Dalziel 'the Wolf' Robertson is an enigma with many secrets. Part English and part Scots, he is silent, calculating, and deadly. The traits one needs to be the Red King's assassin (BOOK 2). Estranged from his mother's side, he loathes all things English, and with the exception of his inner circle of brothers and the occasional mistress, he is content to live a reclusive life. That is until he finds himself pledged to an English wallflower with a notorious reputation for being extremely dull. For some reason, she intrigues him and threatens his resolve. Clarissa Harcourt is considered a quiet, proper, boring wallflower among the gentry. Finding herself in impoverished circumstances, she agrees to wed an unknown Scottish Highlander for a year and a day. It will be a marriage of convenience, enabling her to maintain her ruse because Clarissa has secrets of her own. Secrets that will place her life and heart at risk. If you like your medieval romance with a twist of suspense, royal intrigue, wallflowers and broody possessive males, then you'll enjoy this book. Content Warning: Brawny alpha males, and feisty heroines. Not suitable for people under 18. It contains mature content, some violence and mild steam. *** Prologue 1043 River Tay, Scotland Dalziel Sidheag Robertson, otherwise known as ‘The Wolf,’ had witnessed much death in his thirty-two years on earth. Most of it was administered by his own hand. As the Red King’s assassin, he wielded his daggers with precision. A silent, deadly force. None of his targets saw or heard him coming until it was too late. His identity had remained a closely guarded secret, as his legend grew in notoriety. Being marked by the Wolf was akin to being marked by the devil himself. Such was the fear he evoked. But someone other than his brothers and closest contacts now knew his secret. Dalziel stared down at the bloated corpse lying beside the River Tay. He held a cloth over his nose to prevent the stench from seeping into his pores. This was the third Angles contact who was murdered before Dalziel could speak to him. The murderer left another perfumed note written in French. It was pinned to the man’s clothing. The message the same as the previous ones. “Je me sens seul. Louve”- I’m lonely. She-wolf Dalziel clenched his jaw in anger. He vowed whoever ‘She-wolf’ was, he would do everything in his power to eliminate the threat. *** Chapter 1 – The Search for a Wife Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh, Northumbria This whole wife hunting business was giving Dalziel a headache. But he had no choice. He was in Northumbria now. A place he detested, on a mission for King Macbeth, and he needed to shackle himself to an English wife with exacting specifications so as not to arouse suspicion. Like everything else in his life, it all came down to precision. Or you were dead. Dalziel turned to his chamberlain and clerk, Rupert, and asked, “How goes the search?” Rupert replied, “I have found some women who could meet your requirements.” Mrs. Armstrong, Dalziel’s Scottish housekeeper, walked in with a tea tray and began setting refreshments out for the men. “What requirements would those be, me lord?” she asked. Dalziel replied, “I want a quiet woman above reproach, excellent reputation. Plain and unobtrusive. Twould be preferable if she had a brain in her head and I want her to behave and dress respectably. “You forgot to mention ‘walks on water and performs miracles’ as well.” Mrs. Armstrong smirked as she continued serving tea. Dalziel gave her a stern look, which she ignored as she placed a scone on his plate. Rupert said, “I’ve narrowed the list of contenders to five such women.” “With criteria like that, I’m surprised ye found any,” Mrs. Armstrong muttered under her breath. Dalziel scowled at his impertinent housekeeper and bit into his scone, then tried not to groan because it was delicious. She had topped it with his favorite potted cream and jam preserve. He realized that was the only reason he put up with her, and the blasted woman knew it because she gave him a smug smile. “First name on the list?” Dalziel asked Rupert after he inhaled his scone and gestured for Mrs. Armstrong to serve him another. “Delia Crawford, nineteen—” “Too young. Next,” Dalziel interrupted. Rupert moved down the list. “Abigail Foster, two and twenty…” “Go on.” “Daughter of a Baron, currently widowed.” “Widowed? So young?” Dalziel inquired. “Her beau fought in the Welsh Battle at Rhyd Y Groes and never returned.” Dalziel filed that information away and asked, “Character traits?” “Quiet, pleasant, although there is a hint of scandal.” “What kind of scandal?” Dalziel raised his brow. “Tis rumored she had an affair with—” “Next,” Dalziel said. Rupert continued. “Mary Trench, three and twenty, daughter of a peer, biddable, quiet, no scandal.” “Finances?” “Independently wealthy, attractive, many suitors vying for her han—” “Next. I dinnae want to be calling out love-sick beaus.” Dalziel dismissed yet another contender. “Harmony Durham, four and twenty, daughter of a merchant, excellent reputation, quiet—” “And thick as two planks of wood.” Mrs. Armstrong snorted, then realized she had spoken aloud. She quickly made her way out the door. Dalziel rubbed his forehead. “Continue,” he said. “There is no more, my lord. This is the fifth list where you have rejected every prospective bride, but I can keep searching.” Dalziel sighed. “Aye, please do. There has to be someone in this blasted shire who satisfies my conditions.” Sometime later, after Rupert left, Dalziel was sitting in his study when Mrs. Armstrong hovered in the doorway. “Might I suggest something me lord?” “Would it make any difference if I said no?” Dalziel asked. “None whatsoever,” she replied as she strode across the room and took a seat. “Do make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Armstrong,” he said sarcastically. “Thank ye, I shall. Now then.” She sat forward as if imparting some secret wisdom. "I think ye have been going aboot this wife hunting the wrong way. Ye need to go out into society and meet women to judge for yourself.” “Mrs. Armstrong, I dinnae have time to prance about searching for a wife. Tis why I pay Rupert to do it for me. Macbeth wants me back in Scotland. My chieftain needs me back in Scotland and I cannot let them down.” “Who