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Taming The Lion
Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series “How could I have believed your lies?” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Prologue 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 Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Epilogue Copyright
Praise for award-winning author Suzanne Barclay’s Sutherland Series
Pride of Lions
“Fantastic! 5Bells!!!”
—Bell, Book and Candle
Lion’s Lady
“...a luscious romance....5
—Affaire de Coeur
Lion’s Legacy
“Suzanne Barclay certainly takes her place amongst the finest of Medieval writers...”
—Romantic Times Magazine
Lion of the North
“Pure gold! Read a Barclay Medieval and you’re reading the best.”
—The Medieval Chronicle
Lion’s Heart
“...a special and unforgettable work. 5
—Affaire de Coeur
“How could I have believed your lies?”
“I did not lie to you, except—”
“How could I have lain with you? How could I have loved you?” The tears Catlyn had held at bay slid down her cheeks.
Ross grabbed hold of her shoulders. “We nearly burned down the night with our loving. You cannot think that was a lie.”
Her eyes bright with loathing, her voice cold, she said, “I think you are a skilled lover and an even more skilled manipulator of people. You used me to try to gain control of Kennecraig.”
Ross groaned. “If you would only let me tell you the whole story, I—”
“Oh, you are very good at that...at twisting words and things to suit you.” She stepped back, and he let her go. “But now I am wise to you, and I do promise you will not succeed.”
Dear Reader,
Heroes come in many forms, as this month’s books prove—from the roguish knight and the wealthy marquess to the potent gunslinger and the handsome cowboy.
The roguish knight, Ross Lion Sutherland, appears in Taming the Lion, a new medieval novel by Suzanne Barclay Critics have described this award-winning author in many ways, including “a great superstar,” “a magician with words” and “one of the best authors today in historical romance!” In this continuation of THE SUTHERLAND SERIES, Ross sets aside his honor to steal a clan’s secret for whiskey-making, only to fall in love with the clan’s lovely leader.
Golden Heart winner Julia Justiss brings us Nicholas Stanhope, the devastatingly handsome Marquess of Englemere who marries a friend in trouble and finds a profound love in The Wedding Gamble. And you must meet Sheriff Delaney, the smooth but kindhearted ex-gunslinger who inherits a house—and a beautiful young widow—in The Marriage Knot.
Rounding out the month is Will Brockett, the magnetically charming wrangler who uncharacteristically finds his soul mate in tomboy Paulie Johnson in A Cowboy’s Heart by Liz Ireland. Don’t miss it!
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals® novel.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadians P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Taming The Lion
Suzanne Barclay
SUZANNE BARCLAY considers herself sublimely lucky to be writing historical romances. What other career would allow her to watch old Errol Flynn movies and call it research? Or day-dream and call it work?
On those rare moments when she can tear herself away from the stories she is creating, she enjoys walking in the woods with her two dogs, Max and Duffy, whipping up exotic meals for her husband of twenty-three years and pawing through the local antique marts for special pieces to decorate her office/study.
Suzanne freely admits that she has trouble keeping track of all the Sutherlands and Carmichaels who people her stories, and has prepared an updated family tree detailing the various characters, their marriages and their children. To receive a copy, send a large SASE to: Suzanne Barclay, P.O. Box 92054, Rochester, NY 14692.
Prologue
Stirling, Scotland
August 10, 1407
Hakon Fergusson paused in the doorway of the Running Fox. Squinting against the pall of smoke from the torches rimming the long room, he surveyed the establishment with a critical eye.
The tavern appeared to be a cut above the others he had visited tonight. The benches and tables sat in orderly rows, scarred from use but lacking the layers of filth tolerated by drunken patrons and careless owners. The serving wenches who moved through the crowded room dispensing food and drink were comely, their gowns snug but not slatternly.
Lastly Hakon studied the customers themselves. Though it was just past nine on a Saturday night and every table was occupied, it was a remarkably orderly crowd. At the nearest table, four men amiably argued the merits of chain mail over boiled leather vests. Six others sat before the empty hearth, their heads bent over a game board. Elsewhere, men drank and laughed and talked in civil tones. Torchlight winked on golden jewelry and shimmered on garments of silk and velvet.
