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  To his family’s distress, he had remained unmarried for a number of years until King James I had personally chosen Patrick’s mother to be James Leslie’s second wife. His wealthy widowed mother had resisted being told whom to wed. It had been several more years before James Leslie had been able to convince her that they had to obey their king. It had been a love match, however, and his parents had sired three sons and two daughters, of whom four had survived into adulthood. And they had done it at Glenkirk, rarely leaving Scotland once they had returned home all those years ago, but for summers in England at his great-grandmother’s estate of Queen’s Malvern, and once to France for the late king’s wedding, and one year to Ireland.

  It was his duty, Patrick Leslie realized, to take a wife. Duty was something that the Leslies of Glenkirk understood very well. But duty to whom? His mother believed that a man’s duty lay first after God with his family, and she had been absolutely right, the second Duke of Glenkirk decided as his gaze swept his empty hall. I will owe my loyalty only to this family, Patrick vowed silently to himself. I hae never met this king. I dinna care what happens to him. The duke looked up at the portrait over the fireplace. It was of the first Earl of Glenkirk, his namesake. Turning, he looked across to the other fireplace and the portrait hanging above it of the first Earl of Glenkirk’s daughter, Lady Janet Leslie. He knew their history well. It was Janet who had gained the Earldom of Sithean for her descendants. It was Janet with her strong sense of duty who had saved both the Leslies of Glenkirk and the Leslies of Sithean after the Scots’ terrible defeat at Solway Moss in 1542 against the English. All the adult men in the family had died in that battle, but Janet Leslie in her old age had gathered their sons and daughters about her, raising them until they were old enough to take their rightful places, teaching them how to rule their small domains, making the most advantageous marriages for them all.

  Unfortunately, too many of the Leslie descendants had become careless with wealth and success. They had forgotten the cardinal tenet of the family and suffered by it. But I will nae forget, the second Duke and sixth Earl of Glenkirk promised himself. I will nae forget. To hell wi’ the royal Stuarts and all their ilk!

  Outside the hall, the wind rose, rattling the windowpanes noisily. The duke drained his goblet, his other hand stroking the great orange cat whose rumbling purrs were now quite audible. Suddenly the beastie opened its eyes and looked up at the duke. Patrick smiled down at the creature who now kneaded the duke’s thighs so contentedly.

  “Ye’ll hae to stay wi’in the castle tonight, Sultan,” he said, “but I’m certain ye’ll find a nice mouse or rat to amuse ye, eh? As for me”—he arose from his chair, gently setting the cat upon the floor—“I’m off to bed, old friend. If the weather clears by morning, then I’ll hunt early. We could use a deer or two in the larder for winter.”

  The cat shook itself, sat a moment to contemplate the two dogs, vigorously washed its paws, then stalked off with great dignity into the shadows. The duke chuckled. He knew it wasn’t considered manly, but he actually liked cats better than dogs. Dogs, God love them, were loyal creatures to any who fed them. A cat, however, had to actually like you to be your friend. As he made his way up to his own chamber, the deerhound and the setter arose to follow him. The castle was so very quiet. One could actually sense there was hardly a soul in residence.

  He had sent his servant to bed earlier, for he was quite capable of taking his own clothing off and washing himself. Pulling on his nightshirt, Patrick Leslie lay down in the big bed in the ducal bedchamber. Until several months ago these had been his parents’ apartments, and this his parents’ bed. His mother had insisted upon his moving into it after his father had been buried. He was still not quite comfortable in the great bed. Still, he was soon asleep this night, and his sleep was dreamless.

  Chapter 2

  When Patrick Leslie awoke the following morning, he found the day very gray and overcast. There was neither rain nor snow, but the wind had disappeared as he discovered standing in the open window of his bedchamber. “Tell the stables I will hunt today,” he told his manservant, Donal, who had been his boyhood companion and was distantly related to him. Donal’s family, the More-Leslies, had served the lords of Glenkirk for many generations.

  “Cook thought ye’d be out early, m’lord,” Donal said. “There’s a fine meal awaiting ye in the hall. Will ye be wanting to take food wi’ ye? ’Tis deer we’ll be after, and apt to be gone the day long.”

