Connie Mason (2 page)

Two days later Damian rode north, accompanied by Sir Richard, his own hirelings, and twenty soldiers. Damian’s thoughts were bleak despite the honor given him. Becoming overlord to people who hated him was not the life he had pictured for himself whenever he’d dared to dream of possessing his own lands. Despite his misgivings, Damian’s face hardened with purpose. Misterly was his by order of the king, and if the Gordons and Frasers rebelled, he would do whatever was necessary to bring them to heel.

It was with good reason that Damian Stratton was called the Demon Knight.

Lady Elissa Fraser stared into the pier glass without really seeing her image. A wealth of coppery curls tamed into a coronet atop her head; startling green eyes and slender curves were blurred by the dire predictions her old nursemaid whispered into her ear.

“Ye willna wed the Gordon laird, lass,” old Nan hissed. “He isna meant for ye.”

“Oh, Nan, why must you be such a skeptic?” Elissa chided. “You know Tavis was my father’s choice of husband for me. He will protect us should England’s king remember that my father led a Highland regiment at Culloden moor and decide to punish us. Thanks to the remoteness of Misterly we’ve been fortunate to have escaped his notice, but we need Tavis and his clansmen should the English suddenly recall that we exist.”

“Ye willna wed the Gordon laird,” Nan repeated. “He is an outlaw and will bring trouble to our kinsmen.”

Elissa turned away from the mirror. “Donna be foolish, Nan. I
will
wed Tavis. He and his clansmen have already arrived at the village kirk. Lachlan and Dermot Fraser are waiting below to escort me to my wedding. ’Tis time to leave. Are you coming with me?”

“Ye willna leave the castle,” Nan said mulishly.

Elissa gave an unladylike snort. “You sorely try me, Nan. Though I love you dearly, you canna stop what is meant to be. I donna know Tavis well, but I’m sure I will come to love him. We both hate Englishmen and are staunch defenders of Bonny Prince Charlie. We have much in common.”

“Mayhap not all Englishmen are bad,” Nan said cryptically.

“Ha! Tell that to someone who will believe you. All Englishmen are butchers.”

“Go, then,” Nan muttered dismissively, “but mark my words, lass, ye willna marry the Gordon laird. My ‘voices’ speak of another man. Yer fate lies in another direction.”

“You may
think
you hear voices, but I put no faith in such things,” Elissa scoffed. “Nor do I believe in fairies or sprites or witches.”

“Ye always were a stubborn child,” Nan complained. “How did ye think I found ye those times ye wandered away from the castle on yer own? ’Twas my voices, I tell ye, but never ye mind. One day ye’ll learn to trust me.”

“I trust you, Nan,” Elissa wheedled, “but not your fanciful predictions. I admit you’ve been right about many things, but this time you’re wrong.”

“Donna say I dinna warn ye, lass.”

Elissa sighed as she picked up a bouquet of freshly cut flowers and turned once again to look into the pier glass. She had chosen to wear the Fraser plaid for her wedding and knew the gray, green, and white became her, though she was a mite pale. She pinched her smooth cheeks to force color into them and turned away from the mirror. Her delicate features set in determined lines, she marched out the door without waiting to see if Nan followed. She was going to marry the Gordon laird just as her father had intended, and nothing, not even her old nursemaid’s vivid imagination, was going to stop her.

Damian called a halt at Misterly’s outer portal. The gatehouse was deserted and the gate itself was raised. No guards patrolled the walls or were visible within the courtyard.

Damian’s first view of Misterly had been impressive. The majestic towers and parapets had been visible from a great distance, rising above swirling mist and darkening sky. The promise of rain hung in the air, thick and oppressive, and Damian wondered if it were a portent of trouble.

Pushing his gloomy thoughts aside, Damian and his men proceeded through the gate and into the courtyard. Damian’s shoulders were tense, his hand hovering above his sword. The alarm should have been given before now and their presence challenged. Where was everyone?

The fortress had survived the ages with grace and dignity, Damian reflected. The stark gray stone walls were softened by centuries of wind and rain and sun upon its imposing ivy-covered facade. Damian made note of the fact that sometime during the last century, glass windows had been installed.

Sir Richard Fletcher rode up to join Damian as they approached the front entrance.

“The keep appears deserted, Damian. What do you suppose happened to everyone?”

“We’ll find out soon enough, Dickon. Alert the men about unexpected trouble.”

Dickon turned and rode back through the ranks, relaying Damian’s message in a hushed voice.

