Maiden of Inverness

CHIEFTAIN

“Powerful, emotionally intense, sexually charged,
Chieftain
typifies Arnette Lamb's storytelling talents.”

—Romantic Times

“As readers have come to expect of Arnette Lamb,
Chieftain
is an excellently written and powerfully moving Medieval romance novel. . . . All-in-all, another superb read from the pen of a master storyteller.”

—Affaire de Coeur

BORDER BRIDE

“Border Bride
is vintage Arnette Lamb. This irresistible tale warms your heart, tickles your funny bone, and delights your senses.”

—Romantic Times

“The incredibly talented Arnette Lamb weaves a fascinating tale that incorporates Scottish history into an emotionally moving and realistic love story.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Arnette Lamb's
Border Bride
is not light, but deep and sensuous. It shows the emotional effect on a child denied love, and the danger of child's play. It's sexually stimulating and very fast-paced. Its theme is love heals the human heart. You will bask in its afterglow.”

—Rendezvous

BORDER LORD

“All that a historical romance should be: fast-paced, funny and hot-blooded. . . .
Border Lord
is one of the best of the year.”

—Detroit Free Press

“Border Lord
is stupendous! Arnette Lamb has a tremendous gift for writing genuine, warm, humorous, sensual love stories. Treat yourself. . . .”

—Romantic Times

“What a warm and witty tale Ms. Lamb has spun!”

—Rendezvous

“A twisting, turning maze of laughter and love. This is Lamb at her heartwarming best.”

—Heartland Critiques

“An excellent tale of high adventure. . . . Ms. Lamb has written a choice story filled with humor and a special understanding of human motivation and love.”

—Affaire de Coeur

For my sister,
Carol Lamb Seacat,
in whose hands a Ping five iron becomes a deadly weapon

Special thanks to Alice Shields for her creative input and support, to Christina Dodd for her expertise, and to Pat Stech for her eye for detail.

Auldcairn Castle

Scottish Highlands

Early fall, 1296

“Bring the butcher's lad to me!”

The angry voice behind the closed door belonged to Edward Plantagenet, the first of that name to claim the throne of England, and the last, pray God, to covet the crown of Scotland.

Sweat beading his brow, his stomach churning, Revas Macduff locked his knees to keep from running. But to where? English knights lined the hallway and filled the common room below. Welshmen patrolled the castle battlements, deadly longbows at the ready.

“Fetch him, Brodie!”

A hand clasped Revas's shoulder. “Go on, lad,” said Brodie, the sheriff of Elgin. “By the cross, he's had his fill of killing our kinsmen this day.”

Revas hoped it was so, for he could not die. His father needed him. There was no one else to sharpen the butchering knives or care for the horse or fetch water from the well.

Turning, he looked up at Kenneth Brodie. Fatigue rimmed the sheriff's eyes, and dirt streaked his kindly face. His hair still bore the imprint of a helmet. Without his chain of office, his tunic looked plain and his shoulders the breadth of an ordinary man.

Revas's fear turned to impotent rage, for Kenneth Brodie was a fair man with little patience for those who broke the law, and less for those who ignored the poor. He'd been stripped of his power, but his life had been spared.

Revas's own fate was uncertain. “Why has the English king summoned me?”

“I know not, Revas, but the steward heard him asking after the common lads of Elginshire. In with you, and address him as ‘Your Majesty.' ” Leaning down, the sheriff whispered, “But remember, the king is but a man with loyalties and debts, same as you.”

The sheriff's words echoed in Revas's ears, but when the door opened, his courage shriveled.

Wearing chain mail, leather trews, and war boots with golden spurs, the king of England sat on a bench near a table strewn with rolls of parchment. Some folks said that he cast a long shadow over Scotland. Revas understood why.

Looking up, the king glared. Revas fought a shiver at the coldness in those blue eyes.

“Are you the butcher's lad?”

Remembering to speak slowly so his voice wouldn't break, Revas said, “His son, Your Majesty.”

With a gauntlet and a dirk, the king spread out a map roll and weighted the edges. One corner of the parchment curled around the fingers of the bloodstained battle glove, but the weight held.

“How old are you?”

“Three and ten, Your Majesty.”

“Brawny for your age, eh? Or do you lie?”

Revas did lie, on occasion. If his father miswielded his crutch and accidentally toppled the water bucket, Revas swore he'd left the pail in the way. He also lied when he came home with a bloodied lip, not from a fall, as he told his father, but from fighting with the chandler's son, who claimed Revas's father had cut off his own leg and sold it for a mutton shank. Yes, Revas lied, but only when necessary.

The king rose. “Answer me, lad.”