  “Aye, ye’re right,” the duke replied. “We’ll want oatcakes, cheese, cider. Tell the men to provision themselves in the kitchens before we go, Donal.”

  “I’ll see to it, m’lord,” Donal said, handing Patrick his drawers and breeches first, then a white shirt with full sleeves and a drawstring neck. He held the leather jerkin with the horn buttons in reserve while Patrick pulled the breeches on over his heavy, dark knit stockings.

  The breeches were wool, dyed a nut brown color. After tying his shirt at its neckline, Patrick sat down to draw on his brown leather boots, which covered the stockings and rose to his knees. Standing, he put on the jerkin and buttoned it up. Taking the fur-lined cloak and leather gloves Donal handed him, he exited his apartment, descending into the hall where his breakfast was awaiting him.

  Solitude had not deterred his appetite. Patrick wolfed down the oat stirabout with honey, several poached eggs in a cream sauce flavored with Marsala wine, three slices of ham, and a whole cottage loaf he spread with both butter and bits of hard cheese. There was a steaming mug of tea, a brew from his mother’s native land that he had grown to favor in the morning. It set better on an empty belly than ale or wine. His two youngest brothers had often teased him about his habit of wanting a hot drink in the morning, for they, like their father, had favored brown ale with their breakfast. He smiled at the memory, wondering how well Duncan and Adam fared in Ireland with its constant sectarian violence and warring. They, too, were yet bachelors. He sighed, resigned. It was certainly up to him to set them a good example.

  Finishing his meal, he noted uncomfortably that his cook had quickly learned to do for just one. He found it disquieting. As he rose from the board, his eye swept the hall, seeing the thin layer of dust on the ancient oak furniture. The castle definitely needed a woman’s touch. Without his mother’s majordomo, Adali, the servants were grown slack. They had no one to guide them. He needed a wife, but where the hell was he to find one?

  Glenkirk was well isolated deep in the hills of the eastern Highlands. His holdings stretched for miles in all directions, which was good, but it also meant that he had no near neighbors. The nearest, in fact, were his Leslie cousins at Sithean and his Gordon cousins at BrocCairn. He was on good terms with both families, which gave them all an added measure of safety. His paternal grandmother’s family had sold their lands at Greyhaven to the lords of Glenkirk and gone down into England with King James I to seek their fortunes. Their old manor house, not in particularly good repair, had been demolished.

  He rarely saw his cousins now, and he couldn’t recall if there were any lasses of marriageable age among them. So how did one go about finding a wife these days? Perhaps he would go to the games this summer and pick out a pretty girl. He would ascertain beforehand, however, that she knew how to keep house. Almost any lass could be cajoled into being good bedsport, but if she couldn’t rule his servants, or at least delegate authority among them, she would be of little use to him.

  While isolation was preferable in these dangerous times, it did leave him with certain disadvantages. He considered again if there were any female unmarried cousins at Sithean or BrocCairn. Nay. His generation had been all males, and they were all, he recalled, wed. Where the devil had they found suitable women to marry? Mayhap he could get some of them to go with him to the games and advise him in this delicate matter. He suspected they would all find his plight amusing, but there was no help for it. He needed assistance. He shook his head wearily as he put on his cape.

  In the
courtyard of the castle, his stallion was waiting, saddled. The great gray beast pawed the ground eagerly, anxious to be off. Half a dozen of his clansmen were mounted and waiting to accompany him. The duke swung himself up into the saddle, pulling on his riding gloves, his cloak spreading across the gray’s dappled flanks. They clattered across the heavy oaken drawbridge and into the forest, the dogs yapping with excitement. Because there was no wind, the mist still hung among the bens and in the trees.

  Here and there a flash of tired color remained, startling amid the dark green of the fir trees. By mid-morning they had managed to flush a large stag from amid the wooded copse. The well-antlered creature fled through the trees, twisting and turning with a great skill born out of long experience, the baying dogs in quick pursuit. Leading them through the forest, the stag finally reached a small loch and, leaping into the water, swam away into the fog, successfully evading its pursuers. The belling of the dogs could be clearly heard, echoing through the air ahead of their riders. Then came the whines of their defeat and frustration.

