A Sword Upon The Rose Read online

  New York Times bestselling author Brenda Joyce takes you back to the Highlands, where the battle for land, liberty and love rages on…

  A bastard daughter, Alana was cast away at birth and forgotten by her mighty Comyn family. Raised in solitude by her grandmother, she has remained at a safe distance from the war raging through Scotland. But when a battle comes close to home and she finds herself compelled to save an enemy warrior from death, her own life is thrown into danger.

  Iain of Islay’s allegiance is to the formidable Robert Bruce. His beautiful rescuer captures both his attention and his desire, but Alana must keep her identity a secret even as she is swept up into a wild and forbidden affair. But as Bruce’s army begins the final destruction of the earldom, Alana must decide between the family whose acceptance she’s always sought, or the man she so wrongly loves.

  Praise for New York Times bestselling author

  Brenda Joyce

  “Scotland’s complex history is as strong a character as the hero and heroine, and Joyce seamlessly merges the historical details of Robert the Bruce’s rise to power with a captive/captor, forbidden love story. Highland history sings on the pages through Joyce’s potent prose.”

  —RT Book Reviews on A Rose in the Storm

  “As dangerous and intriguing as readers could desire. This is a tale reminiscent of genre classics, with its lush and fascinating historical details and sensuality.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Surrender

  “First-rate…featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama…Joyce’s tight plot and vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.”

  —Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Perfect Bride

  “Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters…romance at its best.”

  —Booklist on The Perfect Bride

  “Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”

  —Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last

  “Sexual tension crackles…in this sizzling, action-packed adventure.”

  —Library Journal on Dark Seduction

  Also available from Brenda Joyce

  and Harlequin HQN

  Highlanders

  A Rose in the Storm

  “The Warrior and the Rose”

  (in Highlanders, an ebook anthology)

  The Spymaster’s Men

  Surrender

  Persuasion

  Seduction

  The Deadly series

  Deadly Vows

  Deadly Kisses

  Deadly Illusions

  The de Warenne Dynasty

  An Impossible Attraction

  A Dangerous Love

  The Perfect Bride

  A Lady at Last

  The Stolen Bride

  The Masquerade

  The Prize

  The Masters of Time®

  Dark Lover

  Dark Victory

  Dark Embrace

  Dark Rival

  Dark Seduction

  Dear Readers,

  I hope you have enjoyed Alana and Iain’s story as much as I have. Once again, my muse led me to portray a small, brave woman fighting for her life and her love in a bygone and dangerous world dominated by men. As you know, this is a theme that I have returned to time and again, for nothing fascinates more than a woman confronted by male power—and triumphing over it in the end by bringing that man to his very knees out of pure love and raw passion.

  While Alana is a fictional character, her family is not. Joan le Latimer was married to Sir Alexander Comyn, the sheriff of Aberdeen, and the Earl of Buchan’s second brother. She did have a cousin, Elisabeth. However, I have entirely fabricated the story of their lives. If Elisabeth fell in love with her cousin’s fiancé, much less had a love child with him, it would be a great coincidence—and so very cool!

  Donald of Islay was the cousin of both Alexander and Angus MacDonald. Angus Og gave him command of a Highland army, and he was sent to fight for Bruce. Donald was one of four brothers, the youngest being Iain. I found no mentions of Iain in history otherwise, and chose to use him as this story’s hero. Obviously I have entirely fictionalized his life.

  The other major historical characters that I have attempted to portray are the Earl of Buchan and Robert Bruce. I have characterized them for my own ends—portraying them in a manner that is the most dramatic possible, to best enhance Alana and Iain’s love story.

  This is the third story I have written that is set during Bruce’s bloody quest for Scotland’s throne. In 1307, Bruce began his campaign to destroy the Earl of Buchan and the entire Comyn family, once and for all. By the summer of 1308, Buchan’s armies were decimated and scattered to the four winds, with Buchan having fled to England, where he would soon die. Bruce then began his infamous and merciless Harrying of the North.

  Alice Comyn was the Earl of Buchan’s heir. She married Henry de Beaumont sometime before July 1310, and the couple put forth their claim to the Buchan earldom, resulting in a long struggle that was one of the causes of the Second War of Scottish Independence.

  This novel is a work of fiction. This period in Scotland’s history is filled with conflicting accounts and huge gaps in information, allowing me to pick and choose what I want to write, how I want to write it, while permitting me to fill in any blanks any way I wish. I have put Alana and Iain’s love story ahead of historical accuracy. While most of the battles, incidents, events and characters are a part of history, I have exercised poetic license throughout. Any errors in fact are mine.

