. Startled, Rosalind flinched, but he only picked up the pomander that dangled from a chain at her waist, careful not to actually touch her person. “None of my men saw him leave. How is it possible he escaped our notice?”
Distracted by his keen interest in the keepsake from her mother, Rosalind watched Malcolm as he carefully traced his callused finger over the intricate pattern of Celtic carvings.
She shivered despite the warmth of her room, and warded off the sensation by snapping at him. “Think you I will give away all of our secrets? Perhaps there are ways to and from the keep that you have not discovered.”
“I will discover them all, ye can be sure. No keep of mine will be wrested out from under me.” Allowing the pomander to fall from his fingers, Malcolm rested his elbows on his sprawled thighs. The gesture put his face disturbingly close to her own.
Unwillingly, Rosalind absorbed the warmth of his presence, the heat of his body.
“Ye would do well to learn this now, Lady Rosalind.”
“You must know I do not consider this your keep, therefore when it is wrested out from under you, I will only be regaining what is rightfully mine.” Burrowing her backbone farther into her chair, she created as much distance between them as possible. Not that he scared her, but he definitely unsettled her. She’d begun to trust that he wasn’t here to make a grab for her, or else he would have done so by now.
“Ye mean yer brother will be regaining what is rightfully his, do ye not, lass?” A half smile twitched his lips.
“Beaumont is mine in his absence.” She cringed inwardly at her own blunder and at the laughter in his voice. Cursing her flustered weakness, she vowed to be more careful around him.
“A position ye seem at home with.” He looked around the master chamber meaningfully. “Would ye care for more wine?” One heavy black brow rose with the question.
Rosalind shook her head. Did he suspect her lies? She watched him covertly as he poured himself another cup. The man was completely out of place in her solar with its dried flowers and romantic notions. She guessed him to be a few inches above Gregory’s imposing height. Malcolm’s broad shoulders spanned a vast width, and the muscles at his calves bunched as he walked. A small knife fit into a sheath at his waist.
A warrior to his toes. It occurred to her that he did not look like the sort of craven churl to set fire to a keep and then disappear into the night. She had learned from their conversation that Malcolm liked to keep what he took, for one thing, which an anonymous raider could not do. Just by looking at him she ascertained he was a man accustomed to fighting—something the gutless torch-wielders were not, since they had set blaze to Beaumont and then disappeared into the night.
Thus Malcolm McNair was probably not responsible for the murder of her parents. He still represented the savages who committed the deed, of course, and his conquest of her keep was reason enough to despise him. Just not quite so much as she would have if she had remotely suspected him of the Beaumont fire.
“Getting back to this peaceful shift of power.” He finished his drink and sat before her once again. “I know ye must care for your people, else ye wouldna have been at the parapets wielding a crossbow.”
Rosalind lifted her chin. Did he think to make her feel guilty?
“I find such loyalty admirable,” he continued, surprising her completely. “I understand it was nae yer fault yer brother led ye into a pointless battle. I lay the blame on him for the needless loss of lives in this siege.”
Rosalind was grateful Malcolm glanced away, else he would have seen the guilty flush steal over her features. Given her own losses, she should not mourn the loss of her enemy’s men. Yet guilt pricked her to think men had died because of her actions.
“Because I know ye care for the tenants and servants, I know ye will want to ease their adjustment to my presence.”
Perhaps sensing a protest, he raised his hand to silence her. “I know ye dinna want to face the reality that yer dreaded enemy now rules Beaumont, but ’tis a fact. Ye will only cause distress and mixed allegiances among the people if ye decry me. Would ye honestly want yer tenants to revolt and risk their lives against trained knights of war to preserve ye as their ruler? And dinna mistake me, ’twould be risking their lives.”
“You brute.” Rosalind rose from her seat so that she might look down at him. “How dare you threaten these good people when they have already done everything but kiss your bloody Scottish boot soles.”
He could have stood, as well, and intimidated her, but he remained seated, as if unperturbed by her outburst. Or was he perhaps still feeling some of the sting of the wound she’d given him three days before?
