Chieftain By Command

By Frances Housden

From the bestselling, RITA nominated author Frances Housden comes the gripping, sensual, suspenseful follow–up to The Chieftain's Curse...

Gavyn Farquhar's marriage is forged with a double–edged blade. Along with the Comlyn clan's lands, a reward from the King, he is blessed with an unwilling bride, Kathryn Comlyn, and an ancient fort with few defences that desperately needs to be fortified before it can act as a sufficient buffer between Scotland and the Norsemen on its northern borders.

Gavyn needs wealth to meet his king's demands, and he knows of only one way to get it – with his sword. Leaving his prickly bride behind in the hands of trusted advisors, he makes his way to the battlegrounds of France and the money that can be made there.

Two years married and Kathryn is still a virgin. A resentful virgin, certain that, like her father before her, she is perfectly capable of leading the Comlyn clan. In her usurper husband's absence, she meets the clan's needs, advising and ruling as well as any man.

But she is an intelligent woman, and she knows the only respect and power she will ever hold will be through her husband. And to wield it, she needs to make him love her. An easy task to set, but impossible to complete, when said husband has been gone for two years, and there is no word of his return. But Kathryn is undeterred. After all, a faint heart never won a Chieftain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Sep 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9780857991850

Frances Housden

Frances Housden lives in New Zealand-a beautiful country not so very different from Scotland, where she was born. She began her career as a published writer after winning Romance Writers of New Zealand's prestigious Clendon Award. She went on to pen six very successful novels for Silhouette Books, where she merged her penchant for characterisation with her love of suspense. She is now delving into the world of historical romance, using her love of history to take her readers on an exciting trip into the lives of memorable characters.

Book preview

Prologue

Bienn á Bhuird, Scotland

Year of Our Lord 1082

Fate, in the guise of King Malcolm Canmore, had sent Gavyn to this dark place—a high hall, a longhouse built of ancient logs weathered by wind and rain to the colour of aged pewter, a building more suited to the worship of Norse gods than a home for mere mortals.

With its back nestled into the shelter of the rocky mountainside, the hall surveyed the whole valley from a broad shelf reached by worn steps carved aeons ago from the cliff face. Clan Comlyn had ruled from this hall for longer than living memory, but war and ambition had rid the world of the last males in a long line bearing the Comlyn name.

Inside the hall, pitch-tipped rushes fixed around the walls scented the dark hollows near the roof—corners where smoke from the firepit drifted. An unlikely setting, one might say, for the marriage of the daughter of one mighty chieftain and the son of another.

Kathryn Comlyn, the only glimmer of brightness in the hall, stood before her groom like a tall, slender, white wand, her hair flowing down her back in a wash of pale sunlight from the huge open doors behind them.

Gavyn’s lip curled as he thought of himself, thought of how others saw him—this mercenary whom cruel life experiences had cloaked in an aura of darkness, had sliced away any claim to being handsome. To the guests it might appear that his bride felt nervous, she kept her lashes downcast, hiding her large aquamarine eyes from her battle-scarred groom.

Kathryn, nervous? Never. Her bridegroom knew better.

And so, as Gavyn Farquhar, one-time Baron of Wolfsdale, took his young bride’s hand, he stared down at the ring he held betwixt finger and thumb—the ruby, gleaming blood-red, set in finely twisted coils—and saw it for what it was: a symbol, a contract wrought in gold and blood, for hadn’t his family been responsible for the deaths of hers?

He twisted the circlet, bringing it toward his young bride’s fingertip. Even as he watched, Kathryn’s fingers curved, curled into the warmth of her palm, trembling. Not out of any virginal fear, though she was untouched; Gavyn had been assured of that. No, his bride shook through an excess of bad humours and a wide streak of obstinacy, both of which made her determined to go her own road—a direction that didn’t coincide in any particular with her new husband’s.

Kathryn Comlyn was an unwilling bride.

And Gavyn was no more delighted by the prospect than she. Aye, but life’s hard lessons had taught him to be a particle more pragmatic; arranged marriages were hardly unusual for folk of their station. Theirs, however, was entered upon at the behest of King Malcolm Canmore—a fine sort of truth which precluded the notion that either of them had had any choice in the matter.