  Happy Reading,

  Brenda Joyce

  BRENDA

  JOYCE

  A Sword

  Upon the Rose

  For Rick Christen—

  Because what happened in Vegas did not stay in Vegas,

  Because second chances can really happen,

  Because two is better than one,

  Because I love you,

  Always

  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 ONE

  Brodie Castle, Scotland—December 1, 1307

  FIRE RAGED EVERYWHERE, a blazing inferno. Men screamed in agony, horses whinnied in terror, and swords rang.

  The smoke cleared. Horror overcame Alana.

  A manor had been set afire, and before its walls, men fought with sword and pike, both on foot and from horseback. Some were English knights, mail-clad, others, bare-legged Highlanders. An English knight was stabbed through by a Highlander’s blade; a huge destrier went down, impaled through the barrel, a Highlander leaping off....

  Where was she?

  Alana was confused. The ground tilted wildly beneath her feet. She thought she fell, and she clawed the ground, looking up.

  Amidst the brutal fighting, she saw one man. The warrior was on foot, bloody sword in hand, his long dark hair whipping about his face, his leine
riding his bare thighs, a fur flung back over his broad shoulders. He was shouting to the Highland warriors, urging them on—every man bloodied and desperate and savagely fighting for his life now.

  The tides of the battle changed, some of the English soldiers fleeing, some of the knights deciding to gallop away in retreat. But the dark-haired Highlander did not cease, now engaged in fierce combat with an English knight. Their swords clashed viciously, time and again.

  Alana tensed. What had she just heard?

  Her gaze flew to the burning manor. A woman was screaming for help from inside. And did she hear children crying, as well?

  Somehow Alana got to her feet. But the dark-haired Highlander was already at the burning manor door.

  Smoke burned through the wood, and flames shot out of an adjacent window. He pushed his shoulder hard against the door, oblivious to the smoke, the heat and the flames....

  Suddenly she was afraid for him. As suddenly he turned, and for one moment, she could see his hard, determined face. His blue eyes pierced hers.

  And then he was rushing into the burning manor. A moment later he reappeared, carrying a small child. A woman and another child ran outside with him.

  Relief overcame her. He had rescued the woman and her children—they would not die.

  The roof crashed in. More flames shot into the sky. He covered the child with his body, now on the ground. Burning timbers fell around him.

  Then he leaped up, racing away to some safer distance from the burning house where he returned the child to its weeping mother. He turned, his gaze searching the woods where Alana hid—as if to look for her.

  As he did, a man with shaggy red hair, another Highlander from the same army, came up behind him, raising a dagger at the warrior’s back.

  “Behind you!” Alana screamed.

  The dark-haired Highlander must have sensed danger, for he whirled as the dagger came down. He did not scream—he stiffened, the dagger penetrating his chest. And then his sword was cutting through the air, faster than her eyes could see.

  The red-haired traitor fell to the ground, stabbed through his chest. The Highlander delivered another clearly fatal blow, and paused, towering over his victim.

  He staggered and fell....

  “Alana! Wake up! Yer frightening me!”

  Alana gasped and tasted mud and snow. And for one more moment, she could not move, overwhelmed by the sight of the battle—the treachery—she had just witnessed.

  The hair was raised on her skin, her nape prickling. She had the urge to retch.

  “Alana! Alana! Quick! Before someone sees!” her grandmother cried.

  Alana became aware of her surroundings now. She was lying in the snow, facedown. Her cheek was freezing, as were her hands, for her mittens were stiff and frozen. She did not know how long she had been lying there.

  She fought for air, for composure, waiting for the nausea to pass. Her nape stopped prickling. Her stomach calmed.

  She inhaled, but her relief was short-lived as she sat up with her grandmother’s help. Dismay consumed her.

  She was near the stream that ran just outside the castle walls in the spring. It had been a clear and cold winter day and she had gone outside the castle with some of the maids’ children, who had wanted to play. She must have frightened them when she collapsed; they must have rushed to find Alana’s grandmother.

  She stared at the stream. It was mostly frozen now, but patches of water where the ice was melting were visible. Dear God. The water...even now, it beckoned, dark and mysterious, offering up secrets no soul had any right to....

  She hadn’t had a vision in months. She had been praying she would never have one again. She jerked her gaze away from the dangerous water, releasing her grandmother and standing up.

  Her grandmother stared, her lined face filled with worry. Eleanor quickly pulled Alana’s wool mantle more securely about her. Alana saw now that they were not alone.

  Duncan of Frendraught’s son was standing behind her grandmother, his pale face twisted with fear and revulsion. “What did you see?” Godfrey demanded, blue eyes wide. He was wrapped in a heavy fur, and his booted feet were braced in a belligerent stance.

  “I saw nothing,” she lied quickly, lifting her chin. They lived in the same place, but they were not related, and although they were on the same side in the war that raged across the land, he was her enemy.

  “She tripped and fell,” Eleanor said firmly. Her tone was filled with an authority she did not have.