chooses your horses, me lord?” Mrs. Armstrong changed tack. “I do.” “Why is that? Why not pay someone else to find them for ye?” “Because horses are a tremendous investment. I ken what I want, and I am an expert on horseflesh.” “Surely a wife is an even greater investment, and unless ye want to put her in the stables with the horse, she will live in this house alongside ye. Would ye not want to make sure ye choose the right one?” “She may live here, but I dinnae intend to spend any time with her. I have enough trouble in Alba to contend with.” “So, ye would trust a stranger ye ken nothing aboot, to live here, among all your secretive things?” She waved her hand about his study. “While you hie off to the Highlands?” Dalziel thought about it. It would be remiss of him not to at least scrutinize his future wife before deciding. Maybe it was something he needed to do himself. “Aye, point taken, Mrs. Armstrong. I’ll speak to Rupert to arrange a dinner where I can meet these ladies.” Mrs. Armstrong grinned. “Tis settled then.” “What is?” “There’s an assembly held by the ealdormen in town tonight. I prepared your bath and clothes in your chamber. The stable boy has already brought your horse around and Mr. Rupert will meet ye there.” She took her leave. Dalziel watched her disappear down the hallway before he chuckled and shook his head. Mrs. Armstrong should be an assassin. *** Driftwood Cottage, Bamburgh, Northumbria Clarissa Harcourt dug her hands in the dirt and pulled out more potatoes. “Yes!” she shouted in defiance. “We shall eat a veritable feast tonight, Ruth.” She grinned at her cook. “Where are yer shoon?” Ruth asked. “You know I dislike wearing shoes. I prefer to feel the grass under my toes and the wind in my hair,” Clarissa replied, doing a quick pirouette in the dirt. “And the ague in your bones if ye’re not careful,” Martin, Ruth’s husband, said while pulling out more potatoes. “Tis not a done thing to be roaming about the countryside like a wee sprite.” Ruth admonished. “Now Ruth, you flatter me, but I am not a sprite. My hips are too wide.” Clarissa responded with a wink. The couple laughed. They were in their fifties and had been with Clarissa’s family for years. They were the last remaining servants who stayed on after Clarissa and her brother Cedric had inherited a mountain of debt from their late father. “Ruth, mayhap you can make us a tasty potato pie?” “I can do that, Mistress,” Ruth replied cheerfully, “and we can add some cabbage to it.” Clarissa glanced at the lifeless cabbage Ruth was holding up and tried not to grimace. She turned to Martin and asked, “How did you get on at the docks?” “There is still no word on the shipments or Cedric. Something does not feel right,” Martin replied. “I agree. We have never gone this long without a word before. If something is not done soon, we will have to move our precious cargo and find some much-needed funds.” Martin said, “I have asked at the mill, and they’ve agreed to take me back on half-pay if I apologize. It willna be much, but it will tie us over until we hear from Cedric.” “Absolutely not, Martin. That mill owner is a cheating sack of coo dung! You should not apologize for calling him out on it.” Clarissa stood and wiped her hands on her apron. “I still have pieces of jewelry I can sell to get us out of this bind.” Clarissa touched the gold chain around her neck. It was all she had left of her mother, but she could not be sentimental when they were about to starve to death. “Mistress ye cannot sell yer ma’s precious necklace, tis all ye have to remember her by,” Ruth exclaimed. “Memories will not feed us, Ruth. We need to eat, and we need to survive. Others depend on us now. Let us pray that the good lord above delivers up a miracle.” No sooner had she spoken than she saw the unwelcome sight of someone approaching. Clarissa abandoned all thoughts of food, looked towards the house, and cringed. Ruth and Martin moved closer to stand behind her. No doubt for support. “Ah, Mr. Snape, what a surprise to see you,” Clarissa said in greeting. Edmund Snape was a wealthy merchant and the tithing-man for their collective. It was his role to ensure each family contributed their share to the common group. He was a lanky coxcomb with a skeletal frame and greasy blond hair. Clarissa knew he was there to collect their debt. There was no way she could pay it. Not after the lean winter and the added expenses. Snape ran his beady eyes the length of Clarissa. She schooled her features even as he lingered too long upon her chest. “I am here to collect your contribution.” He spoke with a hissing voice. To Clarissa, he sounded like a snake. Snape the snake. She repeated in her head before saying, “Mr. Snape, as I have discussed with you before, I must await my brother Cedric. Tis he who oversees our family contribution. Snape was skeptical. “What about the frankpledge? If tis not paid, the whole collective will suffer. I will have to involve the shire-reeve in the matter.” Clarissa hid her emotion. The last thing she needed was a Reeve and law enforcer poking about their business. “Please Mr. Snape, tis unnecessary to involve anyone, I just need more time. My brother—” “We all ken your brother has abandoned you.” Snape hissed. “Tis not true. Cedric will be home soon, and he will set things to rights.” Clarissa was trying to keep her anger in check. She hated Snape. Clarissa could easily crush his windpipe if she wanted to, but that would only attract unwanted attention and discretion was key. Snape leaned in and whispered in her ear, his fetid breath brushing against her neckline. “Ye know my terms. Ye need only warm my bed and I’ll cover the debt.” Martin was raising his fist to punch Snape, but Clarissa stayed his hand and stepped back. “Thank ye for your kind offer, Mr. Snape, but I must decline.” “Ye’ll come around soon. I always get what I want, Clarissa…” “She’s Miss Harcourt to you, you skamelar!” Ruth angrily bit out. He laughed out loud. “You think yourselves better than us, but look at ye now, just poor sods playing in the dirt.” With those words, he stomped on the potatoes with his shoe, crushing them into the ground. Clarissa stared in horror at the remnants of what would have been their supper. Snape’s eyes raked her once over and he said, “Ye have a sennight' or ah’ll be collecting