Highland Velvet Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Books eBook.

  * * *

  Join our mailing list and get updates on new releases, deals, bonus content and other great books from Pocket Books and Simon & Schuster.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  or visit us online to sign up at

  eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com

  To Mia

  (the gorgeous one in Louisville)

  with love

  Author’s Note

  WHENEVER ANYONE HAS READ THIS BOOK BEFORE PUBLICATION, she has asked me the same questions: Why isn’t a kilt mentioned, and what were the tartan colors of Clan MacArran?

  The early Highlanders wore a simple garment (plaide is Gaelic for blanket) that they spread on the ground, then lay upon and pulled the edges to their sides and belted. This formed a skirt at the bottom, and the upper part of the plaid, or blanket, was pinned at one shoulder.

  There are several stories of how the kilt came into being. One story is about an Englishman who abridged the costume for the convenience of his Highland iron-workers. Of course, the Scots deny that this story is true. Whichever story is true, the modern kilt was not in existence before 1700.

  As for the tartan colors, the clan members wore whatever color appealed to them or could be made from dyes from plants in their area. The clans were identified by colored cockades in their hats.

  Again, there are several stories about the origin of the clan tartans. One is that the export merchants gave clan names to the yards of plaid they manufactured so they could be more easily identified. Another is that the British Army, with its love of uniformity, insisted that each Scots company wear a tartan of the same color and design. Either way, there were no clan tartans before 1700.

  Jude Deveraux, 1981

  Santa Fe, New Mexico

  Prologue

  STEPHEN MONTGOMERY STILL SAT VERY STRAIGHT ON HIS horse even after the long night’s ride. He didn’t like to think of the bride who waited for him at the end of his journey—who had been waiting for him for three days. His sister-in-law, Judith, had had a few choice things to say about a man not bothering to show up for his own wedding, nor making the effort to send a message of regret at his lateness.

  But despite Judith’s words and the realization of the insult he’d paid his future wife, he’d been reluctant to depart King Henry’s estate. Stephen had been hesitant to leave his sister-in-law’s side. Judith, his brother Gavin’s beautiful golden-eyed wife, had fallen down a flight of stairs and lost the badly wanted child she carried. For days Judith hovered between life and death. When she woke and learned her baby was gone, one of her first thoughts was typically about someone other than herself. Stephen had not remembered his own wedding date nor given a thought to his bride. Judith, even in her grief and pain, had reminded Stephen of his duties and the Scotswoman he was to marry.

  Now, three days later, Stephen ran his hand through his thick, dark blond hair. He wanted to stay with his brother, Gavin. Judith was more than angry with him. Her fall had not been an accident but had been caused by Gavin’s mistress, Alice Chatworth.

  “My lord.”

  Stephen slowed his pace and turned to his squire.

  “The wagons are far behind us. They cannot keep pace.”

  He nodded without speaking and reined his horse toward the narrow stream that ran by the rough road. He dismounted, knelt on one knee, and splashed his face with cold water.

  There was another reason Stephen didn’t want to travel to meet this bride he’d never seen. King Henry meant to reward the Montgomerys for their faithful service over the years, so he gave the second brother a rich Scots bride. Stephen knew he should be grateful, but not after the things he’d heard of her.

  She was, in her own right, the laird of a powerful Scots clan.

  He looked across the green meadow on the far side of the stream. Damn the Scots anyway for their absurd belief that a mere woman was intelligent and strong enough to lead men. Her father should have chosen a young man for his heir instead of a woman.

  He grimaced as he imagined what kind of woman could inspire her father to name her chief. She had to be at least forty years old, hair the color of steel, a body thicker than his own. On their wedding night no doubt they’d arm wrestle to see who would get on top…and he’d lose.

  “My lord,” the boy said. “You do not look well. Perhaps the long ride has made you ill.”

  “It’s not the ride that’s turned my stomach.” Stephen stood up slowly, easily, his powerful muscles moving under his clothes. He was tall, towering over his squire, and his body was lean and hard from many years of strenuous training. His hair was thick with sweaty curls along his neck, his jaw strong, his lips finely chiseled. Yet now there were sunken shadows under the eyes of brilliant blue. “Let’s return to our horses. The wagons can follow us later. I don’t want to put off my execution any longer.”

  “Execution, my lord?”

  Stephen did not answer. There were still many hours before he’d reach the horror that awaited him in the solid, bulky shape of Bronwyn MacArran.

  Chapter One

  1501

  BRONWYN MACARRAN STOOD AT THE WINDOW OF THE English manor house, looking down at the courtyard below. The mullioned window was open against the warm summer sun. She leaned forward slightly to catch a whiff of fresh air. As she did so, one of the soldiers below grinned up at her suggestively.

  She stepped back quickly, grabbed the window, and slammed it shut. She turned away angrily.

  “The English pigs!” Bronwyn cursed under her breath. Her voice was soft, full of the heather and mist of the Highlands.

  Heavy footsteps sounded outside her door, and she caught her breath, then released it when they went past. She was a prisoner, held captive on England’s northernmost border by men she’d always hated, men who now smiled and winked at her as if they were intimate with her most private thoughts.

  She walked to a small table in the center of the oak-paneled room. She clutched the edge of it, letting the wood cut into her palms. She’d do anything to keep those men from seeing how she felt inside. The English were her enemies. She’d seen them kill her father, his three chieftains. She’d seen her brother driven nearly insane with his futile attempts to repay the English in their own kind. And all her life she’d helped feed and clothe the members of her clan after the English had destroyed their crops and burned their houses.

  A month ago the English had taken her prisoner. Bronwyn smiled in memory of the wounds she and her men had inflicted upon the English soldiers. Later four of them had died.

  But in the end she was taken, by the order of the English Henry VII. The man said he wanted peace and therefore would name an Englishman as chief of Clan MacArran. He thought he could do this by marrying one of his knights to Bronwyn.

  She smiled at the ignorance of the English king. She was chief of Clan MacArran, and no man would take her power away. The stupid king thought her men would follow a foreigner, an Englishman, rather than their own chief because she was a woman. How little Henry knew of the Scots!

  She turned suddenly as Rab growled. He was an Irish wolfhound, the largest dog in the world, rangy, strong, hair like soft steel. Her father had given her the dog four years ago when Jamie’d returned from a trip to Ireland. Jamie had meant to have the dog trained as his daughter’s guardian, but there was no need. Rab and Bronwyn took to each other immediately, and Rab had often shown that he’d give his life for his beloved mistress.

  Bronwyn’s muscles relaxed when Rab’s growl stopped—only a friend produced such a reaction. She looked up expectantly.

  It was Morag who entered. Morag was a short, gnarled old woman, looking more like a dark burl of wood than a human being. Her eyes were lik