The Highlander’s English Rose (Sisters of Ember Hall #4)

Prologue

Din Eidyn, Scotland

The sky above Din Eidyn remained resolutely grey and a fine mist hung over the hills and valleys which Lord Gaunt had heard tell were beautiful.

Damp and dismal, he decided for himself, curling his lip at the muddy ground and bare trees.

He walked carefully along the wall walk, negotiating slippery cobbles, buffeting winds and a sore head from overindulgence in poor quality wine. Once he had reached the highest point, he flung back his hood and gazed up at the broken ramparts of the mighty fortress.

Mighty, my arse, he thought.

Shaking his head and ignoring the steady drip of rain, he turned to survey the sweeping landscape beyond the castle, including the smoldering rafters of the old town. A smile played around his thin lips, even as he ruminated on the ruin of his surroundings.

The English had proven their superiority over Scotland once and for all.

And best of all, he, Gaunt, continued to rise in the young King’s favor.

A strong gust of wind swept along the wall and Gaunt was obliged to grasp hold of the slimy stone battlements until it eased. He cursed as he re-arranged his hood, and a cold trickle of water found its way down his neck.

It was time to head inside. To a fire and such meagre comforts as Din Eidyn could offer.

Gaunt pulled his woolen mantle further over his shoulders and stalked back to the castle gates.

Men-at-arms bowed and moved out of his path as he approached.

He had amassed a strong army to join Edward’s journey north, his ranks swelled by virtue of association with the young King.

It still gave him a jolt to see his family’s red and gold crest blazoned across so many shields and tunics.

If only his father were still alive to witness how far he had risen.

He barked a command at a tall, narrow-shouldered lad who was about to duck beneath a low doorway.

“Where are you taking that?”

The youth all but dropped his tray.

“To the dungeons, milord.”

“Food for the prisoner?” Gaunt raised his eyebrows, enjoying the lad’s obvious discomfort. He took a step closer and lifted the linen cloth covering a wooden bowl of thin broth.

“Aye.”

“To Lady Elena McIvor?” Gaunt clarified.

The lad nodded, eager to please.

Gaunt struck the tray so the broth spilled and the bowl bounced across the cobbles.

Ignoring the servant’s recoil and the curious stare of the guards, Gaunt continued on his way, ascending the wide steps to the western tower and shrugging off his mantle as soon as he stood by the small fire in the anteroom that had been set aside for him.

It was warm here, and a relief to be out of the biting wind, though the furnishings were shabby and the walls were bare.

He perched on the edge of a hard chair and tried not to dwell on the lack of tapestries and cushions.

Nor on the likelihood of his journey’s end offering even less in the way of creature comforts.

His current dampness and distress were necessary bumps along the path to prosperity.

He would show everyone that Gaunt was a name to be reckoned with; gone were the days of meek subservience to his alleged superiors.

A knock sounded on the panel. Gaunt waited a moment before replying.

“Come.”

A messenger boy stepped inside, handed over a roll of parchment and took his leave. Word had spread around the castle that the man of short stature had an even shorter temper.

Gaunt’s heartbeat quickened when he recognized the seal.

A log hissed in the fire as he unfurled the parchment and quickly scanned the information it contained. His bark of laughter reverberated around the small chamber.

God’s bones, he would show them all!

Gaunt sat back in the hard wooden chair and closed his eyes.

For a moment, he imagined himself far from his sparse surroundings.

Instead, he pictured the gilded feasting hall of Wolvesley Castle, lavishly decorated for a yuletide ball with boughs of pine and blazing candelabras.

He recalled the golden-haired beauty of Isabella de Neville, how her jewels had sparkled, and how her slanting gaze had slid with disinterest over a titled baron from the marshes.

He sighed with deep satisfaction, stretching his legs toward the fire. Aye, he had been right to follow Edward north and feign pleasure in the acquisition of godforsaken lands. His new title meant that he would soon be joined in marriage to the most powerful family in England.

Once they had looked down upon Lord Gaunt. But as the Laird of Greenock, he would bring the de Nevilles to their knees.