Clearly these were men who appreciated the best. And would be willing to pay for it.
“This is the place,” Hakon murmured to the man behind him.
“’Bout time.” Seamus shifted the whiskey keg on his shoulder. “This damn thing’s heavy. Don’t see why we couldn’t have sold it at the first inn.”
“We can get more here.” Hakon needed every coin he could lay his hands on if his plans were to succeed.
Four months ago, he had received the pleasant news that his uncle and two cousins had died after eating tainted meat at a truce day feast hosted by the church, leaving him heir to a Highland estate. Hakon thought it a sad end for a Fergusson. All the male members of his Border branch of the clan—and a few of the women besides—had died with swords in their hands or dangling at the end of the hangman’s rope.
Still the idea of having his own tower, even if it meant leaving the rough and ready Borders he loved, had appealed. Especially since at the time, the Border Warden had Hakon high on his list of men to be caught and hanged. So Hakon had gathered his band of hardened fighters, thumbed his nose at Lord Hunter Carmichael and headed north.
To say the inheritance was a disappointment was a vast understatement Dun-Dubh consisted of one broken-down keep, a few acres of stony ground and two hundred hungry mouths. Hakon had been all for selling off what he could: his relatives’ clothes, furniture and the like, abandoning the two hundred unwanted burdens and taking his men back to the Borders. He’d changed his mind when he’d learned that the neighboring Boyds possessed. a prosperous distillery.
Unfortunately, Thomas Boyd had proved to be more tenacious and far cannier at holding on to what was his than any other victim Hakon had tried to best. Months of planning and scheming it had taken him to get this far. With any luck, he’d come away from the Running Fox with the wherewithal to win.
“Well, let us see how much we can get for the Boyds’ whiskey.” Hakon pasted on a genial smile and entered the tavern. Curbing his usual swagger, he walked with the cautious air of a merchant offering wares to a new client.
He approached the long wooden serving bar and hailed the man behind it. “Would you be Brann of the Side?” His tone was respectful but not groveling.
“Aye. Who’s asking?” Brann’s fleshy face folded into a series of frowns as he looked Hakon over. He had a barrel chest, thick arms and the sharp eyes of a tradesman.
“Robert Dunbar.” The lie came easily to a man who often found his own name too infamous. “I heard ye have the finest tavern in Stirling.”
“That it is.” Brann’s chest puffed out.
“Oh, I could not agree more.” Hakon looked about the room and sang its praises. Chuckling to himself, he watched Brann relax, completely taken in by the act. Da would be proud of him, Hakon thought. The thieving old bastard who had sired him had always said Hakon’s looks were his greatest weapon. He was tall and blond with pleasing features and brown eyes he had trained to hide his thoughts.
“This yer first visit to town?” Brann asked.
He took them for bumpkins. That made Hakon smile. Before setting out tonight, he’d taken pains with his appearance, choosing a blue tunic and black hose that had belonged to his dead uncle because they were a trifle small and patched at the knees and elbows. They were the garments of a poor man who prided himself on neatness. In them, he looked sober and honest. Just the sort of man other men trusted. “Aye, first time.”
“Well, ye’ll find that taverns like this are a bit, er, more expensive than the ones down under the hill.”
What grated on Hakon was the knowledge that his uncle’s mean castoffs were better than his own few garments. Looking about at the finely clad nobles, he vowed that when the Boyds’ distillery was his, he’d buy a dozen velvet tunics.
“What’ll it be? Ale? Wine?” Brann asked.
“Actually, I’ve something here I’d like you to try.” Hakon motioned Seamus forward, took the keg and set it on the bar.
Brann eyed it as he might a pile of manure. “I’ve got my own sources for ale and—”
“Whiskey.”
“That, too,” Brann growled. “My customers are particular.”
Which was exactly why Hakon had chosen this place. Particular people paid more. “So am I. What I offer is of the highest quality. The finest whiskey in all Scotland.”
“They all say that.” But Brann licked his lips and glanced at the keg again.
“Would you like to taste it?”
