Stuart, Elizabeth

THEY
WERE BORN TO HATE EACH OTHER, BUT DESTINED TO FORGE A DEFIANT LOVE...

It
was a time of revolution and chaos, of danger and deception... when Scotland
teetered on the brink of civil war and lawlessness swept the borderlands. And
in the midst of this magnificent struggle for power, two strangers born to be
enemies discovered a passion as savage as the wild Scottish moors.

Jonet
Maxwell—a fiery, green-eyed girl and a much sought after bride with a dowry of
rich lands, she would become a pawn in a deadly game of vengeance and desire...
and her heart would be ignited by the dashing spy who was her captor.

Alexander
Hepburn—the baron of Durnham had a handsome face and a ruined name; his blood
enemy was Robert Mure, Jonet's uncle. To exact an exquisite revenge, he would
spirit away an innocent girl and hold her hostage, only to lose himself to the
smoldering passion in her eyes.

He
was sworn to clear his father's name. She was fighting to save her beloved
uncles life. They were enemies in a battle of blood ties and birthright, allies
in a dangerous truce.

Jonet
lifted terrified eyes. Alexander's gaze was steady, reassuring, reminding her
as surely as if he had spoken.

No
matter what I do, follow my lead.

The
men were studying her with an alert interest that made her flesh crawl. They
were dressed in rough clothing, the leader holding one of the new quick-firing
wheel lock dags that made such ideal assassin's weapons. Alexander's eyes held
hers, cool silver against the bronze of his face. "Come, lass, have done
with it. These men need payment if we're to get off with our skins."

Jonet
swallowed hard. This scene was far beyond any her sheltered childhood had ever
enabled her to imagine. She lifted a hand to the lacings at her throat. Every
eye was on her, mesmerized, as she slowly unlaced the shirt. Catching the
ragged hem of the garment, she took a deep breath and drew it over her head.

And
in that instant, Alexander moved. Bending from the waist, he slipped a dagger
from his boot, swinging it upward in a fierce, tearing thrust.

Jonet
clutched the wet shirt to her chest, watching in horror.

Sweet
Mary in Heaven, help him. Help Alexander... for I can't...

WITHOUT
HONOR

Copyright
© 1993 by Elizabeth Stuart.

All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's
Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

ISBN:
0-312-95167-1

Printed
in the United States of America St. Martin's Paperbacks edition/March 1994

God's
greatest gift is a pair of good parents. For my own, Malvin and Anne, with many
thanks for a lifetime of living and loving, giving and forgiving... and for the
knowledge that satisfying relationships are the only true wealth.

The
dawn came slowly, born as it was of a season of wet and a night more inclement
than most. A cold, all-encompassing damp pervaded the lowlands of Scotland from
the choppy seas of Solway Firth to the grim border fortress of Berwick.

All
night long the wind had wept over the land, but the day brought a curious
stillness. Jonet Maxwell shivered and slid another block of peat onto the fire.
The chill had penetrated even the eight-foot-thick walls of Beryl and her
luxurious, tapestry-hung apartments.

She
edged away from the fire and sat down, absently twirling the embroidery threads
of the altar cloth on which she was working. With a sigh, she gathered up a
length of bleached linen. It was difficult keeping herself occupied today, but
the alternative leisure would be worse.

A
sound of hurrying footsteps echoed down the stone corridor.
News... pray God
it was Robert!
Her pretense of sewing forgotten, Jonet rose expectantly, silk
threads and cloth slipping unnoticed to the carpeted floor.

The
door stood open, but the messenger hesitated respectfully on the threshold, his
Maxwell colors gleaming in the shadowy gloom of the castle hallway. Jonet took
a deep breath, forcing the words out casually enough. It would do no good for
the man to know how worried she had been. "Come in, Neil. What news?"

The
man's bearded face split into a wide grin. "News you'll be anxious for,
I'm thinking, Mistress. 'Tis Lord Mure at last. Even in this weather, they can
make out his crimson banner from the tower."

"God
be praised!" The words were out before she could control them. Jonet shot
a shamefaced glance at the captain of the garrison, only to find his grin had
gone even wider.

"I
was a bit worried myself," he admitted. "Four days... 'tis not like
my lord to be so long overdue with nary a word sent ahead."

"The
weather, I expect," Jonet said practically. "And here I was fearing
him murdered by a band of thieving borderers or, at the very least, an unwelcome
guest of the English."

She
smiled at the man with the ease of long acquaintance. Neil Maxwell was as much
a part of Beryl Castle as the winding labyrinthine hallways and rose-hued
sandstone walls. "He'll scold us both for a pair of puddin' hearts if we
admit it."

"Aye.
But it's one scold that'll be music to my ear."

She
returned his knowing look. "Aye."