  The hunting party arrived, their horses coming to a nervous stop, dancing about while the dogs milled about their legs whimpering. The stag’s trail through the water could be faintly seen in the still loch, but the beast was quite lost to their sight.

  “Damn!” the duke swore lightly. “Half a morning wasted finding it, and the other half wasted chasing it only to lose it.” He dismounted. “We might as well stop here and eat before we go on, laddies. I’m quite ravenous, but we’ve only oatcakes and cheese.”

  “We’ve caught some rabbits along the way, m’lord,” his head huntsman, Colin More-Leslie, Donal’s brother, replied. “We’ll skin ’em and cook ’em up now.”

  When they had eaten the more substantial meal, the duke looked about him. “Where are we?” he asked of no one in particular.

  “ ’Tis Loch Brae, m’lord,” Colin More-Leslie said. “Look over there. Ye can just make out the old castle on its island, in the mist. ’Tis deserted. The last Gordon heiress of Brae married a Brodie many years back. She went to live in Killiecairn wi’ her husband.”

  “These lands abut Glenkirk lands,” Patrick Leslie said thoughtfully. “If nae one lives here any longer, and the castle is a ruin, mayhap I should purchase it from the Brodie of Killiecairn. I dinna like the idea of untended lands next to mine.”

  “Hae ye ever met the Brodie of Killiecairn, m’lord?” Colin inquired. “He’s a wicked old bugger, and verra canny. Still, he hae six sons and is always happy for good coin, or so I am told.”

  “Why hasna he given Brae to one of his lads?” the duke wondered.

  “ ’Twas nae their mother who was the Gordon, m’lord. The Gordon was his second wife. He was much her senior. She died about ten years ago. Old Brodie must be well over eighty now. His lads are all older than ye are, m’lord, but his Gordon wife did birth him a daughter. I imagine Brae is her dower portion.”

  “The lass would be better off wi’ a bag of gold coins than this old tumbled-down pile of stones and its lands,” the duke observed. “Come on, then, and let’s hae a wee look around at old Brae Castle.”

  They rode around the lake to where a rotting wooden bridge connected the small island to the mainland shore. Leaving the horses, for they deemed the bridge too chancy, Patrick Leslie and his men carefully picked their way across the rotting span to reach the island. It was a rocky place with few trees. The mists had finally lifted and were being blown away by a light breeze. A weak sun was trying to make itself seen through the leaden autumn skies.

  The island was not particularly welcoming. There was no sandy shore of any kind, the shoreline being craggy. The land between the bridge and the castle was once an open field and had obviously been kept that way as a first line of defense. Now it was filled with trees. The castle itself was built of dark gray stone with several towers, both square and rounded. The peaked roof over the living quarters was of slate, and there were several chimneys. On closer inspection, the castle did not seem to be in irreclaimable condition. Still, Patrick Leslie thought, it was the lands belonging to Brae that interested him. Not this little castle.

  “What the hell!” He jumped back suddenly as an arrow buried itself in the ground by his feet.

  “Ye’re trespassing, sir,” a voice said. Then from the open door of the castle a young woman stepped forth, a longbow notched with another arrow at the ready in her hands.

  “As are ye, I suspect,” the duke said coldly, not in the least intimidated. His green-gold eyes swept over the girl. She was the tallest female he had ever seen, unsuitably garbed in boots and breeches. She wore a white shirt with a doeskin jerkin, a red, black, and yellow plaid slung carelessly over her shoulder, and a small, blue velvet cap upon her head with an eagle’s feather jutting jauntily from it. But it was her hair that caused him and his men to stare. It was red. But a red such as he had never seen but once. Bright red-gold that tumbled about her shoulders and down her back in a great mass of curls. “Who are ye?” he finally asked her.

  “Ye first, sir,” she pertly answered him.

  “Patrick Leslie, Duke of Glenkirk,” he said, wondering as he spoke if her hair was soft. He made her a small bow.

  “Flanna Brodie, heiress of Brae,” she responded. She did not curtsy, but rather looked him over quite boldly. “What are ye doing on my lands, my lord? Ye hae nae the right to be here.”

  “And ye do?” She was an impertinent wench, he thought.

  “These are my lands, my lord. I hae told ye that,” Flanna Brodie answered him implacably.