Brann shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Perhaps your customers would sample it, as well.” Hakon smiled genially, hiding his annoyance and impatience. In order for his plans to succeed, he needed money for arms and bribes.
“How much will it cost me?” Brann asked.
“Nothing for a taste. If your customers like the whiskey and want more, I’ve ten more kegs I will sell you.”
“Ten is not many.”
It was all Thomas Boyd had with him at the time he’d been unlucky enough to wander into Hakon’s ambush. “I’ve more at home.” Or rather, the Boyds did. All Hakon had to do was figure out how to wrest it from them. “If we reach an agreeable price, I can send ye regular shipments.”
“Seems fair enough.”
Hakon smiled. He always seemed fair. And open. And honest. The guise had lured more than one victim into his web.
“If yer man’ll tap the keg,” Brann said.
Hakon glanced at Seamus. The wiry little man had ridden with his father. He was adept at many things—spying, tracking, thieving and slitting the occasional throat—but the only way he’d ever broached a keg was with the edge of an ax. “It’s yer tavern, Master Brann. We’ll leave that to ye.”
Brann nodded, pulled a small metal hook from beneath the bar and expertly drew the bung. Keeping one eye on them, he bent and sniffed suspiciously. He straightened so quickly it was comical, his eyes wide with astonishment and new respect.
“Well?” Hakon asked.
“It smells right promising. The subtle blend of smoke and fire.” Fumbling in his haste, Brann poured a measure into a wooden cup, lifted it and breathed deep. “Ah.” Reverently he sipped. His eyes closed. His head tipped back to let the liquid run down his throat. He sighed again.
Got him, Hakon thought, winking at Seamus.
Master Brann slowly lowered the cup and opened his eyes. “It is, er, not too bad,” he murmured, obviously a man used to bargaining. “Ye did say my customers could try a measure?”
Hakon nodded. “Just a sip, mind.”
While Brann called for cups and fussed over the keg, Hakon and Seamus moved away from the bar and leaned against the wall.
“A Fergusson giving something away?” Seamus shook his head. “Yer da’s likely spinning in his grave.”
“Nay, he’d understand. Master Brann will pay twice what we ask if his customers are clamoring for the stuff.”
Seamus grunted and crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “So we sell the lot for a tidy profit, then what?”
“We bribe someone inside Kennecraig to tell us if Thomas spoke true about having black powder kegs tied to his stills.” Ready to be set off if Hakon attacked the keep.
“He was lying. What fool would blow up his whole tower to stop us from getting it?”
“A desperate one.” Last month, Thomas Boyd had died a horrible death rather than surrender Kennecraig to Hakon. “And the Boyds will be even more cautious now their laird’s gone.” Hakon was certain they blamed him, even though he had gone to considerable lengths to make Thomas’s murder look accidental so as to not rouse their suspicions. “Damn, I wish Guthrie had controlled himself. Thomas was worth more alive than dead.”
“Yer lad’s got his grandsire’s taste for killing, that’s sure,” Seamus said with a hint of awe.
“Killing Thomas was damned inconvenient. With him as a hostage, we’d have gotten inside Kennecraig shck as ye please.”
“Aye, but we’ll win. They’ve got a lass leading them now.”
Hakon grunted. Catlyn of Kennecraig might be only a lass, but she had thus far proved to be no weak-willed miss. When Hakon had ridden over to offer sympathy and protection for her now leaderless clan, the little witch had stood atop her walls and denounced him as a murderer. She had loudly rejected Guthrie as a potential husband, though how she had chanced to hear about the maid he had carved up in Doune Town, was a mystery. She had ended her tirade by threatening to blow up the stills Hakon coveted if he tried to attack the keep.
“Damn.” Hakon spit on the floor. “Who’d think a Fergusson could be kept at bay by a lass and a clan of distillers.”
“Our time will come. Ye’ll think of something. Some plan.”
“Aye, but what? Catlyn Boyd’ll not let a Fergusson within a mile of her gates. And I do mean to have those stills.” Just thinking of the piles of gold they’d bring made his palms itch.