The fortress wasn’t as deserted as Damian had supposed. Besides the Maiden of Misterly and old Nan, Dermot and Lachlan, both trusted kinsmen, were in the great hall waiting to escort the bride-to-be to the kirk, where the Frasers and Gordons were gathered to witness the joining of their clans.

Lachlan, whose ears were sharper than Dermot’s, was the first to realize something was amiss.

He rose abruptly from the chair in which he’d been lounging and strode to the window. “Visitors,” he warned.

Dermot, the oldest living Frasier, rose and limped to the window. “Wedding guests?”

Lachlan frowned. “Nay. They fly the English pennant.”

Dermot loosed a string of curses. “The bastards have finally set their sights on Misterly. We all feared this would happen one day. What do ye suppose they want?”

“Misterly,” Lachlan said dryly. “I fear there willna be a wedding this day. I’d best warn the Gordons and send them on their way. Tavis Gordon is an outlaw, a fugitive from the gallows.”

“Aye, there has been too much bloodletting,” Dermot agreed. “Use the secret passage. Persuade the Gordons to make haste back to their stronghold.”

Lachlan quickly disappeared into the dark reaches of the keep.

Dermot threw open the carved oak door guarding the entrance and stood on the top step to await the English.

“Look,” Dickon pointed out. “There’s someone on the front steps. The fortress isn’t deserted after all.”

Damian left his men behind in the courtyard as he reined his horse toward the keep. He dismounted and climbed the stairs to confront the old graybeard.

“Are ye wedding guests?” the aged Scotsman asked, eyeing Damian with hostility.

“There’s to be a wedding today?” Damian asked, silently thanking his good fortune for getting him to Misterly in time. Or
was
he in time?

Damian fixed the old man with a daunting look. “Has the wedding already taken place? The truth, man, I have little tolerance for lies.”

“Stop it! How dare you threaten my kinsman. He’s a feeble old man and canna defend himself against one such as you.”

Damian’s gaze went beyond the old man to a woman, nay, a young maiden whose startling green eyes glittered with outrage.

“Who are you and what do you want?” the maiden asked.

Damian drew himself up to his full impressive height. “I am Damian Stratton, Earl of Clarendon and Lord of Misterly.”

“The Lord of Misterly is dead.”

“I am very much alive, my lady, and eager to inspect my holdings.”

Damian eyed the maiden with blatant interest. Was this the Maiden of Misterly, then? The girl was clearly dressed for a wedding. Her coppery hair, braided and twisted atop her head into a regal crown, had begun to unravel, sending unruly tendrils trailing down her slender neck. The sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her pert nose and high cheekbones distracted naught from her vibrant beauty. And her lips! Bloody hell! Her lips were soft and full and lush. A healthy dose of pure animal lust raced straight to his loins. He hadn’t expected the Maiden of Misterly to be so lovely—or so shapely. His gaze lingered briefly on her breasts before he brought his wayward thoughts under control.

“Misterly belongs to the Frasers,” the girl said with asperity.

Damian’s bold perusal traveled the curvaceous length of her and back. “Who are you, lady?”

Elissa stiffened her shoulders and raised her chin proudly. “I am Lady Elissa Fraser, daughter of the great Alpin Fraser, Lord of Misterly. Move aside, Englishman, today is my wedding day and I am expected at the kirk.”

Damian’s expression remained inscrutable despite his lustful thoughts. He hadn’t expected to feel desire for the lady he’d been sent to evict from her home. But lust aside, her fate had already been decided by the Crown and he could not change that decision even had he wanted to.

“There will be no wedding today, or ever, lady,” Damian said harshly. “The king has forbidden an alliance between the outlaw Gordon clan and the Frasers.”

“Your king canna tell me what to do,” Elissa spat. “I am a Highlander, not an English subject.”

“Your kinsmen were defeated at Culloden, lady. Your father led a regiment into battle. Had you remained in your fortress and not brought attention upon yourself by aligning your clan with the rebellious Gordons, King George would most likely have left you in peace. But I do thank you, lady, for your decision to wed the Gordon chieftain has brought me rich lands and a title.”

“English butcher!” Elissa hissed. “You canna take my home from me. I willna allow it.”

Dermot, who had been listening to this exchange, chose that moment to interfere. “Did ye say yer name was Damian Stratton, me lord?”

Damian dragged his gaze from the volatile Elissa to the old man. “Aye, I am Damian Stratton.”

“Are ye the man they call the Demon Knight?” Dermot asked, paling.

