Chapter One
Never call attention to yourself. A princess's reason
for existence is to fulfill her duty as a representative of
the royal family. Nothing more.
-- The Dowager Queen of Beaumontagne
Scotland, 1808
The valley was his, the village was his, yet the woman rode
into the town square of Freya Crags as if she owned it.
Robert MacKenzie, earl of Hepburn, frowned at the stranger
who cantered over the stone bridge and into the bustling
crowd. It was market day, and booths of brown canvas were
set up along the perimeter of the town square. The place
rang with the sound of a hundred voices calling out their
wares, but the stranger dominated the crowd, towering above
them on a fractious two-yearold colt. The chestnut stepped
high, as if proud to carry her, and the quality of the
horse alone would have turned heads.
The lady in the saddle attracted even more attention --
first fleeting looks, then open stares.
Robert glanced around at the small circle of old men
gathered in the sunshine in front of the alehouse. Their
wrinkled mouths sagged open as they gawked, the table and
checkerboard before them forgotten. Around them the sounds
of shoppers and merchants haggling turned into a buzz of
speculation as every eye turned to view the stranger.
Her riding costume swathed her from neck to toe with black
wool, preserving the illusion of propriety yet outlining
every curve of her trim figure. Her black hat was tall,
with a broad brim, and black veiling floated behind. The
red trim on her sleeves matched the red scarf at her neck,
and those small bits of vivid color shocked and pleasured
the eye. Her bosom was generous, her waist narrow, her
black boots shiny, and her face ...
Good God, her face.
Robert couldn't look away. If she'd been born in the
Renaissance, painters would have flocked to her door,
begging that she pose for them. They would have painted her
as an angel, for her wavy, golden hair glowed with a light
of its own, giving her a nimbus like a halo. Copper glints
in the curls seemed to possess a power to warm the hands,
and Robert's fingers itched to sink into the waves and
discover the heat and the texture. Her softly rounded
cheeks and large amber eyes under darkened brows made a man
think of heaven, yet the stubborn set of her chin saved her
face from a cloying sweetness. Her nose was slight, her
chin too broad to be truly attractive, but her lips were
wide, lush, and red. Too red. She rouged them, he was sure
of it. She looked like an Englishwoman of good quality --
except, of course, no woman of good quality ever rouged her
lips, and certainly never traveled alone.
She smiled, giving him a glimpse of straight white teeth --
and that mouth he planned to explore.
Robert straightened away from the wall of the alehouse.
Where in blazes had that thought come from?
Hamish MacQueen was boisterous and amusing, his one arm
gone in a long-ago accident in His Majesty's Royal
Navy. "Who do ye suppose she is?"
A good question, and Robert intended to get an answer.
"I dunna know, but I'd like t' part her beard," said
Gilbert Wilson, his sly wit taking a wicked turn.
"I'd like t' give her a live sausage fer supper." Tomas
MacTavish slapped his skinny knee and cackled.
Henry MacCulloch joined in the pastime. "I'd like t' play
dog in the doublet wi' her."
All the old men cackled, remembering the days when they
would have had a chance to woo a beautiful visitor. Now
they were content to sit in the sun in front of the
alehouse, comment on the doings of the town, and play
checkers -- or they had been, until she rode into town.
Robert's gaze narrowed on the female. He was smart enough,
and in his travels had seen enough, to recognize trouble
when he saw it. On the surface he appeared to be mildly
interested in the doings in the square, but his every sense
was alert for a trick. Indeed, he anticipated a trick.
After all, the world was not so secure a place as anyone in
this small village imagined. The world was full of liars
and cheats, murderers, and worse. It was men like him, like
Robert, who kept this place safe, and through his vigilance
he would continue to do so.
"Ye damned auld fools." The alewife, Hughina Gray, stood
with her apron wrapped around her hands and glanced between
Robert and the stranger. "Canna ye see she's na guid?"
"I'd wager she's verra guid," said Tomas's brother Benneit,
and the old men laughed until they wheezed.
"Ye shouldn't talk so in front o' the laird," Hughina
reproved with a sideways peep at Robert. Hughina was
Robert's age, attractive, and a widow, and she'd made it
clear she had room in her bed for him.
He hadn't accepted the invitation. When the laird slept
with the women of his lands, trouble was sure to follow, so
when the urge was on him, he traveled over the hills into
Trevor and visited with Lady Edmundson. She enjoyed his
body and his driving sexuality without caring a crumb
whether he loved her, and that made a very satisfactory
arrangement for them both.
Lately he hadn't suffered from the urge.
His hand crinkled the much-read letter in his pocket. He'd
been too busy making plans, desperate plans, vengeful
plans, and now those schemes had been set to naught because
one woman failed to fulfill her promise. Damn her. Damn her
to hell.
But for the moment he was distracted as the exotic stranger
circled the booths, giving everyone a chance to see her,
and Robert watched his people watch her. Their expressions
were suspicious or inquisitive, but she beamed them a
friendly smile as if she had not a speck of intelligence ...