your debt another way. Enjoy your supper, Miss Harcourt,” he sneered, then left. When he was no longer in sight, Ruth asked, “What are we going to do, Mistress?” “We need to find Cedric. I’ll speak to Harmony tonight, mayhap she has heard from him. I know he loves her and if there is anyone, he would contact it would be her,” Clarissa replied. “But she’ll be at the town assembly, tis too risky to talk of matters there.” “Do not fret Ruth, I’ll bathe and wear my best dress so I can blend in.” Clarissa turned to Martin and asked, “Can you accompany me into town?” “Aye Mistress, of course,” he replied. *** Town Hall, Bamburgh From the moment Dalziel entered the assembly, several women and their mothers accosted him. It would appear everyone was expecting him and eager to make his acquaintance. “What the devil did you tell these people, Rupert?” He tried to feign a smile while talking through gritted teeth. “I just let it be known you are a wealthy Thane from the Highlands, and you desperately need a suitable wife.” “You did what?” Dalziel frowned. “How the hell can I meet anyone if I keep getting attacked by women with embroidered handkerchiefs?” He plucked out several surreptitiously tucked into his coat and dropped them on the floor. Rupert just shrugged. It was an hour later when Dalziel could finally extricate himself from a group of marriage-minded mothers and their desperate offspring. He quickly made his way out to the hallway to get some fresh air. That was when he saw her. She had vibrant colored auburn hair tied back in a severe bun, although the curls seem to struggle for freedom. Her eyes were green and glittered like emeralds. She stood against a wall beside a woman with raven black hair and they appeared to be talking in urgent whispers. He thought her unremarkable. Her clothing was modest and her face unpainted. Average height, nicely curved and rather plain, but those eyes captured his attention. They sparkled with intelligence and amusement despite the serious frown on her face. He began circling. Dalziel asked Rupert, “Who is that woman?” “Clarissa Harcourt.” “Husband?” “None.” “Why was she not on the list?” Dalziel asked. “I thought her a bit too long in the tooth.” “How old?” “Eight and twenty,” Rupert replied. Dalziel was glad she was closer to his age. “What of her family?” he asked. “Father was a Marquess, her mother was a foreigner, merchant class.” Rupert turned up his nose at the word foreigner. “She has one brother, although no one has seen him, for some time.” Dalziel kept watching Clarissa and her friend. Both women were becoming agitated about something. “What is she like?” “Wallflower, boring, horrendous to be around.” “How do you ken that?” “Tis just what most gentlemen say about her, especially ones who have tried to woo her in the past. Lord Chamberlain and Lord Lancet over there.” Rupert nodded towards the two men on the other side of the Hall. “They say she is dull as ditchwater.” “I see. And the woman beside her?” Dalziel asked. “That is Harmony Durham. She was on the list you rejected.” “Ah, the one Mrs. Armstrong believes to be a dunce. How do they ken each other?” “Alas, my lord, I know nothing more about Miss Harcourt other than what I have told you.” “Then I shall have to find out for myself. Introduce me.” Dalziel nudged Rupert with his elbow. “My lord?” Rupert stammered, slightly taken aback. “I’d like to ken her better, see if she is suitable. Introduce me.” “But… but surely there are—?” “There are what, Rupert?” “Prettier… younger, options.” Dalziel felt affronted by Rupert’s words and glared. “Rupert, I suggest you stop degrading my potential future wife before you find yourself unconscious on the floor.” “So sorry, forgive the impertinence. I will organize an introduction at once.” Dalziel watched Rupert make his way across the crowded room, but before Rupert reached the woman in question, she had inched her way to a side entrance and disappeared. *** Clarissa So that was the wild Highlander. Clarissa felt unnerved by the meticulous attention he was paying her, but she ignored it. When she had come to the assembly, her only thought was to get word to Harmony then leave. But everywhere she turned, all anyone could talk about was a mysterious Scottish thane in want of a wife. Then, when he entered the room, Clarissa held her breath in astonishment. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, and he vibrated raw, virile energy until it was overwhelming. He towered above the other men and wore expensive English attire. The way he filled his clothes, especially his trews with strong lean thighs, made other men seem like spineless nothing. He had long blonde hair parted and braided on both sides with leather ties through the braids and leather bands on his wrists. His hands were large and rugged, not soft and effeminate like other men, and his skin had been kissed by the sun. He made her heart race. When he scanned the room, she leaned back into the shadows along the wall and observed him from the safety of her vantage point. He reminded her of a predator. He did not walk he stalked, and his keen assessing eyes missed nothing. Clarissa felt a slight pang of jealously when he was approached by so many beautiful women. She glanced down at her shabby dress and shook her head. Clarissa was no young miss in bloom, and her outfit, once the height of fashion, was now outdated by several seasons. She was far too plain and poor to interest such a man. Melancholia settled over her once more. She needed to stop these fanciful thoughts. There were much more important matters to attend to. People’s lives were at stake, and she had to get this done and leave. Clarissa focused on her brother’s sweetheart, Harmony. She always had to break matters down for Harmony because, as passionate as Harmony was for the Cause, she was not very bright. “Harmony, have you heard any word from Cedric? Anything at all? Even about the shipments?” “No, nothing, not even a letter. I am most upset that he has shown no regard for my fragile feelings.” Harmony pouted. “Then we must change our plans. I will be at the docks tomorrow night and if anyone asks about Cedric, please tell them you have seen him at your townhouse, and he is well.” “But I have not seen him, Clarissa. I thought that was what we just established.” Harmony