Page 1 of The Scottish Bride

Prologue

Veritas vincit (Truth conquers)

—Motto of Clan Keith

August 1306

Central Scotland

Hand over fist,she descended the rope, inching like a caterpillar on a branch. Cold wind whipped at her hair and cloak, chilled her hands where she gripped thick, rough hemp. Snowflakes fluttered over her cheeks and swirled away into darkness, down and down so far, she dared not glance there.

Looking up, she saw the soaring wall of the castle tower and the parapet above it. From a tower window, the rope draped over the stone sill. Clinging below, she whispered a prayer. If they discovered her escape, one swift cut to the rope would send her to her death.

Hurry,she thought as she shimmied downward. The rope swayed in a burst of wind. Beyond, the dark forest, trees lacy with ice, spread away from the snow-covered castle hill. She descended, hand over hand, keeping the rope between her feet just as her brother had taught her when they were younger. Her skirts belled out in the breeze, the chill cutting through her. Down and down she went. Far over the mountains, the sky lightened toward dawn.

Pausing to catch her breath, she looked down.

The rope was too short. Swaying, she gazed at the ground, then heard footsteps crunch over snow. A man approached to stand just below her.

A knight, a stranger. Chain mail glinted beneath his dark surcoat. The soldiers had found her. Glancing up, she knew she might not make the hard climb back to the window; her limbs ached, trembled. Stranded, clinging to the rope, she looked down.

The knight lifted his arms and beckoned.

“To me.” His voice, deep and quiet, resonated.

Light touched his face, gleamed over armor. The wind whipped through his dark hair. He was beautiful, strong. An archangel. Still, she could not trust him.

“Down to me!” he beckoned again.

Swaying on the rope, she watched him. Buttery light touched the treetops, the snow, the knight. Shouts sounded in the distance.

“Leap!” He raised his arms.

An arrow whizzed past. Another.

She let go of the rope and sank.

He caught her solidly, safe as a rooted tree. Looping her arms about his neck, pressed against cold mail and woolen tunic, she felt his arms strong about her. She looked up into eyes washed blue, like ice or moonlight.

He smiled. “Safe now.”

“Am I? Who are you?”

“Later for that.” With long strides, he carried her toward the dark woodland.

“What do you want?” She pushed at him in sudden panic.

“I came,” he said, “for you.”

Tamsin sat up in the darkness, clutching the bedcovers.Just a dream.

Alone in the bed, she remembered again how lonely she felt here, a Scotswoman in a Scottish castle garrisoned by the English. A widow, now. Some measure of security had existed when her husband had commanded Dalrinnie Castle, but his death seven months ago left her status here uncertain. Soon, she had heard, King Edward would decide what to do with the Dalrinnie widow.

The dream merely stemmed from her desperate hope for an escape, she told herself. Sometimes her dreams held elements of foretelling, and a few times she had experienced brief visions like waking dreams, that came true in small ways. She kept such things to herself at Dalrinnie. Only her family could fully understand the gift that appeared now and then in their lineage.

But this dream was not prophetic. Escaping down a rope, arrows all around, a mysterious knight helping her—unlikely! Nightmares came of devils lurking about, so her childhood nurse once said. The dream just echoed her fear of a precarious situation.

Oh, but the knight… She sighed. If only someone could help her. Though allowed to leave the castle, she was always under guard. Still, if King Edward decided to send her to a convent, that might be all the escape she needed.