The door to the tavern opened, and a group of men spilled in, bringing fresh damp air and cheery laughter.
Hakon’s lip curled. They were just the sort he despised. Young, handsome and well dressed. Sprigs off some noble bough, wearing their arrogance as naturally as their velvets and silks.
“Dod!” Seamus exclaimed.
“What is it?”
“I recognized one of them. The tall one with the black hair and the pretty face.”
Hakon picked him out of the jovial crowd. Taller than the rest, with impossibly broad shoulders, his glossy black hair swept back from a face too perfect to be believed. Apparently the maids thought so, too, for they fell all over themselves making the man and his companions welcome. “Who is he?”
“Ross Lion Sutherland.”
“Hunter Carmichael’s nephew?” Hakon hissed.
“Aye. Young Ross is not a man ye’d forget I saw him from a distance at Keastwicke when I went to claim yer da’s body.”
Hakon stiffened, hatred curdling low in his belly. Hunter had not killed Aedh Fergusson, but he had led the retaliatory raid that had ended in Aedh’s death. And the Warden had been a thorn in Clan Fergusson’s side from the day he’d taken the post. Righteous bastard, always ranting on about peace on the Borders. Thanks to his patrols, it became nigh impossible for a man to conduct a successful raid or lift a head of cattle. Why, Hunter and his ilk had practically starved the Fergussons to death.
Through narrowed eyes, Hakon watched as a trio of chattering maids led the newcomers to a table at the far side of the room. His hatred congealed as he studied Ross Sutherland’s handsome, laughing face. There he sat like a bloody king, ordering food and drink, patting the maids on the cheek and pressing coins into their palms.
“It would be a pleasure to bring that lordling down,” Hakon murmured.
“Want I should kill him?” Seamus fingered his dirk.
Hakon shook his head slowly. Unlike his father and his son, Hakon had never found death a satisfactory form of punishment. Death was too final. But if someone who had wronged you could be made to suffer...
Ah, that was the best form of revenge.
“Well, he’s got a way with the lassies, that’s sure.” Seamus grinned wistfully. “There’s not a one of them wouldn’t sell her soul to end up in his bed tonight. Providing he stays sober enough to satisfy her. Looks like he’s taken a fancy to our whiskey and is trying to buy—”
“Master Robert.” Brann bustled up, his face alight with greed. “Lord Ross would like to buy a keg. A whole keg. He and his men have been coming in here for a week, and he always pays in coin. If we can fix a price...”
“I am sure we can.” Hakon looked at Ross and nodded.
Lord Ross wore the easy smile and slightly bored expression of a man well used to getting whatever he wanted. A man who likely indulged in the usual vices: women, drink, gaming.
Vices were something Hakon understood, and used.
Excitement stirred in Hakon’s blood, and an idea began to take shape in his fertile mind. A plan that would use Ross Sutherland’s looks to good advantage and make him suffer into the bargain. “Donald, fetch the rest of the kegs.”
“Donald?” Seamus blinked, the recalled that he was Donald Dunbar while they were in Stirling. “Oh, aye.” He scurried out of the tavern, grinning like a fool.
Hakon had a plan! And it was bound to succeed, because Hakon was a deucedly clever bastard. Ask anyone who had ever run afoul of one of Hakon’s schemes.
Chapter One
Kennecraig Keep, Scotland
August 17, 1407
Thunder rumbled across the broad-shouldered Grampian Mountains and down the narrow cleft that was Fmglas Glen. As it collided with the walls of the keep set on the lip of the glen, the low, ominous roll accented the drama unfolding in the chamber beneath the keep.
The tasting of the uisge beatha.
The water of life.
The life’s blood of Clan Boyd.
Clad in a gown of virgin white wool, her honey-colored hair falling free to her waist, Catlyn Boyd stepped into the high-ceilinged room. This was the moment she had trained for nearly all her life. Her palms were slick from nerves, but the anticipation she should have felt was clouded by sorrow.
“Papa,” she whispered. “You were taken from us too soon.” Sweet Mary, how she missed him, the patience with which he’d answered her hundreds of questions over the years, the wisdom he had unstintingly shared with her, the courage he’d shown in insisting she be named heir after her brother died.