“’Tis well ye know I threatened no one. ’Tis my way of asking ye to lend me yer support and nae rile all yer household. If only ye will allow yerself to be reasonable in this, ye will see the truth of my words.”
“Be reasonable?” Anger churned through her. “I am being more than reasonable allowing you into my chamber. I am being reasonable every moment I do not spit in your face. It is completely unreasonable of you to ever think I will submit like an obedient little maid to a hostile enemy, just because you have the advantage over me at the moment.”
“Ye will risk the people of Beaumont to bolster yer wounded pride?” His voice rumbled with restrained anger and his fingers flexed tightly around his drinking chalice.
“I will not risk my people, heathen.” It occurred to her that at some point during their conversation she had realized she could rail at this man without fearing for the Beaumont folk. Although the warlord might seize her home, he would not vent his annoyance on her people. How odd to think, in this small way, she had already come to trust him. “I shall be rid of you before long. If the king will not come to our aid, Will has other allies to turn to.”
They glared at each other, brilliant blue eyes locked with hers, as the two of them reached an impasse.
“I think our talk is at an end,” Rosalind said finally, spinning away.
Malcolm rose, returning his cup to the tray with a clank. “Nay, Rosalind.”
The low rumble of his voice, the supreme confidence with which he contradicted her, gave her pause. Her heartbeat faltered.
He strode to her and, before she knew what he was about, clamped her shoulders in his heavy palms and held her a scant foot in front of him.
The heat of his hands permeated her thin summer kirtle. His touch confused her, for, although it was hardly gentle, neither was it threatening.
“If our talk was more successful, I would see no need for this.” A look akin to regret crossed his face. “But as it stands, ye will have to be confined to yer chambers until we can come to a more favorable understanding.”
Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. “Favorable for who?”
His grin was slow and deliberate. “For me, of course. Sooner or later ye’ll be coming around.”
He actually winked at her before striding out of the solar.
Rosalind picked up a pillow from her chair and threw it at the door. The gesture helped vent her frustration, but did not take away the tingling she still felt where he’d touched her.

Chapter Four
“If the steward remained with us, he could have bloody well handled the harvest.” Malcolm squinted out over Beaumont’s fields, which were ripe with grain. His brothers stood beside him.
Beaumont had been his for a mere seven days, and already problems arose from all sides—disputes among the tenants, angry whispers among the servants about his treatment of Lady Rosalind, who remained confined to her chambers. Still there had been no news from Robert the Bruce. And now the obstacle of organizing the harvest.
Usually, Malcolm could count on his family to help him with most any crisis, but even the three McNairs together couldn’t seem to solve Beaumont’s current dilemma. Experience in battle did not prepare a man for the demands of the land, it seemed.
Malcolm nudged his younger brother as he leaned back against the low rock partition separating the wheat fields from a cow pasture just outside the keep’s walls. “Ye dinna know anything about bringing in crops, Jamie?”
“I never took an interest in such things. I was meant for more lofty pursuits from the time I was the smallest of lads.” Jamie plucked a cherry from a nearby tree and took a tentative taste.
Ian laughed, a deep rumble that fairly rattled the low branches. “More like ye were afraid to soil yer hands.”
“I didna ever see you helping with the harvest at Tyrran.” Jamie snatched another fistful of cherries, popping them into his mouth in quick succession. Ever the well-bred McNair, he topped his brothers in refinement, but he ranked as fierce a warrior as the elder two.
“Too busy making war,” Ian returned, a shadow crossing his features as he reached to try the sun-warmed fruit, as well. “And then last year, Mary was in her confinement….” He looked into the distance before the flash of sorrow in his eyes dissolved into a scowl.
Malcolm clapped his brother on the shoulder, powerless to alleviate his grief. Although Ian had left Tyrran, their family seat, to join his brothers on the Beaumont campaign, Malcolm knew that Ian’s late wife still claimed his thoughts.
Given Ian’s darkened mood, Malcolm welcomed the interruption of a stout female trundling out of the keep with a basket in hand. “I hope you are saving some cherries for the rest of Beaumont, my lords. Cook uses the fruit in dishes more tasty and refined than any of the crude fare you’d find in the north.”