stared at her like she was daft. Clarissa was growing frustrated. She often wondered what Cedric saw in Harmony because, after two minutes in her company, Clarissa wanted to bludgeon her to death. “I know that, and you know that, but the shire-reeve does not know that. He has been keeping watch over our movements,” Clarissa explained. “Oh, so you need me to lie for you and pretend that I have seen Cedric?” “Yes, just this once, and I’ll never ask it again. I would not even ask it now if I did not have the tithing-man breathing down my neck. Until I find Cedric, people need to believe he has not abandoned the Cause.” “And this will help the Cause?” “Yes, it will, Harmony. Please, just do this one thing.” Harmony twirled her hair with her finger, then nodded. “All right, Clarissa. I shall be proud to lie on your behalf.” She giggled. Clarissa sighed. These were desperate times. “Thank you, Harmony, but please try not to tell people you’re lying.” “Oh, of course not, tis our secret.” Harmony tapped her nose and winked twice. When Clarissa glanced around the hall, she noticed the Highlander had moved and was now speaking to someone else. They were both glancing in her direction. She stared at a distant point in the ceiling so as not to make eye contact. “Can I dance now?” Harmony asked. “Aye, of course. Thank you again,” Clarissa replied. Harmony smiled. “Tis my pleasure.” They parted ways. Clarissa slipped through the side entrance. It was time to leave. But first, she was going to peruse the supper table. No point in having all that food go to waste. *** The Supper Table Dalziel stalked his prey from the shadows. It had taken him a while to guess Clarissa’s destination, but now she was alone at the supper table, while everyone was busy dancing in the hall. He watched her covet the fare, lick her lips before she pulled out a piece of cloth, and wrapped an assortment of food in it. She then placed her haul into her reticule. It was all done in a very ladylike fashion. Anyone staring from afar would not even notice. Once her bag was full, she grabbed a tart, took a bite out of it, closed her eyes, and moaned. Dalziel went rock hard instantly. He had never been so turned on watching a woman eat before. She ate the rest of the tart, wiped her lips discreetly, then moved away from the table. Before he could gather his scattered thoughts, she turned and slipped out another door leading towards the stables. *** Clarissa walked at a brisk pace down the dimly lit path. Her reticule was full, and the tart had taken the edge off her hunger. Her mind was already ticking on the many things she needed to accomplish. She spied Martin milling about inside the stables with the other men. She just needed to get to him, and they could leave. Clarissa stopped in her tracks and stiffened. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as the looming sight of Edmund Snape stepped out in front of her to block her pathway. “Well now, what do we have here? You’re looking vera fine tonight, Miss Harcourt,” he rasped. “Thank you, Mr. Snape. I was just on my way home, but you best hurry or you’ll miss the festivities inside.” Clarissa sidestepped to the right to get around him, but he moved as well and blocked her path. She sidestepped to the left, and he moved in unison. “Please move out of my way, sir,” she demanded. “Now why would I do that when a pretty woman stands before me, begging to be taken in hand?” Clarissa snorted while staring at Snape’s effeminate, skeletal fingers. She realized her mistake when his hand shot out and gripped her wrist, pulling her towards him. His fingers dug into her skin and it hurt. Clarissa cursed the confines of her garment. If it were not the only decent gown she had left, she would think nothing of tearing it so she could kick him in the groin. She tried to wriggle free, but he was too strong. The other alternative open to her was to drop her reticule and throat punch him, but she preferred to eat tonight and refused to risk her supper for any man. “Unhand me,” she said in anger. But it was no use. Snape was pulling her towards him. His other hand latched onto the back of her neck. Clarissa grimaced, knowing he was going to kiss her. “Let go of me!” She was struggling to break free and resisted the pull. He dipped his head and was moving his narrow lips towards hers. Clarissa scrunched her eyes shut. Her only alternative was to headbutt him and possibly break his nose. She was preparing to do just that when she heard a menacing voice in a Scottish brogue demand, “Let her go or you will die where you stand.” Snape immediately released her. Clarissa stumbled backward and came up against a solid chest. She opened her eyes and found herself ensconced within the Highlander’s arm. His front to her back, one arm banded around her waist, holding her tight against his body while his other arm was outstretched. He wielded a long dagger. The sharp tip of the blade rested on Snape’s neck. If Snape moved even an inch, the blade could kill him. “Touch her again and I will kill you,” Dalziel said. Snape paled and began sweating profusely and trembling. “Me lord, tis a misunderstanding is all,” Snape replied. Dalziel kept his eyes on Snape and asked, “What would you like me to do with this one?” Clarissa was still reeling from the heady sensation of being held so intimately by the Highlander before it registered that he was asking her a question. She tilted her head and stared up at his firm jawline. “Would stabbing him in the groin be asking too much?” she asked. Dalziel immediately glanced down and had to catch his breath as his eyes clashed with emerald-colored ones. He realized he was wrong in his earlier estimations. She was not plain at all; she was exquisite, and her eyes danced with amusement. His face split into a wide grin, and he burst out laughing. The movement caused the tip of his blade to nick Snape’s neck and draw blood. “Me lord!” Snape screeched. “You’re cutting me.” Dalziel turned back to Snape and replied, “Och, so I am.” He sheathed his dagger. “Leave now before I cut you some more.” Snape turned and ran. Dalziel continued to hold Clarissa as they both watched Snape stumble towards his horse, trip and fall over, then get up and keep running. Clarissa breathed in Dalziel’s masculine scent. She wanted to burrow deeper