Neil
turned away to make ready for the men, and Jonet stepped to the window. It had
been a week of gray and wet, though the ever-present April wind seemed stilled
for now. Outside the walls of Beryl, the fitful rain had become a downpour,
shutting off the pleasant view of greening Scottish hills to the south.

Smiling,
Jonet allowed herself to relax for the first time since her uncle and guardian,
Robert Maxwell, had ridden south. A particularly vicious band of raiders had
ravaged one of the estates, and he had hurried off in pursuit.

On
the surface the raid had seemed little different from the two or three they
normally suffered each year. Outlaws, both English and Scots, thronged both
sides of the border country, but few could stand against trained soldiers who
were well armed and well led. Only the group that had struck this spring seemed
unusually large and unusually well coordinated. The strikes had been
simultaneous, and it was obvious they had been thoroughly planned.

In
spite of her uncle's reassurances, Jonet had worried as she watched him ride
south. With the uneasy state of affairs in Scotland now it would be simple
enough for the English to organize an army of border malcontents to prey on the
wealthy Scottish estates within reach. And it certainly wouldn't be the first
time such had happened.

But
the punitive raid must have been uneventful for Robert was home and all her
worry was for naught. At least for now.

Green
eyes narrowed against the gloom of the day, Jonet strained for a glimpse of her
uncle's well-loved figure. She could just make out the soldiers plodding
wretchedly along in the falling rain but, swathed as they were in cloaks and blankets,
it was impossible to recognize anyone.

They
were nearing the last long slope up to the castle. In a few moments, the men
would be entering the bailey. Turning away, Jonet hurried from the room,
calling for Syble, her maidservant, as she went. Her uncle would be tired and
hungry. And with his fastidious nature he would most assuredly want a bath.

She
had barely made the hall and given orders, when the noise of clattering steel
rang from without along with a sudden confused shouting. Gathering up her full
skirts, Jonet darted across the floor, flinging open the great oak door before
a servant could reach it.

"Merciful
God!"

Her
eyes took in the scene at once. Their concealing cloaks thrown back, men in
Douglas livery mobbed the courtyard and more were pouring in through the narrow
front gate they commanded. An unwary group of Maxwell men had been taken
prisoner, though Neil and a dozen soldiers still controlled the steps leading
up to the hall.

Douglases!
They must have known her uncle and his men were away. "What treachery is
this?" Jonet shouted.

The
fighting was thick at the base of the stairway, but a slender red-haired man
moved back a step, calling an order to halt. He raised his sword. "Are you
the lady Jonet Maxwell?"

"I
am."

"Then
I order you in the name of King James and our lord chancellor, to surrender
Beryl Castle. This fool," he flung the wet hair out of his eyes and
pointed his sword at Neil—"refused."

Jonet
took a deep breath. The king, he had invoked the name of the king! And
Douglases—damn their devious souls to everlasting torment—already commanded the
gatehouse and bailey. In a few moments they would have the stairs to the castle
itself. The stubborn Neil would make a fight of it, but in the end the
intruders would have their way and Maxwell men would lie dead. There was no
possible course but surrender. Douglas trickery had seen to that.

Ignoring
the wet, Jonet descended the stairs, rage and indignation holding all thought
of feat at bay. The rain still fell, but she scarcely noticed as it wet her
face and hair and caused her gown of winter camlet to cling, damp and cold,
against her body.

"What
treachery is this?" she repeated, forcing all the contempt she could
muster into her voice. "What base cowardice that men claiming to serve the
king win their way into the castle of one of his loyal subjects by deceit?
There was no cause for this! If you truly represent King James you would have
been made welcome here."

She
had reached the foot of the stairs. Neil Maxwell moved protectively to her
side. "Well? Answer me, sir!"

The
man had hazel eyes. They flickered over her, taking her measure. "I am
James Douglas, Master of Kennerly. I was ordered to take this castle as quickly
and with as little loss of life as possible. This ruse seemed the best way to
do so."

The
words didn't make sense. "Take the castle?" Jonet repeated.
"What do you mean?"

The
man shifted uncomfortably. Even soaked to the skin, the Maxwell girl was a
beauty with her thick auburn hair and angry gray-green eyes. Her small frame
fairly trembled with indignation, and he found himself wishing he could put her
at ease. He didn't want to hurt: the lass, but there was little he could do.
She would have to learn the truth. "Robert Maxwell, Lord Mure, has been
caught in a treacherous attack on the young king and our lord chancellor. He is
declared outlaw and his estates forfeit."

Jonet
stood very still. Uncle Robert an outlaw? There was no more loyal Scot in all
the land. This must all be some terrible mistake. It had to be.

The
man held Jonet's gaze evenly. Obviously he believed what he said. "This
is... a mistake," she got out. "My uncle is in the south pursuing
raiders from below the border. He has made no attack on the king."

