The Bruised Thistle (The Order of the Scottish Thistle) Read online

  Iseabail MacNaughton, the orphaned daughter of a Scottish laird, is forced to flee her home and seek assistance against her lecherous uncle, who has usurped her family’s land. When she meets Seumas, a strong and valiant mercenary, she cannot help wondering if he could be the one to stand with her against her uncle. But with a price on her head and enemies on all sides, her trust is not something she can afford to give lightly…

  Seumas MacDonell is a man wounded in body and soul, driven by guilt. When he rescues Iseabail from one of his men, he cannot deny the attraction he feels for her, despite the wound that left him unable to act on it. In the hope of finding redemption for his sins, he agrees to help Iseabail…but will his feelings for her prove to be the ultimate obstacle to his salvation?

  The Bruised Thistle

  By Ashley York

  The Bruised Thistle

  Ashley York

  Copyright © 2013, Ashley York

  Edited by Danielle Fine

  Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Designs

  All Rights Reserved. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my sister, Carol, who supported me in a way that was unheard of in our family—she just believed I could do it and encouraged me to go for it. You died too young. I miss you so much. I dedicate this book to you and your belief that we can change the way things are by believing that we can. We did it. Thank you.

  And to the sister of my heart, Priscilla. I’m so happy for the music we made together and the special times we shared. I treasure those memories. I am so glad to have had you in my life. You showed me not to question why, but to continue on with what was, doing the very best we can. Thank you for showing me what beautiful inner strength could look like.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank the Celtic Critters from the Celtic Heart Romance Writers for their unwavering help and support. Your unselfish encouragement of writers is helping make dreams come true. And thank you to my beta readers: Valerie Moreland, Karen Gilbert, Sandy Petano, and Deborah Trickey. I also want to acknowledge a reader who encouraged me with such a heartfelt response to my early chapters that I printed her email and hung it over my desk to keep me going. Over the past eight months you’ve gone from being a reader to my best friend and we’ve never even met face to face. Thank you, Annie Perry.

  I also want to thank Rae Monet, Inc. Designs for capturing my characters so exactly and creating the perfect cover, the very first try. And my editor, Danielle Fine, whose expertise was apparent from the beginning and carried me through to the end. Thank you so much for your patience with me.

  And my most important acknowledgment: my husband, without whose support and unwavering faith in my ability, this story would’ve been just another idea that never saw the light of day. Thank you, my love. You believed in my dream from the very beginning.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Dalmally, Scotland 1149

  “Where have you been?” Iseabail bristled with irritation at having waited nigh an hour for her brothers’ arrival. Trying to look busy alone in an open field was a challenge, especially with the cool autumn wind stinging her exposed skin.

  “Getting supplies.” Iain answered readily enough, but he didn’t sound himself.

  Their little brother Calum stood at his elbow, nodding his red head a touch too eagerly.

  She glanced between them as her suspicions rose. They were hiding something. “What is wrong?” Iain usually took great care with his appearance, but today he was ill-kempt. His thick dark hair hung limp around his face, and his brown eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. Her irritation shifted to concern. “Are you not well?”

  “Well enough. See what we’ve brought?” Iain’s tone brooked no discussion.

  Iseabail allowed him to distract her with the large basket Calum was carrying. He placed it on the ground and lifted the lid. All manner of cloths, containers, and herbing accoutrements greeted them. Iain pushed this aside to reach beneath and lift the false bottom, showing a good array of cheese, breads, and dried meat for their trip.

  A shiver ran down her spine, but she smiled up at him. “Good. We are ready then.”

  Ready to leave the only home they had ever known. The overwhelming sadness caught her off-guard. She forced herself to remember the abuses they had suffered at the hands of their powerful uncle, the new laird of their lands. What he had subjected her to as a female was the most horrendous of all.

  She clenched her jaw in determination. “Shall we go?”

  “Iseabail.” Iain’s face was unreadable, but she sensed his hesitation. “I cannot go.”

  His words knocked the wind out of her. The thought of having to return to the hell she had been enduring left her lightheaded.

  She shook her head in denial. “No, Iain, I cannot…” She corrected herself, “we cannot go back.” Her brothers did not know about their uncle’s abuse. There were no visible signs. “We cannot. We must make our escape now, while he is away from the castle.”

  Iain’s eyes rounded with sadness and fine lines creased his forehead.

  Iseabail had a terrible sense of foreboding, and the whisper of hope she had been nurturing began to dissipate. The idea of escape had come up so suddenly, yet they had all agreed straight away. Their uncle’s plans to be gone for a few days gave them the perfect opportunity, and it was one they could not afford to waste. They needed help ousting Uncle Henry from their lands. Not only was he ignoring their father’s last will and testament, his brutal treatment of the local clansmen had weakened them until their fear would not allow them to stand against him. Assistance from those outside the powerful Englishman’s control was their only hope.