  He sneered. “I’ll ask you again—what did you see, Alana?” There was warning in his tone.

  She trembled as she stood. “I saw your father, victorious in battle,” she lied.

  Their gazes locked. He stared, clearly trying to decide if she told the truth or not. “If you’re lying to me, you will pay, witch,” he spat. And then he strode away.

  She sagged against Eleanor, relieved he was gone. What had she just seen?

  “Why do you fight him? When he can strike you down if he wishes?” Eleanor cried.

  Alana took her hand. “He goads me, Gran.”

  Her grandmother stared at her with worry. Eleanor Fitzhugh was a tiny woman, her eyes blue, her hair gray. But she was as determined as she was small. Her body had aged, but her wits had not. Alana did not want her to worry, but she always did. She was the mother Alana did not have, even though they were not actually related.

  “He is rude and arrogant, but he is master here,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “And Godfrey will have a fit if we don’t have his supper ready. But, Alana? You must not let your hatred show.”

  It was impossible, Alana thought. They had had this same conversation many, many times. She hated Godfrey not merely because he goaded her to no end, and not because he hated her, but because one day, he would be lord of Brodie Castle.

  “I do try,” she said.

  “You must try harder,” Eleanor returned. Though she was sixty and Alana just twenty, she put her arm around her, helping her back toward the castle’s front gates, as if their ages were reversed. But Alana was weak-legged and still slightly queasy; the visions made her feel faint.

  The huge wood gates were open, large enough to admit two wagons side by side at a time, or a dozen mounted knights, and the drawbridge was down. Godfrey had already vanished from her view. Unfortunately, he could not be easily avoided, not when Brodie was one of the Earl of Buchan’s castles.

  Brodie Castle had belonged to Alana’s mother, Elisabeth le Latimer. It had been her dowry when she had married Sir Hubert Fitzhugh, Eleanor’s son. Sir Hubert had died in battle without children, and Elisabeth had turned to Alexander Comyn, the Earl of Buchan’s brother, for comfort. Alana had been the result.

  Elisabeth had died in childbirth, and Lord Alexander Comyn had married Joan le Latimer, Elisabeth’s cousin. Two years after Alana was born, Joan gave birth to a daughter, Alice, and a few years later, to another girl, Margaret.

  Alana had met her father exactly once, by accident, when he was hunting in the woods, and his party had become lost. They had come to stay at Brodie Castle for the night. Alana had been five, but she would never forget the sight of her tall golden father in the hall’s firelight—as he stared at her with similar surprise.

  “Is that my daughter?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Eleanor had answered.

  He had strode over to her, his stare unnerving. Alana had been frightened, uncertain of what he would say or do, and she had not been able to move. He had seemed so tall, unnaturally so, more like a king than a nobleman. And then he had knelt down beside her.

  “You look exactly like your mother,” he had said softly. “You have her dark hair and blue eyes...she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen when we met, and to this day, I have yet to meet anyone as fair.”

  Alana was
thrilled. Shyly, she had smiled. Somehow, Alana had known that was praise. And before leaving Brodie, he had told Eleanor to take good care of her. Alana had been in earshot, and she had heard. Her father cared about her!

  But he had never come to Brodie again. She had expected another visit, and disappointment had become heartache. But the pain had dulled and died. She was just a bastard, and so be it.

  When she was thirteen, she had been told he meant to arrange a marriage for her. Alana had been in disbelief. By that time, she had come to believe that her father did not even recall her very existence. And before she could become excited about the prospect of having a husband and a home of her own, she had learned that her dowry would be a manor in Aberdeenshire.

  Eleanor told her she must be grateful, but as much as Alana wished to be grateful, she was disappointed. Brodie Castle had belonged to her mother. But an illegitimate daughter could not inherit such a stronghold, and as there had not been any other heirs, Brodie Castle had been awarded to the Earl of Buchan by King Edward of England, and in turn, he had given it to his loyal vassal, Duncan of Frendraught. Alana had been eight at the time. Foolishly, when her father revealed that he would give her a dowry, she had thought he would somehow—miraculously—return Brodie to her.

  But he had not, and it did not matter in the end, for Alana remained unwed.

  No one wanted to marry a “witch.”

  Eleanor held her arm as they hurried through the frozen and muddy courtyard. They passed long-haired cows, standing with their backs to the walls, their faces to the sun. A pair of maids was bringing in water from the well. A boy was carrying in firewood. They did not speak.

  They stepped inside the great hall, which was warmer, two huge fires roaring there in two facing hearths. Godfrey and his men were seated at the trestle table before one hearth, and were in a heated discussion. Alana hoped they were arguing over her fabricated vision of his father being victorious in a battle. The idea gave her some small satisfaction, even when she knew it was petty of her.

  Once they were safely in the kitchens, Eleanor pulled her aside.