"For
a certainty I know otherwise. My men and myself were engaged with Lord Mure two
nights ago not forty miles from here."

All
at once the significance of the banner the men had used to gain entrance to
Beryl struck Jonet. It hadn't been improvised. It truly was her uncle's banner.
Her throat closed up and it was suddenly impossible to drag air into her lungs.
She swallowed hard. "And... my uncle?"

Neil
Maxwell put a hand on her arm. She was thankful he stood beside her.

"In
the confusion Mure and a handful of men managed to slip through a bog and
escape us. We've been scouring the countryside, but they were still at large
when I left."

Jonet
drew a shaky breath. "Praise God!"

"I
wouldn't give thanks just yet. Murdoch Douglas, our lord warden, and over a
hundred Douglas clansmen are searching the area. They'll run him to
ground—probably have already. I expect our lord warden here with news of it by
tomorrow. And now..." The man glanced back over the bailey. "I'll ask
you to surrender this castle, else I'll not answer for the safety of your
people and yourself."

For
a moment Jonet didn't reply. The rain was still falling and she was aware of a
deep icy emptiness spreading throughout her body. She really should get inside,
she thought irrelevantly. They should all get inside.

"Lass,"
Neil Maxwell began apologetically. "We've not a prayer of holding out,
though if you wish it, I'll—"

She
had to say something. The men were expecting it. But nothing in her eighteen
years had even remotely prepared her for this. "Neil, call in our men and
have Beatrice see to any wounded."

She
lifted her head then, coolly meeting the gaze of the tall, red-haired Douglas.
"I'm afraid I've no notion how to surrender a castle, sir. I suppose it is
yours."

And
with that Jonet turned her back, sweeping up the stairs more regally than Queen
Margaret herself. After all, she was a Maxwell. The blood of earls ran in her
veins.

But
once inside the hall, all pretense of self-possession deserted Jonet. By habit,
she moved toward the great stone fireplace at one end of the room, standing
before it though she didn't feel the heat. Uncle Robert an outlaw? That
handsome, elegantly dressed man, the only father she had ever known, hounded
through a bog by the despised Murdoch Douglas? Impossible! Her mind reeled,
refusing even to picture such a scene.

But
with Scotland poised on the brink of civil war, anything might happen. Young
King James was a prisoner in his stepfather's household, and Douglases ruled
the land. Archibald Douglas, sixth Earl of Angus, had declared himself
chancellor, seizing the great seal of Scotland in his royal stepson's behalf.
With Douglas kinsmen ruthlessly shuffled into positions of power, there was
little men in opposition could do. The earl of Lennox had tried one rescue of
the young king. He had been murdered for his trouble.

Margaret
Douglas, the Queen Mother, sat at Stirling Castle, bewailing her husband's ill
usage to all who would listen, moving heaven and earth in her efforts to
divorce Angus. And since her brother, Henry Tudor, the eighth Henry to rule
England, openly backed the Douglases, Margaret had obligingly turned to the
French. Once again Scotland might bleed for an age-old hatred between England
and France.

And
here on the borders, caught between the nether millstones of English Henry to
the south and power-mad Douglases to the north and east, ran the estates of
Robert Maxwell, Earl of Mure, one of the few Scots nobles who had spoken openly
against Angus in council and had dared join Archbishop Beaton in petitioning
for the French duke of Albany's return as regent.

Jonet
went even colder as she considered the implications. The raid must have been a
ruse to lure her uncle from Beryl. He was considered dangerous to the Douglas
cause and he would be removed. Just like Lennox.

Refusing
to journey further along that line of thinking, Jonet stared into the flames,
gradually becoming aware of an unexpected sound in the room. It was weeping.
Slowly she turned about. The servants of Beryl had gathered behind her, worried
looks on every face. Some were crying openly. It was obvious they had heard the
news. Now they had come to her for reassurance and orders. But sweet Lord have
mercy, she didn't know what to do!

A
wrinkled old woman stepped forward out of the crowd. "Mistress ye be fair
soaked through. Come above and we'll have ye into that warm bath what's
heatin'. Them murderin' Douglases will be better dealt with once you're warm
and dry."

The
plain Scots face of her old nurse was reassuring, but the blunt words awoke a
thrill of unease. Jonet loved these people, and with Robert away it was up to
her to protect them. "In a moment, Gwen," she said quietly.
"First I've something to say to you all."

She
gazed out over the familiar faces. Most were anxious, some angry. "As
you've heard, my uncle has been mistakenly proclaimed a traitor," she
began. "It will take time to straighten out, and in the meantime Beryl
will be held by Douglases. I have spoken with James Douglas of Kennedy and he
seems a fair man. I shall speak with him further, but I've no doubt he'll allow
you all to continue your tasks without interference."