Malcolm stood back to make way for the nurse, who seemed to preside over the household with Rosalind. “Ye’re speaking heresy to a Scot’s ears, woman. Perhaps ye need to pay a visit to a Highland keep to change yer mind.”
“You seem to have brought the Highlands to Beaumont in spite of my lady’s most fervent hopes, haven’t you?” Still grumbling, Gerta worked to fill her basket with fruit, her weathered hands moving over the branches with quick efficiency. “And even your own Lachlan Gordon admits the superior flavor of Beaumont’s dishes, or he would not have begged me to gather more cherries for the cook. But then, I should not have been surprised he could not pick his own cherries, when even the mighty McNairs seem to be flummoxed by the matter of the coming harvest.”
Jamie straightened, looking offended enough for all of them, but Malcolm elbowed him before he could quarrel with the presumptuous old nurse.
“The McNairs are warriors, not farmers, as ye well know.” Malcolm would allow Gerta to have her moment to gloat. The elder woman had been practical enough to see the merits of submitting to his rule as soon as he’d arrived in Beaumont’s great hall, after all. “Do ye know how the work is orchestrated?”
Cackling, Gerta shooed away a bird intent on stealing from her basket. “Nay, my lord, but Lady Rosalind can tell you all about it.”
Malcolm heard Ian mutter beneath his breath at the mention of Rosalind’s name. No doubt he and Jamie were still disgusted with her for stabbing him. Loyalties ran deep in their clan.
As for Malcolm, he had found forgiveness for the blade in his thigh easily enough, even if the wound still ached like the devil. Years of battle had taught him to ignore physical pain. If only he could ward off the unwelcome desire for her so simply.
“Dinna jest with me.” He took his responsibilities to Beaumont seriously, since Robert wanted the keep in good working order. For that matter, Malcolm had a very personal interest in maintaining the lands if there was a chance the Bruce would grant them to him. “I may nae know much about reaping a harvest, but I know the work is done by men, nae noble maidens.”
“Begging your pardon—” Gerta bristled visibly “—but Lady Rosalind organized the work after her father’s death. She needed her steward’s guidance the first year, but she can do it on her own now.”
“Ye lie,” Ian accused, whistling to the same birds Gerta tried to wave away. “Her brother would have been taken under the steward’s wing, no matter how young he was at the time. Why would the steward bother with a female who would have no use for such learning? Ye insult us with yer tales.” He swiped a few cherries from Gerta’s basket and grinned. “Ye grow excellent fruit, however.”
“I do not lie, Ian McNair,” she huffed, yanking the basket out of his reach. “You may choose not to believe me, but do not call me a liar before you have tested the truth of my words. Ask Lady Rosalind what she knows about the harvest and she could well weary your ears till dawn.” Gerta scurried away as quickly as her aging legs would take her, muttering about the lack of manners in arrogant Scots.
Ian watched her depart for a moment before he exchanged a wink with Jamie. “I am thinking Malcolm would rather enjoy the opportunity to listen to the fair Rosalind till dawn.”
Malcolm glowered at them, frustration building every day he spent holding a keep that he didn’t know how to run effectively. “Lady Rosalind is a coldhearted English noblewoman, nae some pleasing Highland wench to pass a night with.”
“’Tis nae only the English who are coldhearted, McNair. Yer Isabel has been wed nigh on four years. Ye shouldna let yer bitterness over her prevent ye from enjoying the warmth of another’s arms.”
“I havena spared her a thought since her unfortunate marriage.” The conversational turn made Malcolm remember one of the few reasons he sometimes preferred wartime to peace. Running hell-bent for your life to keep an arrow out of your arse ensured there would be no discussion of women.
Ian jabbed Malcolm in the ribs with a brotherly shove. “I suppose ye were nae thinking of her when ye risked yer neck to free her from her English cage?”
“I am sworn to protect our people from the English fury.” Refusing to think about his failed attempt to free Isabel, Malcolm banged his boot against the rock wall to loosen caked soil from the sole. “I feel nothing for Isabel anymore except admiration for her courage and pity for her captivity. But as I know her well, I dinna fear for her. She will find a way to be free of the English king whether her blackguard husband helps her or nae.”