  “I want to buy them,” he told her.

  “Brae is nae for sale,” she said quietly.

  “Yer lands abut mine, lady. They are, if I am nae mistaken, yer dowry. Unless ye wed a landless man, which I am certain yer father and brothers would nae allow, Brae will be as useless to yer husband as it was to yer da. Gold, however, makes ye a far more desirable bride. Name yer price, and I will nae niggle wi’ ye over it,” the duke told her.

  She stood, legs apart, glaring furiously at him. “I hae told ye, my lord, that Brae is nae for sale! I dinna intend to marry at all. I plan to make my home here. Now, take yer men and get off my lands! Ye are nae welcome here!”

  Patrick Leslie stepped toward Flanna Brodie, who moving back a pace sent a second arrow into the ground at his feet then reached back into her quiver for a third. Before she could rearm herself, however, he leapt forward, pulling the bow from her hands and tossing it aside. Then, roughly shoving the girl beneath his arm, he smacked her bottom hard several times. “Ye hae bad manners, wench!” he growled at her. “I am surprised yer father hae nae taught ye better.”

  The duke’s men howled with laughter as, outraged, Flanna squirmed from his grip. “Ye arrogant bastard,” she roared, then hit him a blow that actually staggered him. “How dare ye lay yer filthy hands on me?” She hit him an even harder blow, reaching for her dirk as she took up a defensive position.

  The laughter ceased. The duke’s men stared, surprised, quite uncertain what to do. Then they decided to do nothing. The duke could defend himself.

  “Why ye little she-devil!” he yelped, grabbing her wrists in a single hand, while disarming her with the other. Then he held her fast.

  Flanna struggled wildly. “Ye hit me first,” she yelled.

  “Ye shot an arrow at me, nae once, but twice,” he countered.

  “Ye’re trespassing, and ye won’t go away!” Flanna shouted.

  “Enough!” the duke said, and picking the girl up threw her over his shoulder. “I’m taking ye home to yer sire, wench, and I’ll hae nae more nonsense from ye. If Brae be sold, ’tis his decision, nae yers. I’m willing to wager a gold piece he’ll sell.”

  “Put me down at once, ye bastard!” She squirmed and kicked, trying to escape him, but from her very awkward position it was just about impossible. She was finally forced to remain quiet as he picked his way back across the rotting bridge. If she tumbled them into the loch, this man was apt
to drown them both. His men were snickering behind him and in her clear view.

  “Colly, bind her hands and her ankles,” the duke ordered his man when they had reached the horses. “I’ll carry her over my saddle before me as we go. How far is Killiecairn?”

  “ ’Tis about ten miles, my lord. We hae to go through Hay Glen; then around the other side of the ben is Brodie land. Ye surely dinna mean to carry the lassie head down the whole way? Let her ride before ye, my lord. I’ll tie her ankles together beneath the horse so she canna make trouble. I dinna think old Brodie would look kindly on yer mistreating his lass.”

  The duke nodded, but added, “Then, he should teach the wench better manners, Colly. I hae never known such a wild wench.”

  Flanna’s wrists were bound. She was put upon the duke’s stallion. “They call her Flaming Flanna, my lord,” Colin More-Leslie said as he bent to tie the girl’s ankles underneath his master’s horse, avoiding the kick she aimed at him.

  Patrick Leslie swung himself into the saddle, the girl before him. His arms went about her as he gathered his reins into his hands. She attempted to avoid the contact only to back into his chest. She then sat very still, barely breathing as he kicked his stallion into a quick walk, the Glenkirk men and their dogs following behind.

  Well, here was a fine bungle she had gotten herself into, Flanna thought, very irritated with herself. When was she going to learn to curb that damned temper of hers? All this bloody duke had to do was dangle a fat purse before her father and her half brothers. Then Brae would no longer be hers. She would have nothing, for the old man was as tight-fisted as they came. How often had she said she didn’t want a husband? Now they would take her at her word and end up being richer for it. She, however, would probably end up with nothing. When the old devil finally died she would be forced to rely on her eldest brother, Aulay, for her very subsistence. Worse, there was nothing she could do about it. Even if she agreed to sell the land, her father would have to approve the sale, and he would still keep the gold.