The Guardian's Bride

She once saved his life and stole his heart. Now he must return the favor.

Accused of poisoning the English king, healer Lady Rowena Keith ends up in a dungeon beside a brawny, snoring Highlander. After he dispatches an assailant, he escapes into the Scottish hills, hauling her with him. To her surprise, she recognizes the rogue as her childhood betrothed and the knight whose life she once saved. Now he is her only hope.

Accused of treason, Sir Aedan MacDuff, a loyal knight and guardian of Scotland, must secure a legendary treasure. He doesn’t need the hindrance of a prim, beautiful healer, even one who captivates him. Traveling in disguise to avoid capture, they soon discover passion together—and find a mysterious link between Rowena’s healing stone and the treasure Aedan is protecting—one that could change the future of Scotland forever.

But can they avoid the king’s wrath long enough to see it happen?

Scotland, the Highlands, 1306

Aedan MacDuff, knight, laird of Castle Black, Guardian of the Realm of Scotland . . .

Scotland was in the soup, Aedan thought, watching the simple hilltop coronation staged for Robert Bruce. Loyalties were divided among Scotsmen, but he knew his own heart. He respected the courage and recklessness of their new king, even though Bruce had slain the rival claimant to the throne, Sir John Comyn, in a church. That impulsive action had thrown the gauntlet full in the face of King Edward.

Today, Bruce’s crowning as King of Scots would ignite King Edward’s wrath.

“We will do whatever Bruce needs,” said Sir Brian Lauder, standing beside him. “But you, sir, carry much on your shoulders already, with your nephew and uncle hostage in England, leaving you to lead Fife, and now Bruce relying on you as well as a guardian of the realm.”

“Ach, I am a big lad. I can carry more,” Aedan said. As the simple coronation ceremony on the hilltop concluded, he cheered with the others gathered there.

Still, he felt dread mingle with triumph. He had sacrificed much, had set aside his needs for the sake of Fife and Scotland, but he did not regret those responsibilities. Had King Edward never set a greedy eye on Scotland, Aedan might still be just a laird, knight, and husband, a guardian only to his family and estate. His wife might yet be alive, his wee son a brother to siblings by now.

He had stored his dreams, his grief, and his wishes on a shelf in his heart, and put a lock on that heart. He summoned smiles he did not always feel, and made himself move on. Now he was a guardian in many ways, and a lonely man. So be it.

* * *

Months later . . .

Lady Rowena Keith, healer, great-granddaughter of Thomas the Rhymer . . .

She was not certain he would live. Lady Rowena Keith leaned forward to set a cool wet cloth on the man’s fevered brow, and touched his bare shoulder and chest. The skin felt hot and dry. Soon she must change the poultices on his wounds, although the abbot was adamant that a monk be present due to the location of the gash on the man’s thigh. That caution seemed unnecessary; she was familiar with the male physique, having tended to many wounded men over several years of war and strife. Besides, she was a widow now.

But this patient was brawny as well as restless; she might need help given his strength and size, and would have to call on her friend, Brother Gideon, to hold the man down. In candlelight, she examined the gashes on the warrior’s face and forearm. Sighing, she patted his broad shoulder. He was asleep at last and she did not want to disturb him. Yesterday he had thrashed and muttered about swords and gold and kings in Gaelic and English, and had fought efforts to treat him. Only when Gideon arrived to subdue him, all but sitting on him, could she treat his wounds.

Tilting her head, she studied him. Under the swelling and bruises, he was handsome, despite the hedge of his brown beard and the long, unruly chestnut curls she had rinsed in lavender water earlier. Strength and elegance shaped his high cheekbones, squared jaw, and long arched nose. His lips were full beneath the overgrown mustache; his closed eyes were long-lidded and thickly lashed under straight dark brows.

She wondered what color his eyes were, what he was called, if he had family. And she hoped she could do enough to save his life. A quick, desperate feeling went through her, and she reminded herself to be a more neutral caretaker. She was here to help, trained in healing arts. That was all.

Drawing back the woolen blanket, she took a quick breath at the sight of his robust, nearly nude body. He was solidly beautiful in shadows and candlelight, chest rising and falling, muscle gleaming. His arm, though bandaged, was taut with strength, his long fingers were nimble, graceful, calloused. No doubt he was a warrior, judging by his fitness and the pattern of his wounds. A big warrior, too—the narrow bed barely held him, wide shoulders touching the sides, feet dangling off the end of the cot, toes covered in the knitted socks provided by the monks.

Days ago when she had arrived, fetched by the monks, his condition had alarmed her. She had done all she could, cleansing and dressing his wounds in wine and honey, applying poultices and ointments in blends of garlic, nettle, onion, honey, and more, and stitching his wounds neatly with silk thread.

The monks said the man had been in a battle on a sea loch between Bruce’s forces and English in a defeat for the Scots. The big warrior had a wild look, and Rowena could imagine him roaring, brandishing a sword, giving no quarter.

Brushing back messy curls and tendrils from his brow, she drew up the covers, most concerned about the serious wound on his leg that had already stirred a fever high enough to be beyond curatives. She often helped at Holyoak Abbey’s small infirmary and was skilled in treating wounds after years of seeing men who had been hurt in battle or skirmishes. Four years ago, her bridegroom had died in an English attack. She’d had no chance to help him—now she did whatever she could to help other Scottish soldiers.