Damian cocked a dark brow. Was it possible that his reputation had preceded him to this remote area?

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Aye, we’ve heard. How many of our kinsmen did ye slay at Culloden?” Dermot spat.

“Which of your kinsmen killed my father?” Damian returned with remarkable restraint.

“So you’re the Demon Knight,” Elissa said, her eyes shimmering with hatred. Her gaze slid away from Damian to his small army filling the courtyard. “Do you intend to slay us, my lord?”

“Nay, no matter what you’ve heard about me, I am no coldblooded killer. I need your kinsmen to till the soil, tend my sheep, harvest the crops and serve in the keep. Nothing will change. Things will go on as before, except that the new Lord of Misterly is an Englishman.”

Elissa squared her shoulders. “What’s to become of me and my family, my lord?”

Damian strode past Dermot and Elissa, forcing them to follow him into the hall. “Sit down, lady.”

“Nay, I will stand. Has my fate already been decided?”

Just then Dickon came striding into the hall. “Damian, I cornered a young lad in the stables. He said the Frasers and Gordons were gathered at the village kirk, waiting for the bride to arrive.”

“Ride to the kirk, Dickon. Take half the men with you in case of trouble, but avoid bloodshed if you can. To show that I intend be a just overlord, allow the Gordons to return to their stronghold and escort the Frasers back to Misterly to meet their new master.”

“My clansmen are neither serfs nor slaves,” Elissa snapped. “They live in the village, tend the fields and sheep, and work at Misterly because they wish to. Misterly is their home.”

Damian settled his silver gaze on Elissa, admiring her spunk and the fact that she was not intimidated by him. She also possessed a formidable temper. He wondered how she would react when she learned she was to spend the rest of her life behind the cloistered walls of a convent.

He scowled. It would make things easier for everyone were she to accept her fate gracefully. Damian didn’t relish having antagonistic people serving him in his new role as Lord of Misterly. If Elissa left Misterly without argument, her kinsmen might be less inclined to reject him. Unfortunately, it hadn’t taken Damian long to realize that Elissa was a staunch Jacobite with a healthy hatred for Englishmen. The Highlanders had been defeated soundly at Culloden five years ago, but Elissa still fought that battle. The king was right in sending her to the convent, Damian concluded.

Staring at the too handsome, arrogant Englishman who had come to steal her home, Elissa felt naught but rage. Englishmen had taken her beloved father and brothers from her, now they wanted to claim her home.

Elissa had indeed heard of the Demon Knight. Who hadn’t? Rumors held him to be a blackguard butcher without a conscience, a man who had distinguished himself at Culloden while still a lad, a man who had cut a swath of death and destruction throughout the Highlands in the name of English justice.

Without being told, Elissa knew that the English king and his Demon Knight had plans for her she wasn’t going to like. Her chin firmed. She had a family to protect; she’d fight tooth and nail to make sure they weren’t going to be mistreated by the man who had come to destroy her world.

If only he weren’t so handsome, Elissa thought despite herself. When he looked at her with those compelling silvergray eyes she nearly forgot to breathe. In black doublet and tight breeches, he cut a dashing figure. He was tall, muscular, and lethal, a man whose strong, handsome features had been hardened by countless battles.

Damian took a threatening step forward, but Elissa held her ground. He could glare at her all he liked; she wasn’t going to give an inch.

“I understand your mother currently resides at Misterly,” Damian said.

Elissa’s heart pounded with dread. “My mother is ill, she canna be disturbed.”

Elissa hated the way the Demon Knight cocked his dark brow, as if questioning her veracity.

“Ill or not, you will both be escorted to St. Mary by the Sea Convent within the hour. You may take your personal belongings but naught else. The keep and everything within it belongs to me.”

Elissa folded her arms across her chest, her expression defiant. “Did you not hear me? My mother is in fragile health. She canna be disturbed.”

Unmoved, Damian said, “I will be the judge of that. I will see her after I speak to your kinsmen.”

“What of my little sister, my lord? She is recovering from a serious lung infection. Would you send her to a damp, celllike cubicle to die? The good sisters long ago took a vow of poverty. They eat sparsely and live without the small comforts we are accustomed to. I understand they donna allow fires in their sleeping quarters. My mother and sister canna survive under such harsh conditions.”

“A sister? You have a mother
and
a sister?”

“Dinna I just say so? Are you addled, my lord?”

“More like stunned. I knew naught about a sister. Nor was I informed of sickness at Misterly. How old is your sister?”