JOIN NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR BRENDA JOYCE FOR AN EPIC STORY OF UNDYING LOVE AND FORBIDDEN DESIRE IN THE HIGHLANDS…
When Rivalry Becomes Passion
With warfare blazing through Scotland, the fate of the Comyn-MacDougall legacy depends on one woman. Recently orphaned, young Margaret Comyn must secure her clan’s safety through an arranged marriage. But when an enemy invasion puts her at the mercy of the notorious Wolf of Lochaber, her every loyalty—and secret want—will be challenged.
And a Kingdom Is at Stake
Legendary warrior Alexander “the Wolf” MacDonald rides with Robert Bruce to seize the throne of Scotland. But when he takes the fiery Lady Margaret prisoner, she quickly becomes far more than a valuable hostage. For the passion between them threatens to betray their families, their country…and their hearts.
Praise for New York Times bestselling author
“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
“Merging depth of history with romance is nothing new for the multitalented author, but here she also brings in an intensity of political history that is both fascinating and detailed.”
—RT Book Reviews on Seduction
“Another first-rate Regency, 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, Joyce’s latest is Regency 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
A Rose in the Storm
Brenda Joyce
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Loch Fyne, the Highlands—February 14, 1306
“IT IS TOO damned quiet.”
Will’s voice cut through the silence of the Highland afternoon, but Margaret did not hear him. Mounted beside him at the head of a column of knights, soldiers and servants, surrounded by the thick Argyll forest, she stared straight ahead.
Castle Fyne rose out of the ragged cliffs and snow-patched hills above them so abruptly that when one rode out of the forest, as they had just done, one had to blink and wonder at the sight, momentarily mistaking it for soaring black rock. But it was a centuries-old stronghold, precariously perched above the frozen loch below, its lower walls stout and thick, its northern towers and battlements jutting into the pale, winter-gray sky. The forest surrounding the loch and the castle was dusted white, and the mountains in the northwest were snowcapped.
Margaret inhaled. She was overcome with emotion—with pride.
And she thought, Castle Fyne is mine.
Once, it had belonged to her mother. Mary MacDougall had been born at Castle Fyne, which had been her dowry in her marriage to William Comyn, which had filled her with great pride. For Castle Fyne was a tremendous prize. Placed on the most western reaches of Argyll, providing a gateway from the Solway Firth, surrounded by lands belonging to Clan Donald and Clan Ruari, the castle had been fought over throughout the centuries. It had been attacked many times, yet it had never once slipped from MacDougall hands.
Margaret trembled, more pride surging within her, for she had adored her mother, and now, the great keep was her dowry, and she would bring it with her in her upcoming marriage. But the anxiety that had afflicted her for the past few weeks, and during this journey, remained. Since the death of her father, she had become the ward of her powerful uncle, John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan. He had recently concluded a union for her. She was betrothed to a renowned knight whom she had never met—Sir Guy de Valence—and he was an Englishman.
“’Tis such a godforsaken place,” her brother said, interrupting her thoughts. But he was glancing warily around. “I don’t like this. It’s too quiet. There are no birds.”
She sat her mare beside Will, her only living brother. Suddenly she wondered at the silence, realizing he was right. There was no rustling of underbrush, either, made by chipmunks and squirrels, or the occasional fox or deer—there was no sound other than the jangle of bridles on their horses, and the occasional snort.
Her tension escalated. “Why is it so quiet?”
“Something has chased the game away,” Will said.
Their gazes met. Her brother was eighteen—a