Intimidated by the English monarch's towering form, Revas glanced at the rich furnishings; yet his interest strayed from luxurious tapestries and tallow candles to the man who had vanquished the mighty Highland clans.

Swallowing back a lump the size of a gull's egg, he said, “Nay, Your Majesty. I'm a good lad and true; ask anyone.”

The king began to pace. Rushes crunched beneath his heavy foot gear. “Do you aspire to greatness, Revas Macduff?”

“I honor my father, Your Majesty.”

“ 'Tis said you are of common stock.”

“Common?” The word came out as a squeak. Revas cleared his throat. “I haven't a title, or spurs, or golden bands of war, Your Majesty.”

“But you've enough Scots pride to fill what's left of Wales.”

He made it sound like an insult. Revas could think of no polite reply.

“Know you why I summoned you here?”

“Nay, Your Majesty.”

“Do you read?”

What an odd question. A butcher's son had no need of a clerk's skill. It was a low prank the king played, robbing a lad of his dignity. Royalty ought to behave better. But what could Revas do besides girdle his pride and bide his time? King Edward of England would grow bored and move on to other sport. Father had said so. Revas was too smart to be lulled into a trap, even a royal one. “Nay, Your Majesty. I do not read.”

“Just so. Well, Revas Macduff, it suits me to give you a wife and see you wed this day.”

Revas jerked back, his mind a mass of confusion. Was the king daft? “A wife?”

“And this castle, too. Think you can govern here?”

The wrong answer could mean further humiliation. “But what of Sheriff Brodie?”

“He will advise you, until you are old enough to hold this keep for me. What say you?”

Revas blurted, “Cutberth Macgillivray is the king of the Highlands. He will rally the clans of Chapling. They will storm these castle walls.”

The king made a fist and pounded the table so hard, the weights bounced off the map, and it snapped back into a roll. “Then I shall hammer the clans of Chapling as easily as I conquered Elginshire. Chapling,” he scoffed. “Putting a name to unity will not make Macgillivray a king. The throne of the Highlands is pure ceremony, bestowed at the hands of green-eyed women.”

A fearful Revas took two steps toward the hall door.

“Stay.” As quickly as it had come, the king's anger fled. “And meet your bride.”

He left a gawking Revas and went to a side door. Opening it, the king said, “Come, lass.”

A ladies' maid with carrot-colored hair tucked beneath a coif marched into the room. She was bonny in her own way. She was also old enough to have given birth to Revas. He couldn't wed her. Surely it would be a sin.

She curtsied, then looked back into the doorway. A moment later, a young girl stepped forward.

Dumbstruck, Revas watched Meridene Macgillivray, the grand princess of the Highland folk, move toward him. Kings and queens and their get came and went, but since the sixth century, when Saint Columba brought Christianity to the Scots, her clan, in every generation, had bred a raven-haired, green-eyed daughter.
The Maiden of Inverness.

Revered and cherished by the Scots, she, and only she, could crown her husband king of the Highlands.

But she was only eight years old. And she was a princess. Revas couldn't marry her. Astounded, he glanced at the king.

“Comely, isn't she?” He winked. “Or should I say she's a bonny lass?”

Revas thought the term had been coined expressly for Meridene Macgillivray. She wore a bloodred surcoat over a bliaud of white fabric so sheer that he could see her skinny arms beneath. A border of five-petal flowers, the device of the Maiden, ringed the garment at her wrists and neck. Tied at her waist was a tartan sash, the bright red, blue, and green plaid worn only by the royal family of the Highlands. Her husband would one day don that special tartan.

According to the old wives, the Maiden sported a halo that shimmered with heavenly light. Not today. Meridene Macgillivray looked as if she would vomit her supper. Agony dazed her bright green eyes, and her fair complexion paled with illness. A bruise discolored the side of her face. Had the brutish king beaten her?

She raised a small hand to the discoloration on her cheek; then she blinked in fatigue.

Revas knew that if she didn't sit down soon, she'd fall in a heap. No, he corrected, when this lass swooned she'd wilt gracefully, like a feather drifting to the floor.

He had to help her. He moved forward and, with practiced ease, pretended to step on something sharp. Yelping, he hobbled to cradle a foot.

“Have you no shoes, lad?” said the king.

“Nay, Your Majesty.” Still watching her closely and willing her to understand his ploy, Revas said, “I mean, yes, I have shoes, but only for church.”

“Not an audience with your king,” came the rueful murmur.

When she swayed, Revas said, “May we sit, Your Majesty?”

With a pained smile, the king waved toward a bench. “We'll all sit.”

The king took the only chair. Revas helped her to the bench, then sat beside her.