Malcolm had done all he could as a warrior to save her, but since the woman remained in English hands, he’d found it difficult to come to peace with his efforts. Hellfire. He’d grown as morbid as Ian of late, and without half as good a reason.
“Think ye there is any truth to Gerta’s words?” he asked, eager to leave behind all talk of Isabel. Perhaps speaking to Rosalind would cheer him. She might be as ruthlessly ambitious as Isabel, but Malcolm took perverse comfort from knowing that at least Rosalind was safe under his watch. “Might the good lady of Beaumont know something of the harvest?”
“Very likely.” Ian laid out a row of cherries on the rock wall, enticing a little bird to hop closer and closer to him.
“Then ye were cruel to call her a liar,” Malcolm admonished, wondering how Ian could be patient enough to let wild creatures come to him.
“Aye, but riling her surely yielded some useful insights.”
Grudgingly, he had to admit Ian could be very wise at times. Malcolm only hoped he could maintain some of the family wits about him tonight when he confronted Rosalind. He would need to be clever if he wanted to extract information from the stubborn former mistress of Beaumont.

Malcolm finally sought Rosalind’s solar some hours later, hoping he had not delayed the task so long she would be abed.
Rosalind engaged his thoughts all too often this past sennight. He had almost enjoyed his last visit with her, though he knew she had not. She was practically hissing by the time he departed.
It was unfortunate they were on opposite sides of the Scots-English dispute, for he had to admit she would be an admirable ally. She was a fierce fighter, a loyal kinswoman and, if Gerta were to be believed, exceedingly sharp.
But those same reasons kept her his opponent. She would never forsake her English heritage to swear loyalty to him, he realized. He could lock her upstairs until doomsday and she would not relent.
Candlelight shone from under her solar door when he reached it. Anticipation gripped him as tightly as he clenched the master key in his hand when he inserted it into the lock and turned.
A tempting vision greeted his eyes. All traces of the bow-wielding warrioress vanished, Rosalind now stood in the center of her private chamber surrounded by flowers of every hue. Like a forest sprite with only nature to adorn her, she presented a charming picture.
She held delicate blue flowers—damned if he knew one clump of petals from another—in one hand as she arranged another bunch of spiky red blooms in a tall vase. A basket of pale yellow blossoms sat at her feet. Other containers, already filled and arranged, were perched on every available table and chest. The room smelled heady and sweet, like a hothouse at midsummer.
This gentle creature was his ambitious, blade-wielding enemy? He could scarcely reconcile this woman with the Rosalind who’d cursed and railed at him the week before.
For a long moment, she did not hear him, absorbed as she was in her task. The flowers, the scents, the feminine chamber—even the lady herself—fit into his recurring dream of a home.
Home.
His heart ached with longing for the domestic pleasures a woman could gift a family with. Rosalind’s slippered feet tread on sweet-smelling rushes, her cutting knife moving deftly from one stem to the next. He could not see the whole of her face from the side, but he could tell she bit her lip as she worked, seemingly caught in thought.
She trimmed the stem from a long rose before plunging it into a hammered silver urn, then looked up. If he’d surprised her, she hid it well.
“Good evening, heathen.” She smiled charmingly before returning to her work.
She wished to pretend his arrival was of no consequence to her? Point one for the lady. She’d managed to rile him already.
“Ye’ve stuffed yer rooms full of greenery with nae a holy day in sight.” For that matter, even on holy days, he’d never seen a chamber so lavishly appointed with nature’s bounty. “What are ye up to?”
“Because you have seen fit to lock me indoors, I have brought the outdoors inside where I can enjoy them.”
“Where did ye find all these?” Malcolm asked, wandering around the room to study the blooms. There were at least a dozen shades and shapes of wildflowers and roses.
“My mother’s garden.”
“I have seen no blooming garden. Ouch.” He sucked a drop of blood from his finger. “Yer foliage is dangerous.”