  Iain firmed his shoulders, a determined set to his handsome face. “We will not return. You and Calum will travel on without me.”

  Fear slammed into her chest, and it became hard to breathe. “What do you mean? We cannot go alone. It is not safe.”

  Iain held her gaze and spoke clearly. “This may be our only chance to go for help. I will stay behind to see that no one follows, and then I will join you.”

  The look that passed
between Iain and Calum made her throat tighten. Something did not seem right. “When will you come?”

  “When I know it is safe and you are not followed.” Iain’s answer came a bit too quickly.

  Calum shifted and avoided her gaze.

  “How will we know that you are safe if you return to the castle?”

  “Trust me, sister. I can take care of myself.” His smile did not reach his eyes. “Do not worry so.”

  A thousand scenarios played out in her mind as desperation seeped into her thoughts. “And in the woods? How will we stay safe? Calum is only nine years old.” She smiled an apology at her little brother for such a frank statement.

  “I have protection. See?” Calum withdrew a dangerous-looking knife from its hiding place in his boot.

  “You fight very well, Calum, I know, but…” She turned beseeching eyes on Iain. He had to come with them.

  “You must remain vigilant. I know you can do this, Iseabail. Here.” Iain held out a dagger. “Take this. Keep it near you at all times.”

  Iseabail accepted the sgian dubh Iain offered. She slid the knife out of the scabbard. Their father had given it to Iain when he turned ten, and she found comfort in its weight and the cold metal of its blade.

  This would never work, but there was no other choice. Was it not better to die trying than to live playing dead?

  “If you think this is best.” She slipped it into the basket.

  “Go on, and do not worry about me. I will protect what is ours. Understand?”

  “It will be dangerous for you.” She wrapped her arms around him and drew him close to keep him from seeing her tears, but he stiffened and stifled a gasp. She drew back. “What is wrong?”

  He smiled at her with misty eyes. “I love you, Iseabail. I pray you will be safe. And you,” he grasped Calum’s shoulder as men do, “you must look out for her. Aye?”

  Calum wiped his nose. “Aye.”

  “We will stay together.” She straightened her shoulders and held her head high, feigning a strength she did not truly feel. “And we will get help.”

  Iain tipped his head, a small smile playing on his lips as his features softened with relief. He glanced around, searching the far-off woods. He pressed his mouth into a thin line, and his eyes almost looked black as he surreptitiously slipped a small leather-wrapped parchment from beneath his tunic. Their father’s will.

  “This is the only support we have for our claim.” With his eye on the document, Iain continued, “You must protect it if we want to take back what is rightfully ours.”

  She nodded, solemnly accepting his edict. She shifted the silver cross that hung against her bosom then tucked the treatise down the front of her gown. The worn leather was comforting where it rested, snug between her breasts.

  “When you get to the Campbell’s land, look for the shepherd boy, Inus, in the lower fields. He shall get you to Hugh, who knows of our dear uncle’s treacherous way firsthand. Trust no one else. Do you understand? No one.”

  Her brother’s closest friend had always been a thorn under her skin with his constant teasing. That he was her savior now made her want to laugh, but the dire look in her brother’s eyes stopped her. He held her at arm’s length as if memorizing everything about her. A lump grew in her throat as she fought back tears. She wanted to be strong for him. Make him proud. Despite her concerns, despite the strangeness of his behavior, she trusted him, and she would respect his decision.

  “You must promise me, Iseabail. Trust no one else.”

  “I promise.” Despite her best intentions, tears coursed down her face. “I look forward to being with you again, dear brother.” She kissed his cheek and hugged him. She did not want to let go, but when Iain made a strangled sound, she released him at once. His breathing was heavy and his forehead glistened with sweat. “Iain?”

  He stepped back, his jaw clenched. He shook his head at her to stay away. “Go, both of you.”

  Chapter 2

  Seumas looked up as the two newcomers entered the hall. Frigid air swept across the room with their arrival, but it was not the cold that caught his attention—the large, wooden door opposite the great hearth had opened numerous times since dusk as peasants sought shelter from the suddenly plummeting temperatures. Something about them tugged at him. Their lack of grumbling, perhaps? Or the timid way they moved amongst the rabble? Either way, he seemed to be the only one who took an interest. Glancing at the other soldiers he sat with, he was not surprised they had noticed nothing.

  “Ta hell ye did, Miguel! Dere were only five av dem!” The Irishman’s indignant retort echoed across the hall. Patrick, always ready to argue, was instigating yet another fight. The bench Seumas shared with the burly man tipped unsteadily as he stood.