into his arms, but it was a public place, and she soon came to her senses. “Thank you. I am most grateful for your help.” Dalziel leaned in closer. He wanted to keep her and bury his face in her neck. But he reluctantly released her when he felt her pull away. Clarissa turned to face him. She appeared nervous and vulnerable. Dalziel felt the need to protect her. He wanted to feed her and make sure she never had to fill her reticule with food. That she never wanted for anything. He mentally shook himself. What the hell was happening to him? He could not afford to get close to anyone. He was dangerous. Dalziel stepped away and put distance between them. His smile disappeared, replaced by a stony stare. He noticed her amusement faded as if a veil descended. Her face became serious as she stepped further away, taking his cue. Dalziel wanted to pull her back into his arms, but again he berated himself for such soft emotions. He was an assassin. His enemies were deadly. No, he needed to stop this now. Rationalize and separate, he kept repeating to himself. “Who was that man?” he asked. “He is the tithing-man, Edmund Snape, and a neighbor. Twas a misunderstanding is all.” Dalziel was skeptical. He would gather details later. Silence filled the space between them as they gazed at one another. Rupert shattered the quiet. “Miss Harcourt, I see you have met Lord Stanhope. I have been searching for you both everywhere.” “Tis Dalziel Robertson, Stanhope is a mere title,” Dalziel said. “Pleased to meet you, my lord. I am Miss Clarissa Harcourt.” She reached out her hand in greeting. Dalziel instantly took it and bowed over it. “Twould seem your introductions are no longer necessary, Rupert,” Dalziel grumbled. Rupert blushed at his tardiness and the reprimand. A young woman requesting a dance had waylaid him and he forgot his task altogether. “Do you need an escort home, lass?” Dalziel asked Clarissa. “No, tis all right. My steward is waiting just in the stables. I should go. He will worry.” Dalziel nodded and watched her leave. A strange feeling came over him. He did not like it. He could not fathom why she had such an effect on him. Then he decided. He would not marry her. She made him feel too much, and what he needed was a marriage where he felt nothing. Dalziel had vowed that he would not repeat the mistakes of his father. Nothing good ever came from loving an English woman. He should know. His mother was one, and it almost destroyed their lives. Clarissa Harcourt was dangerous. Dalziel sent one of his men to ensure Clarissa made it home safely. It was the least he could do. Then he returned to the hall and tried to clear his mind of the tempting vixen. That night Clarissa, Martin, and Ruth filled their bellies with fancy fare Clarissa had smuggled in her bag. When she slept, she dreamed of a naked Scotsman ravishing her on the dance floor. Meanwhile, a few miles away, Dalziel tossed and turned in his bed, dreaming of a luscious auburn-haired nymph with green eyes having her way with him as he slept. *** Chapter 2 – Precious Cargo Dalziel’s Study, Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh “You do not want to marry Miss Harcourt?” Rupert asked. “Aye, she is not suitable,” Dalziel replied. “But you seemed taken with her last night.” “That was last night. Today is today.” “Do you wish for me to make a new list?” “No, I have found someone else.” “Who?” Rupert asked, surprised. “Harmony Durham. She seems a simple sort who will fit the role nicely.” Dalziel felt the weight of Rupert’s judgment. But he did not need to explain himself to anyone. Mrs. Armstrong barged her way into Dalziel’s study. “So, how did it go at the assembly, me lord?” “I met a woman who I will call upon tomorrow with an offer.” “Are you sure you won’t reconsider Miss Harcourt?” Rupert asked. “You met Clarissa?” Mrs. Armstrong perked up and clutched her pearl necklace. Rupert gave Mrs. Armstrong a knowing glance and said, “Not only did he meet her, but they were having a very private talk outside in the dark, just the two of them.” “Och, really? That is wonderful. What did she say? What was she wearing?” Dalziel snapped, “Mrs. Armstrong, I have a pair of balls in case you failed to notice and will not be drawn into some ladies' gossip hour.” Mrs. Armstrong seemed to deflate. “No need to be crude, me lord. I just like the lass. Tis a pity about her reduced circumstances.” Dalziel wanted to ask her what she meant, but Mr. Bell, his steward, interrupted them to announce a visitor. “My lord, Mr. Arrowsmith is here to see you. He came via the alley way.” “Thank you. Send him in.” A few moments later, the imposing figure of Highlander Ewan Arrowsmith filled Dalziel’s doorway. Ewan was the same height as Dalziel, with a solid build. He wore his plaid with pride and was armed with a vast array of weaponry. Arrowsmith was a spy for Macbeth and one of Dalziel’s trusted contacts in Northumbria. He was also an exceptional bowyer and often disguised his activities, working in various guilds across the country. For him to seek Dalziel in daylight meant whatever message he had was important. Rupert and Mrs. Armstrong excused themselves from the room as Arrowsmith entered and sat down. Dalziel poured them both a dram of whiskey and shut the door. “What news have you?” “There has been another murder and another note,” Arrowsmith said with a Scottish lilt to his baritone voice. “Damn it to hell,” Dalziel cursed and began pacing the room. “When?” “Last night. One of my men met a servant of Earl Siward. We found him at the docks this morning with his throat slit and the French message pinned to his shirt.” “What led him to seek this servant?” Dalziel asked. “Rumor is Siward is siding with Malcolm of Cranmore and making moves to force a war with Macbeth. An ambush of sorts.” “Any news of this servant now?” “Vanished.” “Male or female?” “Female.” “Something is off about all of this. Someone kens our every move before we even make it,” Dalziel said. “Which leads me to believe…” “The enemy is one of our own.” Arrowsmith finished his sentence for him. “Aye,” Dalziel replied. “We should make inquiries at the docks tonight. Someone must have seen or heard something.” Arrowsmith nodded in agreement. Dalziel changed the subject and asked, “What do you ken of a tithing-man, Edmund Snape?” “Cunning, unscrupulous