“I need you, Papa, now more than ever.”
Silently she scanned the room, gathering what strength she could from the familiar. It was not a large chamber, measuring twenty feet by twenty, but rich in history. On the walls hung the tapestries woven by her mother, her grandmother and so on back for six generations. Two stone columns supported the vaulted ceiling from which hung an iron wheel set with a dozen tallow candles. The light gleamed softly on the only piece of furniture, an oaken table nigh as old as the keep. In its center sat an heirloom of even greater age. The chalice.
The tiny scallop shells on the base were white and worn smooth from use. The bowl formed of rock crystal was so clear the torchlight passed right through the dark amber liquid in it. Centuries ago, a restless ancestor, Henri of the Boyd, had returned from trading in the Mediterranean with the chalice and the recipe for distilling spirits from grain. Each succeeding generation of Boyds had improved upon the original.
Family pride and a sense of destiny filled her as her eyes moved from the chalice to the kinsmen assembled in the golden circle of light. Each man was here because tradition dictated it, and because he had a stake in the whiskey’s making. Roland the brew master’s narrow face was tight with anxiety. If the whiskey was found lacking, he could lose the position held by his father and his father before that. His son and apprentice, Wesley, grinned at her with the confidence of youth. Gordie the cooper stared at the small keg on the floor beside the table, grateful, no doubt, to see it did not leak.
Lastly Catlyn looked at Adair, the craggy-faced captain who was mentor to her as he’d been friend to her father.
Oh, Papa. Pain squeezed tight in her chest. Even after a month, it was hard to accept the fact that he was gone, the bluff, generous man who had guided her steps as a babe and taught her the craft when fate decreed she would succeed him.
“’Tis time, lass,” Adair said gently. In his level brown eyes she saw grief held at bay by the prod of duty.
Catlyn nodded, took a steadying breath and moved to the table. Without hesitation, she lifted the chalice and let the pungent fumes waft up her nose. Strong and so sharp they nearly stole her breath. Just as it should be for whiskey that was only a year old. She had been bred and raised for this, educated in the ways of marrying barley mash and fire while other lasses learned needlework and housework.
It was time to put theory into practice.
The cool liquid burned in her mouth. She tilted her head, let it slide achingly down her throat to set her belly afire. The heat lingered on her tongue then receded. In its wake subtle nuances tickled the back of her pallet. Earth and smoke and fire. Intriguing, but it was the underlying hint of sweetness that soothed away the sting and demanded to be sampled again.
“How can ye tell if it’s fit?” demanded Roland, scowling.
Catlyn jerked, swallowed a second sip too quickly and choked, something she had not done since she’d had her first taste at age five or so.
“That strong, is it?” Adair plucked the cup from her hand and clapped her on the back.
“Whiskey’s a man’s drink,” grumbled Roland. “Laird Thomas should have left one of us in charge of the stills.”
The implication that she was not fit to succeed her father dried Catlyn’s tears and brought her chin up. “I worked by Papa’s side from the time I could walk.”
“Watching and doing’s two different things.” Old Roland filled a plain horn cup and drank. The others, even Catlyn, held their breath. “It’ll do,” he growled.
Wesley let out a whoop and grabbed up a cup of his own. He filled and drained it, then sucked in air. “Dod,” he wheezed, eyes round and wet. “It fair steals yer breath, it does.”
“Just as it should.” Roland took the cup. “And ye’ll be showing more respect for my brew, not swilling it like a drunken sailor in a dockside alehouse.”
“Aye, Da.”
“Best in several years, I’d say.” Adair took another sip, rolled it on his tongue, then swallowed.
“And why not? Laird Thomas knew what he was about. Had the touch, he did. And experience.” Roland looked down his hooked nose at Catlyn, clearly hinting she lacked both.
“I know I am young,” Catlyn said, her gaze meeting each man’s in turn. “But Papa said I had the nose and pallet.”
“Ye’ll need more than that if ye’re to keep Hakon Fergusson from taking everything we’ve got,” Roland said darkly.