  “’Tis the truth.” Miguel responded to the insult with as much heat. Though he remained seated, he moved his hand to the dagger at his waist. “You had already turned tail and run.”

  Seumas shook his head and lifted his gaze heavenward. His patience with these men was gone. “Do ye need to get on like this every night?”

  “Ye don’t care for our company?” Patrick’s bloodshot eyes did not appear to focus as he turned his anger on Seumas, his face a little too close. “Bugger off, den!”

  As the leader of these men, Seumas knew what power he wielded over them. They knew it, too, but that did not change how they acted. “Methinks not.” Seumas lifted the mug to his mouth, his eyebrows raised in expectation as he held the man’s glare.

  Patrick stumbled backward onto the bench. Seumas caught him before he fell against the wall. “Why are ye such an arse, Seumas? Have ye not got anywhere else to do yer carousing?”

  The man was a son of a bitch to be sure. “Nae, Patrick, I have nowhere else to go. Now settle yerself down.”

  It was true enough. He had believed he would eventually get over what he had been through in Edessa and stop hating himself. Then he would go home. But he had played the wait-and-see game too long. Now his father was dead, and Seumas had even more reason to hate himself.

  Needing a diversion from his troubled mind, Seumas searched the crowd again for the two. The hard frost had come too soon, finding many unprepared, and the Great Hall was cramped with villagers and peasants. Nevertheless, he soon spotted them. Covered with grime, from the hoods obscuring their faces to their cloth-wrapped feet, they blended well enough with the others in the hall, but they had a certain bearing that did not match their outward appearance. They did not shy away or shuffle their feet. The one who led the way, the smaller of the two, had a surprisingly noble posture but hesitated the slightest bit before joining the ever-increasing crowd by the fire. Interesting.

  He was intrigued by their presence, but, for their sakes, he hoped he was the only one. The people at this castle were as cruel as their overlord, Lord Bryon. Any who did not belong, no matter the circumstances, would be cast out without a moment’s hesitation. There would be no mercy, even in freezing weather.

  Patrick slammed his cup on the table emphatically as he told his next story, the earlier argument already forgotten. The other men at the table were enraptured by the tale, but Seumas ignored it, intent on his study. The bitter mead dribbled down his chin as he took a deep swallow, and he traced his lower lip with his tongue.

  They had their heads down and turned away from the room now, but were not cowering at all. Sitting up straighter, Seumas realized they were trying to avoid being noticed.

  “Right, Seumas?” Patrick slapped him on the back as spittle came out with his words. “Damn beauty that one, right?”

  Seumas exhaled in irritation. He had not been listening, but he nodded to keep from being drawn into the conversation.

  “Not that ye could do anything about it.” The man burst into laughter at his own joke. “But do not worry yerself, Seumas. I took care of her. I gave her what she wanted, since ye could not.”

  Seumas tensed at the insult, giving the Irishman his full attention as he turned toward him, jaw clen
ched. Patrick was clearly too drunk to notice that the others had grown ominously quiet. Seumas slammed his fist against the thick wooden table. The Irishman locked eyes with him, and his laughter stopped abruptly. The tin cup rolling along the edge of the table was the only sound. It landed with a dull thud on the rushes covering the floor, and perspiration broke out on Patrick’s brow. He was very unwise indeed to let his tongue loose every time he drank, and he had the crooked nose and missing teeth to show for it.

  The blond man across the table took up the retelling. “You might have taken care of her, Patrick, but was she pleased with what you gave her?”

  The rest of the men laughed nervously. Uncertain glances came Seumas’s way as he struggled to accept the intervention and let the insult pass.

  “I would say ye have the right of it, David.” Seumas’s voice was tight. He appreciated the man stepping in, but he should not have let it get this far in the first place. He had to control himself. He was their leader not because he had earned their respect, but because Lord Bryon thought it humorous to put “God’s soldier” in charge of his pack of mercenaries, and because Seumas had no other prospects. From being a man with integrity and beliefs to a man with no self-respect was a mighty fall. He had to consciously release his clenched fist.

  Seumas returned his gaze to the others milling in front of the fire—some sitting, some lying down, all trying to keep warm. The dark-haired woman who had grabbed his crotch last night smiled at him, but he looked right through her. She had been hoping to share his bed, but she had been sorely disappointed, and would be again. Carnal pleasure did not interest him. He had received a wound in the siege of Damascus, and his body no longer became aroused. As such, he neither needed nor wanted female companionship. There was some relief in having his mind in agreement with his body.

  A disturbance by the fire startled him back to the present.