coward,” Arrowsmith replied, then downed the shot of whiskey. “Why do you ask?” “I caught him trying to attack a young lady last night.” “The bastard! Which lady?” “Clarissa Harcourt. Do you ken her?” “I’ve seen her about town. She is a quiet one. Keeps to herself but I’ve always thought her vera bonnie with nice curves.” Dalziel growled. “You’ve been staring at her curves, have you? You think she’s bonnie, do you?” He glared at Arrowsmith. “Depends.” “On what?” “On whether you’re going to hit me if I say aye.” Arrowsmith gestured towards Dalziel’s clenched fists, which were primed for a fight. Dalziel immediately relaxed. He was not sure what had come over him, but hearing Arrowsmith, the braw bastard, talk about Clarissa’s curves made him see red. “Mayhap we should discuss the docks and stay clear of discussing your woman for now.” “She’s not my woman,” Dalziel snapped. Arrowsmith raised his hands palm up in a show of surrender. “All right, calm down. I was only jesting.” He studied Dalziel with curiosity. He had never seen the man show any kind of emotion before, especially over a lass. *** Dockside, Bamburgh, Northumbria It was 2 am, and Clarissa and her men were in place. With no sign of her brother Cedric, she moved their precious cargo under the cover of darkness. They crouched beside large barrels outside the dockside brothel and waited for the coast to clear. She wore her usual attire of trews, tunic, and boots. Her normally unruly hair bound tight and pinned to a cap. All of them had their faces smudged with dirt and soot to blend in. Jean-Luc, her cousin, disappeared inside the brothel, then came out a few minutes later with three women and two small children. Clarissa calmed their fears as Pierre, Jean-Luc’s brother, rushed them to the waiting boat. “Where are the others?” she asked Jean-Luc. “They will not leave for fear o’ Goldie,” he replied. Goldie was a vicious Irishman. He owned the docks, and he was not a man to cross. “What do you mean, they will not leave?” Clarissa asked with urgency. “Tis all or nothing.” “Mistress, something is not right, tis too quiet, we need to go now,” Martin said. He had his eyes fixed on the brothel. Clarissa was just about to agree when Toby, their lookout, came running around the side of the building yelling, “Go! Go!” A distance away, she spotted five large men giving chase. Pierre jumped into the boat and grabbed the set of oars fastened to the oarlocks. Toby ran past them. He loosened the ropes, then jumped in and took up the second pair of oars. “Get in,” he yelled. “Bugger,” Martin cursed. “Mistress, they’re too close. Go with others. Me and Jean-Luc will hold them off to give you a head start.” “Go Ris,” Jean-Luc demanded. “No, I am not leaving you two.” There was no way she was returning to the cove to explain to Ruth that she had abandoned her husband at the pier. “Mademoiselle, we need to go now!” Pierre shouted, already maneuvering his oars in the water. Clarissa could see the women and children trembling in fear, and she made a split-second decision. Precious cargo. She bent down, pushed the boat away from the dock, and shouted at Pierre to stick to the plan. She heard him cursing at her in French, but he complied. She then faced the attackers, took a fighting stance, and brought her fists up. “I’ll take the short one on the left.” “Guess I’ll take the rest then,” Jean-Luc grumbled. “What am I, chopped liver?” Martin sounded insulted. Clarissa braced as the five men circled them. Martin did not wait he launched straight in, swinging and took down two. They were currently grappling on the ground. The other three attacked at once. Jean-Luc got one in a chokehold while fending off another. The last man headed straight for Clarissa. He swung, and Clarissa ducked and jabbed him in the groin. She watched him wince in pain before she felt the pain explode across her cheekbone as his fist connected with her face. Clarissa cursed, knowing it would leave a bruise. She dodged the next swing he aimed at her, then she ran straight at him and pushed him hard towards the edge of the dock. He teetered before falling backward into the murky waters. She scanned the sea; the boat was a good distance away and disappearing into the dark mist. At least that was one less thing to worry about, she thought. Clarissa ran to help Martin and Jean-Luc, who were contending with the other four. But each time she tried to get a few punches in, Martin and Jean-Luc blocked her path. Bloody hell. She hated it when they tried to protect her. She did what she could between gaps and managed a few kicks and punches. She also monitored the man in the water who was trying to climb into a boat and failing miserably. His only choice would be to swim to shore and that would keep him out of their way. *** Brawling It was a quiet night at the docks as Dalziel and Arrowsmith slunk in the shadows, doing the rounds, asking questions, and handing over coins for information. They were just stepping out of an inn when they heard shouting coming from the pier. “What is it?” Dalziel asked Arrowsmith. “Appears to be a scuffle, four against three, and the odds dinnae favor the three. One of them is a mere lad.” “Aye, tis a most unfair fight. The other two are trying to protect him.” Arrowsmith and Dalziel did not wait. They ran towards the fighting. “What the devil is going on here?” Dalziel yelled. “Mind yer own fancy pants, tis nothing to do with ye,” said a big burly man. “I say different.” Dalziel punched him in the jaw. And all hell broke loose. Clarissa could not believe her eyes when she glimpsed two Highlanders emerge from the darkness. They resembled avenging angels. She recognized them straight away. Dalziel and Arrowsmith, the bowyer from town. She stood mesmerized by their fighting style. The tide soon turned, and her attackers barely escaped with their lives. She was so caught up in awe at Dalziel’s combat abilities, she almost forgot herself. “Bloody hell, Ris, hide!” Jean-Luc scolded her inattention. Clarissa instantly ducked behind Martin when the attackers fled, and Dalziel headed towards her. Dalziel asked, “Are you all right lad? You took a bit of a beating?” Clarissa kept her head down and said in a gruff voice, “Aye, thank ye, me lord. I am hale.” Arrowsmith asked, “You sure? If you need tending lad, we