He heard Kathryn’s sharply indrawn breath. It preceded any firming of his grasp on her hand—a fine show of pretence that his grip hurt her. Gavyn had learned to ignore her tricks. Uncurling her fingers, he thrust the ring past her knuckle into its rightful place. There now, he said, voicing his satisfaction through half-clenched teeth.

From this moment, they were indeed man and wife, in name at least.

Kathryn’s immediate reaction was to tilt her chin at him, a fault in her that he had soon come to expect and ignore, as if it no longer bothered him.

Though honesty prevented his denying the same self-deception, it did annoy him when she seldom hid the shudders wrought by the sight of his battle-scarred face. Folk had warned him she was spoiled, wilful. Of a surety, she hadn’t a skerrick of diplomacy in her lush female body.

Few men in his place could simply turn a cold shoulder on the appealing curve of a hip that made one’s fingers beg to dawdle, or away from breasts that would surely fill a man’s hands to overflowing.

Aye to Gavyn’s self-disgust, he couldn’t rightly count himself one of yon rare few.

The feasting done, both bride and groom retired to the chieftain’s apartments, led to the bedchamber by their guests with all the laughter and ceremony due such an important occasion, for a dynasty depended on its success.

Soon, there was just the two of them, Kathryn and Gavyn, in the big master bedchamber. She spoke first. I know fine it’s our wedding night, but I will not lie abed with you. I refuse, she spat out her rejection of him accompanied by the stamp of one dainty foot.

Gavyn, listening to Kathryn’s outburst, displayed little concern. He barely managed an ironic tilt to one of the dark brows shading his eyes, carefully hiding the surge of satisfaction he felt.

How could she know her refusal suited him fine?

And to make certain she wouldn’t change her mind, he offered Kathryn just enough insult to keep her temper simmering, saying, It makes little odds to me. Truth to tell, you’re naught but a wee lass, an inexperienced bairn, and hardly my notion of a guid ride.

Aye, she would be fair pleased to see the back of him.

For a minute her pretty yet often sulky mouth dropped open. Of a certainty, she’d expected him to argue against her rebuff.

Do you prefer men then? She flung her own insult at him with a hint of bravado, not cowed by his size or the fact that they were alone in a room dominated by a huge bed.

Gavyn had wondered when she would fire his late brother’s sins in his face. He merely curled his lip, fending off her spite as he might a poorly shot arrow. "Acquit me of such vile proclivities, wife, he ground the words out. It was time for some plain speech. Understand this, woman, with all the preparations that I must see to on the morrow; sleep is preferable to teaching you such duties as a man might expect from his wife."

He caught a spark of protest in her pale Nordic-blue eyes, along with a twist of bewilderment, and decided to rid her of any hint of misery her curiosity might cause.

In two days, he told her, I and my mercenaries leave for France. The French king has need of extra men to help teach the damned Normans a lesson—the same lesson Malcolm Canmore has forbidden me to teach that blackguard, the one that selfsame William of Normandy has installed in my own hall of Wolfsdale.

His new wife appeared too flabbergasted to lay voice to another protest, an occasion to be much applauded, so he continued, "Know this, when I return, I shall expect you to be as I left you—intact. I’ll tolerate no man’s bastard in my hall," he warned her, his voice the rough growl he normally saved for his hounds. Gavyn wanted no misunderstanding between them.

Now or ever.

The blood drained from her naturally pale skin as she stepped back, her hand searching behind her for the solid wood of the bedpost. Aye, she was shocked, but not speechless. This is my father’s hall, Clan Comlyn’s! she protested, lips atremble.

No longer. By the King’s command this hall is now mine.

He let his gaze travel over the feminine curves that were his to use by right, yet steeled himself to resist temptation. On my oath, Kathryn, Gavyn vowed. "Any sons you bear under this roof and in that bed will be mine."

Inexperienced, I might be, she taunted with a lift of her sweetly rounded chin. Yet, I’m thinking that even for the mighty Gavyn Farquhar, it would take a miracle to get me with child from such a distance.