“I must choose my opportunities to inflict a small measure of pain upon you where I can.” The wench grinned unabashedly. “The garden is surrounded by one of the crumbling walls of the south tower.”
“We will begin rebuilding the walls on the southern side tomorrow.” He joined her at the plank table where she worked.
“So I have heard. That is why I have chosen to pick as many flowers as I could before your men trample my plants.”
“How do ye know our plans?” Malcolm plucked the small shears from her hand, preferring to leave the unpredictable maiden unarmed. “And who picked all of these?” He knew very well she had not left her chambers all week. Her door remained guarded.
“I told you at your last visit, McNair, there is much you do not know about the keep.” Arching a brow, she peered at him over a vase of spotted yellow lilies. Lilies? Hell, they could have been some kind of fancy herb and he wouldn’t know the difference. “I picked these myself and I heard your men talking about their plans to fortify the southern walls.”
“Ye lie,” Malcolm told her, employing Ian’s tactic.
She merely smiled.
He tossed up his hands in disgust, lacking his brother’s patience. “I refuse to get trapped in a discussion of petty nonsense. Ye will sit and talk to me reasonably.” He seated himself on a stone bench and gestured to the chair beside him.
Rosalind did not move. “As you can see, I still have a great deal of work to be done, so if you do not mind—”
“I do mind.” She thought she had work to do? He had a field bursting with grain and no clue how to secure it for the winter. He wouldn’t take any chances with the harvest lest the people of Beaumont starve, proving once and for all he did not deserve a keep of his own. “Come and sit down.”
Sighing, Rosalind laid her plants back in their basket. She paused at the sideboard before joining him. “I seem to recall you have need of spirits when we talk. May I pour you some wine?”
“How pleasing ye can be when ye choose.” He wondered what it would be like to lead the kind of domestic life in which a woman brought him wine at the end of the day. A damn sight nicer than consigning himself to some bedroll on the cold ground on a battlefield. Especially if the shared cup of wine led to even more relaxing pursuits. “I can think of nothing I would like better.”
He watched her take her time filling the cups and seating herself. She looked radiant despite having been locked in the dungeon, then confined to her rooms all week. Perhaps she really had strolled out in the walled garden today. It would explain why she looked so fetching.
Malcolm shook his head to clear it of wayward thoughts. More than likely the scent of all the damn flowers had gone to his head.
He sipped his wine, in no hurry to talk just yet. Rosalind drank hers slowly, too, he noted. Probably plotting her strategy to keep him off balance. He allowed himself a moment to absorb the sight of her, hoping maybe if he studied her more carefully he would discover the secret of her attraction and, in turn, find a way to better arm himself against her appeal.
Her kirtle and surcoat were two shades of purple—the kirtle a pale lavender, the surcoat a rich plum. The sleeves and bodice fit closely, revealing a softly curving, altogether pleasing form beneath. And he thought this closer investigation of her would somehow help?
Shifting in his seat, he gulped the rest of his wine in an attempt to cool the fire within. Forcing his gaze to safer terrain, he noted the brightly colored gems glittering about her wrist, and a cluster of amethysts shining at her waist identified the hilt of a dagger. He winced at the memory of that particular blade and wondered why he had not taken it from her earlier.
Flaxen hair still hung loose about her shoulders, brushed to a fine glimmer that caught the candlelight as she moved. One thin braid, wound with silver thread, dangled amid the tresses falling to her waist.
She glanced up suddenly and turned brilliant eyes upon him, perhaps waiting for him to speak. Why had he never noticed the color of her eyes before? They were exactly the shade of heather, the small flower that grew rampant throughout the Highlands.
“I have much work to do yet tonight.” If she meant to prod him out the door with her words, she would be disappointed. He had no intention of leaving here without the information he sought.
But first, he would unsettle her. Rattle her just a little. Perhaps then she’d be all too glad to give him the answers he wanted so she could send him on his way.
“So ye have said, lass.” Setting his empty cup aside, he edged closer to her. Not obnoxiously close. Just near enough to catch a hint of her soft scent. “I was wracking my brain, I was, to name the color of those eyes.”