can see to it.” He moved towards her when Martin blocked his path. “Tis grateful we are that ye helped us, me lords. My nephew is vera shy. Takes after me, dearly departed sister, God rest her soul. Gets nervous around strangers.” “Aye, very nervous,” Clarissa grunted in a deep voice. “Why were you set upon?” Dalziel asked. “We’d come for a night at the brothel and for no reason these ruffians attacked us,” Martin replied. “Well, you best leave now. Tis not safe here at night. No doubt they’ll be back with more men if we dally.” Dalziel bid them goodnight and they left. Martin, Clarissa, and Jean-Luc did not hesitate. They fled in the opposite direction, intending to put as much distance between them, Goldie, and the Scotsmen. They had a rendezvous at the cove. *** The Journey Home “Twas it just me, or did that lad look familiar?” Dalziel asked Arrowsmith as they rode home. “Aye, there is something about him. I am sure I’ve seen him before. What did you think of his fighting style?” Arrowsmith asked. “Full of spirit. He even landed a few good hits,” Dalziel replied. “I wonder what they were really doing down at the docks,” Arrowsmith said. “Aye. Twas like they were protecting the lad from us. No doubt it could be a member of the peerage out for a swiving and things went awry.” “I just wonder who they annoyed to earn the wrath of Goldie’s men,” Arrowsmith pondered out loud. “We’ve probably made an enemy of Goldie now as well,” Dalziel replied. “That Irishman has always been my enemy. The fight tonight made no difference,” Arrowsmith said. Dalziel wondered what Arrowsmith meant. He knew there was a bigger story there but would not pry. Arrowsmith guarded his privacy fiercely. As they journeyed home, Dalziel found his mind drifting to Clarissa Harcourt. He had been doing that a lot lately. He wondered what she was doing tonight and what she would think of him brawling on the dockside like a common thug. She would most likely shun him if she knew. Still, he felt exhilarated after a good fight. Usually, he sought the company of a woman after a brawl for a hard coupling. It was probably why Lenora, his ex-mistress, had lasted so long. In his line of work, he often needed release. Lenora was one of the few women who enjoyed a bit of rough play. Dalziel found it interesting he had not seen or thought of Lenora in months, despite her attempts to rekindle a relationship. He wondered if Clarissa could provide him the physical succor he craved after a good fight. Just the thought of her tied to his bed, naked, blindfolded, and under his complete control heated his blood. Damn it. He swore at himself. Why the hell could he not get that bloody woman out of his head? Dalziel was even more determined to get married to Miss Durham soon and return to Scotland before his growing obsession with Miss Harcourt caused him to misstep. *** The Cove It was 4am when Clarissa reached the cove. They had covered their tracks well, and now they had to sit tight for a few days and wait on Cedric. Clarissa was pleased to see the women and children settled, although Pierre, the fiery head of her cousins, was furious and rained a string of expletives in French and English at her for putting her life in danger. “If something happens to you, we lose all. You are the one who keeps things together, Ris! You, and no one else.” Pierre’s voice cracked with emotion. “I am sorry, Cousin, truly I am. I will take better care next time.” She hugged him, which seemed to appease him. “What I want to know is how we were discovered?” Toby asked. “Aye, twas like they were waiting for us,” Martin replied. “Goldie’s men were not supposed to be there at all. Someone knew our plans,” Jean-Luc added. Clarissa’s brow furrowed. The men had a point. Someone had snitched, and it nearly cost them dearly. Until she discovered who it was, they were all in danger. *** Durham Town House, Bamburgh The next morning, Dalziel walked up the stairs to the large townhouse of one Harmony Durham. It was in a busy part of town, with people bustling past. He knew it was time to visit his prospective bride and hopefully formalize a pledge so he could return to his duties in Scotland. He was admitted by a stoic butler and shown into a Drawing Room and waited. It was not long before Harmony appeared carrying a small kitten, and he immediately regretted his decision. “Your Lordship, Lily and I welcome you.” “Lily?” “My kitten. Please say hello or she will feel very neglected.” Harmony pouted and raised the kitten’s paw to shake Dalziel’s hand. Dalziel reluctantly shook it, and the kitten bit him. He gritted his teeth and snatched his hand away. “Aw, I think Lily likes you.” Harmony giggled, oblivious to the hostile hissing stand-off that was taking place between Dalziel and Lily. “Please take a seat.” Dalziel sat and wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this situation. He had never, not once, made a misstep in any decision pertaining to the king’s missions. Until now. Everything about his hasty decision made him second guess his ability to think straight. “Have you come about Cedric?” Harmony asked. “Who’s Cedric?” “Oh, nothing. I thought this was the part where I am supposed to explain…” “Explain what?” “No, wait… now I am confused. Oh, I am making a muddle of things,” Harmony said with a vacant expression. “But tell me, what brings you here?” Dalziel’s instincts were screaming at him to change course. He could not go through with it and he knew it had to do with a green-eyed minx and the hissing feline now sinking its claws into his ankle. “I had actually come to discuss the prospect of a marriage arrangement between us.” “You want to marry me?” Harmony asked, surprised. “No, I mean yes, but before, not now,” Dalziel stammered. Another thing he had never done before. Dalziel had never in his life been double-minded and unsure of himself. He had never experienced indecision. It was crippling. He stood abruptly, pried Lily and her teeth from his leg, and placed her on the chair. “My apologies for the intrusion. I must leave.” He strode out of the room. Harmony followed close on his heels. “Wait, did we just get engaged, my lord?” “No, we did not,” he clipped and marched out the front door, and kept walking. He had just crossed the road when he saw Clarissa walking in the park a short distance away. Speak of the devil. Before he thought better of it, his legs were moving in her direction. When he was closer, he called out, “Miss Harcourt?” She spun around; her hand raised in a fist. She instantly dropped it when she saw it was just him. Dalziel apologized. