Ashblane's Lady. Sophia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Vengeance is what I want.
“I want Falstone’s sister, I want his land and I want his life.”
The wound was making Alex light-headed, for the image of Madeleine’s naked pale limbs entwined about his own kept surfacing. And resurfacing.
Angrily he slammed his clay goblet down. He remembered the living flame of her hair as she had been bustled from the room and the cool feel of her skin when she had touched his hand.
I can help you.
Alex shook his head in disquiet. She was a hostage, that was all.
Ashblane’s Lady
Harlequin® Historical #838
Available from Harlequin® Historical and SOPHIA JAMES
Fallen Angel #171
Ashblane’s Lady #838
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Ashblane’s Lady
Sophia James
MILLS & BOON
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Bonny Laird of Ullyot
Oh, bold border ranger
Dark vengeance and danger
Stalk thee relentless
’Tween Jedburgh and Sark
On come the reivers
And wily South thievers
Hail, soldiers of Ashblane
Fight on till the end
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Chapter One
Heathwater Castle, northwest England.
30 September, 1358
‘There is a grounde called the Debatable Grounde, lying between the Realme of England and Scotland…’
‘Ian!’
The anguished keening cry of a name travelled on the wind over Heathwater as Laird Alexander Ullyot tore off his jacket and rocked back and forth across the dead body of his clansman.
Lady Madeleine Randwick, watching from the woods, could barely believe such emotion to come from him, for the Chief of the clan of Ullyot, born and bred in the Scottish Highlands and the bastard son of a royal father who had never claimed him, was far better known for his cruelty and callousness.
And she could well understand why. With the rain pouring down in earnest, his face looked hewn from cold hard marble. Not pretty. Not comely. No young man’s face this, full of dreams and promises, but a worn and tried visage underscored by danger and seasoned by tragedy. The scar that ran across his right cheek and into the hairline of his dark blond hair could be seen even from this distance, lending him a hardened beauty that took Madeleine’s breath away. No healer worth her salt had worked on him, she thought, folding her cloak across the brightness of her hair as his double-handed claymore caught the sun.
Lord, if he saw her!
Crouching lower, she viewed the oozing wounds on his arm and back dispassionately. A deep gash might well poison his blood. With intent, she weighed up her options. If he died, her brother might relax his guard around Heathwater, giving her the chance she needed to escape.
Escape from Noel and Liam and Heathwater. How long had she dreamed of that? She was about to turn away when she noticed his shoulders shaking.
He was crying.
The hated Laird of Ullyot, scourge of the borderlands and instigator of a hundred bloody battles, was crying as he brought the fingers of the one he mourned to his lips in a tender last embrace.
Madeleine stayed still, the image of muscle and war-toughened invincibility strangely disconcerting against such grief. She noticed him stiffen as soon as he perceived a sound from further down the valley, the dirt on his hands marking his face as he swiped his eyes and stood, glance chilling and sword drawn.
So this was her enemy close up. This man, whose land ran north of her own along the border of Scotland and joined with the tracts of her brother’s domain west of the River Esk.
She sensed his awareness of being watched as he scanned the undergrowth on the hillock behind her, but the arrival of a group of Ullyot men drew his attention away. She could hear his deep voice relaying orders as the bodies of fallen friends were separated from foe and placed on a dray pulled by two horses. She wondered where his own horse was, her curiosity appeased a moment later as he tilted his head and whistled to a steed of the deepest black. With a growing fear, Madeleine burrowed back into the root space and tried to recall all she had ever heard of the clan Ullyot.
Ashblane.
His keep hewn of stone, tall and windowless, the little light allowed in banished by dirtied cattle skin. Terence, her brother’s servant, had told her this once just after her mother had died. A cautionary tale, she had guessed, to balance her own lot against that of others, for no one could live more bleakly than Alexander, the powerful and arrogant Chief of Ullyot.
The bodies had been stacked now and angry drifts of conversation reached her fleetingly before the rising wind snatched them away and pulled at the plaid Ullyot had draped across the faces of his fallen. The dirty tartan was stained in red. His arm, she supposed.