A flush crept into her cheeks, although she did not seem quite worldly enough to fear the carnal direction of his thoughts. She shook her head and made no reply, her face the picture of innocent confusion.
“Rest easy, darlin’, I have solved the problem, for ye have eyes the color of heather.”
“Heather?” She wrinkled her nose. “Truly you know naught of flowers, McNair. The blooms you speak of are a generous shade of purple, while my eyes are distinctly gray.”
“Heather.” He’d never been the kind of man to wax poetic about a lass’s beauty before, but then waging war didn’t require as much tactical planning as catching Rosalind Beaumont off guard. He needed to press any advantage he could, and strangely enough, it proved all too easy to flatter the bold, brave lady of the keep. “But dinna fash, lass, I have come here for yer expertise on another matter.”
Predictably, she appeared relieved, her shoulders relaxing by slow degrees as some of the hectic color faded from her cheeks.
If he were not a man of honor, it would be all too tempting to seduce prickly Rosalind. But that was not his objective. “The fields will be ready for harvest next week.”
“A fine harvest it will be,” she observed, sipping her wine with more caution than he had. “The weather has smiled favorably upon our crops for once.”
“On yer flowers, too, ’twould seem.”
“I have been fortunate that Mother Nature saw fit to cooperate with me this year.” She twirled her cup between restless fingers, her gaze settling upon anything in the chamber but him. “Two years ago it rained so heavily all summer, I feared the roots would rot right out from under the stems. But the plants are hardy, no matter how delicate they might look.”
“The same might be said for their mistress.” Malcolm did not miss the pleasure in her eyes as she spoke of her garden. He struggled to recall she was his enemy and not a tempting maid, because no matter how fair she looked among her flowers, Rosalind was as determined and ruthlessly practical as his faithless Isabel had been. Any wench who fought off her enemy with a crossbow was bound to be trouble.
“There is naught delicate left within me, I fear.” Her unexpected remark seemed to be spoken to herself more than him before she downed the rest of her wine in a hearty swig. “Life in the borderlands has a way of stomping out the softness inside us, doesn’t it?”
Ah, hell. He could not be taken in by the blatant hurt he spied in her gaze. To soften toward her now would be a fool’s folly.
“I want to make a deal with ye.” He rose from the bench to slowly pace the solar floor. Sitting close to her seemed to distract him far more than it rattled her. “But first, ye must tell me what ye know of bringing in a harvest.”
Rosalind plucked one of the roses from the basket at her feet and inhaled its fragrance. “If I told you, I would have nothing left to bargain with.”
As if his hands had a will of their own, Malcolm found himself drawing her from her seat to hold her in front of him. Unwise, he knew. Yet he could not resist the urge to touch her again, to find out for himself if she was as soft as he remembered.
“If ye dinna tell me something to demonstrate yer knowledge of the subject, I willna believe ye are capable of this task.”
She stared at him in breathless silence, but did not pull away. Her eyes widened and grew dark in surprise. Malcolm flexed his fingers around her upper arms, gently pressing the soft flesh beneath the delicate linen of her kirtle. When had he last held a woman?
He could see her pulse throb in a slender blue vein at her neck. He fancied he could feel her heart pound right through his fingers. The scent of roses seemed to radiate from her.
Swiftly he set her away from him, wondering what had possessed him to touch her in the first place. “Do ye ken, Lady Rosalind?”
He was gratified to see her sway on her feet for a moment before she smoothed her skirts and seemed to collect herself.
“Very well, then. The barley must be cut before anything else, as that will be the ripest, followed by the wheat. I can tell you how many serfs should be allotted to each field, and which serfs are better at cutting and which excel at threshing. Then, of course, there is the matter of the rents. I know who is entitled to what portion of the crops and how much must be given back in rent.” Rosalind crossed her arms and glared at him. “Do you ken?”
“I can consult the account books to determine the rents.” He did not wish her to know she’d surprised him. “I hardly need yer help in that.”
“Even if you can read, heathen, you do not know where my steward keeps his books.” She circled around him like a seasoned warrior sizing up her opponent.

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