The door to the ward opened and Brother Gideon came toward her, tall and tonsured, a former knight, a Scot who had balanced his duties to two kings, Scottish and English, and chose a religious path through the middle. He was a friend to Rowena and her family, and dear to her heart.

“My lady,” Gideon murmured. “How is he?”

“Resting, but the fever grows. Oh Gideon,” she whispered, “I hope I have done enough to save him.”

Later – Aedan is arrested for treason, and Rowena—after treating King Edward’s illness—has just been accused of poisoning the king . . .

And then fate places them in the same dungeon cell . . .

She had been betrayed. The whore who poisoned King Edward, the guards had said. But the accusation and arrest made no sense. She had seen King Edward at his request, had done all she could, had left him in improved health. What had happened, and why had they accused her after she had left the king in better health? She had prepared only helpful infusions for him.

But now she sat in a dungeon cell. Resting her head in her folded arms, she felt fear rise like bile in her throat. She breathed deep to summon the steel backbone that she had developed over years, changing from the innocent, idealistic girl who had lost the life she wanted to become a widow, traveling to help where she could, a female among male healers. She was accustomed to challenge. Here was another. She could wait this out.

Poisoned King Edward, had she? Well done, lass.

Aedan MacDuff lay still, back turned, wrapped in his plaid, and listened to the soft sounds across the small stone chamber. When the guards had brought the lass in here he woke, but kept silent. The girl had shuffled around a bit, sat with a whoosh of skirts, and quieted.

Now he heard sniffling. Hard to listen to a lass cry and do nothing.

But if she had tried to poison Edward, that was trouble indeed, with serious charges, a trial, perhaps hanging. Attempting to kill a king was tantamount to treason.

He gave a loud snort and rolled slightly to peer at his cellmate through a thick fall of curly hair. The barred window streamed enough light to show a slender young woman in dark blue, knees tucked, head down.

She wore a fine gown and a pale kerchief covering dark hair in a long braid down her back. Married? Where was her man that she fell into this kerfuffle? He could not help but notice she was neatly shaped with slender curves and graceful limbs.

Though she could have a face like a sheep. Still, the sweet sight of her body fed his eyes and his sorry soul.

She sniffled again. The sound bothered him. He gave another loud snore for good measure. A young woman of privilege—how had she come to this?

No puzzle why he was here, though. A month ago they had hauled him here. Built like a bull, he gave as good as he got. Yet here he was, needing a bath, hating the food, tossing crumbs to the mice. And appreciating the chance to rest, heal, think.

Someone had arranged his betrayal, but who? King Edward was not fool enough to punish a guardian of Scotland. Instead, his crime was treason for aiding in Bruce’s crowning—and for simply being born a MacDuff, a kinship hated by Edward.

He was determined to find a way out of here before they could transport him to Berwick or Edinburgh to be locked in a place he could not easily escape. He knew this small castle and dungeon, and had an escape route in mind already. The weeks here had also given him time to grow stronger in his recovery from his wounds. All to advantage.

But he had never seen a woman held here before, certainly not tossed in his cell.

The girl sniffled again, followed by a sorry little hiccup. Aedan cocked a brow, watching her even as he feigned sleep. Damn it all, he could not leave a lass alone here when he left this place. His instincts about people were good—and he had a feeling about her. She seemed familiar somehow, though he could not recall more than that. His memory, after his illness, was still a bit fuzzy now and then, but improving.

Footsteps, then the creak and snick of the latch as the door swung open. The girl looked up; he glimpsed a sweet, kind face. Not a sheep at all. When a guard stepped into the cell, Aedan closed his eyes and gave a loud, sleepy snore.

Straw rustled. “You! Whore! You are to be moved soon. Berwick, those are the orders. You will not be treated well there, I promise. Be grateful for your time here.”

“Why am I here? You have no cause to keep me.” Her voice was honey, Aedan thought. Warm, dark honey. Not the sticky purr of a whore, but the calm allure of a queen or the peaceful certainty of a saint. “I was betrayed. Nor should a woman be locked in with a criminal.”

Aedan pouted, hearing that. But she did not know him.

“Betrayed? That lug over there would say the same. But he won’t pester you. He’s sleeping off his cups.”

Well, not quite. That ale had been dreadful.

“I must send a message to King Edward,” she said.

“The king you tried to poison? Hah! You might see him when they cart you to Carlisle for trial and execution.”

“Execution?” Her voice faltered. “But I did not harm the king!”

“I heard he took ill after you were there. They say you poisoned him.”

“I never did,” she whispered.

Aedan heard confusion and despair in her voice. She was no whore, but she had done something, perhaps brought food or a curative. Whatever had happened had gone very wrong.

She stood. “If the king is ill, I must see him. Who is in charge here?”

Steps crushed straw as the guard came closer. “You will be taken to Berwick. But first, I have something you need now. Come here, you—”

Aedan heard a grunt, a soft gasp and a muffled slap, then an angry growl—

Enough. Throwing off the plaid, he surged to his feet.