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to startle you.” “Tis all right.” Clarissa smiled. “I thought you were… someone else.” Dalziel peered down at her. Then his entire body locked. He clenched his jaw and his face filled with rage. Clarissa took a step back. “What is the matter?” Dalziel’s hand shot out, and he cupped her chin, tilted her face to the side, and in an angry voice said, “Who. Did. This?” Clarissa blushed. She had forgotten about her bruised cheek courtesy of the dockside brawl. “Was it Snape? I’ll kill him,” Dalziel growled. “No, twas no one. Twas an accident,” Clarissa replied. Dalziel tilted her face to the other side. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He released her chin, then physically turned her around to inspect for himself. Clarissa was feeling self-conscious, given the number of people milling about. She tried to slap his hands away as he turned her again, searching for visible signs of bruising. She said, “No, my lord, but I would appreciate it if you stopped. People are staring.” “Dalziel,” he said. “I beg your pardon?” she looked confused. “You will call me Dalziel.” “I will do no such thing, Lord Stanhope. Now will you please stop touching me tis attracting attention!” Dalziel released her, but he did not step away. Instead, he gently brushed his knuckle across her cheek then whispered, “Who did this to you, mo chridhe?” Clarissa refrained from shivering at his gentle caress. Did he just call her ‘my heart?’ His expression was pained on her behalf, and her heart melted a little. Clarissa reached up and clasped his hand. “Really, tis nothing but an accident. I thank you for your concern, but there is no need.” Her voice was a soft whisper and her message heartfelt. They stood in silence for some time. Then Dalziel took a step back, folded his arms across his chest, his feet spaced apart taking a wide stance. “You will give me a name.” Bollocks! He would not drop it. Clarissa scrambled to make up a story, then stopped herself. Why should she make up a story? She owed him no explanation. She fumed that he was making demands of her when she was minding her own matters walking in a park. “No,” she replied. “What do you mean, no?” He raised an eyebrow. “No, is an easy enough word to comprehend. I have told you it was an accident and that should suffice.” “Well, tis insufficient,” Dalziel said. Clarissa gritted her teeth. “With respect, you are not my brother or my husband, and I do not answer to you. Good day.” She moved to walk past him. Dalziel glared at the defiant wench. She was a spitfire when angry, and she was too thin. She had dark smudges under her eyes and seemed exhausted. He remembered Mrs. Armstrong mentioning something about ‘reduced circumstances,’ and he did not like the thought of her suffering. He also knew the woman needed protection, and right there in the park, Dalziel decided he was going to be the man to take on that role. Mine! said that possessive voice in his head. “Tis Dalziel to you, and while I may not be your brother, I have every intention of becoming your husband, so you best get used to it,” he growled. Clarissa paused and stared at him, mouth ajar. “Now, if you will excuse me, Clarissa, I have matters to attend to and my clerk will be in touch.” Dalziel turned, walked away with determined steps, then yelled over his shoulder, “And I will get that name, Ris.” With those parting words, he left her standing speechless in the park not only because of his husband comment, but also because he had just called her by her nickname. Ris. *** Dalziel’s Study, Stanhope Estate, Bamburgh So, you’re not marrying Harmony Durham now?” Rupert asked Dalziel. “Not a chance.” “What do you want me to do with Harmony’s contract?” “Tear it up. Make a new one.” “Whose name should I place on this new one?” Rupert asked. “Clarissa Harcourt’s,” Dalziel replied. *** That afternoon, Dalziel called his most trusted staff members together to let them know his plans. “Mrs. Armstrong and Mr. Bell, I have found a wife. I would like the chambers and solar prepared for her. When she arrives, you will both guide her in domestic matters. Rupert, you will monitor the working accounts and ensure she has adequate money for all domestic needs. I will sign off on any expenses.” Dalziel paced the floor, then continued. “While she remains under this roof, we will accord her the proper respect as my wife. However, I expect if there is anything unscrupulous about her behavior, you will report these to me.” They all nodded in agreement. Mrs. Armstrong was practically brimming with excitement at the prospect of a wedding. “Oh, tis exciting, me lord. So, what did the lucky lady say when ye proposed?” “Twas not exactly a proposal,” Dalziel replied. Mr. Bell glanced at Mrs. Armstrong, who jabbed him in the side. “Then what was it exactly?” She frowned in confusion. “I told her I was going to become her husband and that she would hear from my clerk.” Dalziel was met with stunned silence from the three of them. Rupert cleared his throat then asked, “So, am I to propose on your behalf?” Dalziel replied, “Aye, you will present her with my terms. I am sure she will accept.” “Pardon me for saying so, but I really thought a man of your caliber had better wooing skills than that,” Mr. Bell scoffed. “I agree, me lord. That would have to be the most unromantic proposal I have ever heard.” Mrs. Armstrong shook her head. Dalziel replied, “I dinnae care about romance and wooing. She will agree because I will make her an offer too good to refuse.” *** Keywords: Book 3, OTT male, French, Anglian, Scottish clans, Assassins, Romantic Suspense, Medieval Empires, action and adventure, Warrior women, King Macbeth, arranged marriage, marriage of convenience, feisty heroines, over the top males, Highland warriors, overprotective males, Highland romance. Fans of the following authors are known to enjoy this Scottish Historical Romance series: Julie Garwood Michele Sinclair Diana Gabaldon Hannah Howell Donna Fletcher Maya Banks Kathryn Le Veque Mary Wine Terri Brisbin