As ever, there was little honey in her pronouncement of the truth as she saw it. Gavyn for his part had to cut off the bark of laughter sitting at the back of his throat. He had a presentment that life with Kathryn would always be interesting but was too wise to arm her with such information. He settled for saying, I won’t be gone forever. Two years at most. Enough time to earn the money needed to tear down this auld longhouse and build a new stone Keep.

Kathryn sniffed at the news, but he saw the shock in her eyes. She was a Comlyn through and through and, as was the custom, would retain her family name. She recovered herself enough to demand, And what will I do while you’re away in foreign parts?

"Wait, he told her. Learn to sew a fine seam. The seneschal and constable will see to everything pertaining to the hall and clan, and the McArthur will be nearby if needed. On my return, we’ll turn our hands…—he broke off, a smile at last lighting his once handsome features, then continued—as well as a few other parts, to the making of a new Highland clan from all the sons we’ll make together. At the lift of her pale gold brows he assured her, Aye, I’m wanting lads. Gavyn Farquhar’s sons."

Chapter 1

The entrance to the great hall of Dun Bhuird was flanked by two housecarls—proud, strong men, tall and thick in the girth, stalwart. Encased in coats of leather plates, they stood beneath the wide, overhanging eaves that sheltered the hall’s entrance. The wide platform, held aloft by four carved pillars, threw deep shadows over the men, cloaking them in a dangerous stillness. A threat, a warning, serving the same purpose as the carved dragons whose bodies twisted around the tall pillars—ancient wooden columns that spoke of the High Hall’s origins, its auld Norse ancestry. Kathryn had long considered the housecarls an appropriate reflection of the wooden creatures—both silent and still except for a flicker of the housecarls’ pale eyes as they watched her then returned to the horizon for signs of raiders.

Strange to know she had warriors ready to protect her at an instant. Wise enough to know it would take more than strength to defend her from the moments of darkness that could suddenly haunt her thoughts.

Kathryn had gone to bed annoyed and awoke in the same frame of mind. She was a Scot, a Highland Scot. Pragmatism should be part of her nature, yet her cousin Brodwyn’s remarks of the evening before had tirelessly dashed hither and thither through her mind, constantly disturbing her rest by refusing to be ignored.

God’s teeth, she was an adult now, old enough not to be bothered by her cousin’s words. Having been on this earth all of eighteen years meant she was well past the age of paying any regard to Brodwyn’s mean comments. The Bear might as well have sent you to that nunnery after all, she had sniped when Kathryn reproached her for her behaviour around the men.

Kathryn had turned on her heel and walked away, telling herself that Brodwyn always managed to avoid having to answer for her behaviour, forever acting as if Kathryn were the one in the wrong. Brodwyn preferred to retaliate with words that pinched and prodded. Words that hurt like Brodwyn’s poking fingers had back when they had been children, Kathryn the younger by five years.

She hadn’t realised that Gavyn’s absence would diminish her in a way his presence had not been able to accomplish. She felt as if she were actually locked in that purgatory that priests spoke of, a vile waiting room removed from this earth where the soul had no notion of its destination, be it heaven or be it hell.

Taking a deep breath, Kathryn strode into the fresh air leaving her maid, Lhilidh to collect a few concoctions from the stillroom that she had prepared the day before. Letting out the breath in a long whispering sigh, she spoke her thought aloud—A-a-ah, but this feels better—just loud enough that no one would know it was her cousin’s absence she referred to.

The ground fell away here, and she could see everything. Her whole world was bounded by the horizon. During the past two years she had never so much as crossed its borders, yet it had seldom felt like a prison. She loved this land—Comlyn land that her family had tamed over many generations.

The chill of early morning, when the sun’s fingers had just begun their long climb over the eastern horizon, was her favourite part of the day. Its only flaw was the ravens taking wing from the cliff by the waterfall. She didn’t need reminding of her husband or the raven that flew on his banner.

Taking another long breath to still her mind, she returned to her purpose of settling her thoughts for the start of a long day. Forget Brodwyn, she told herself.

Standing on the edge of a drop high enough to break every bone in a body were it to fall from there, she reflected on the beauty of the quiet dawn colouring the dew-coated boulders edging the lip. At this height, sometimes the dawn’s light struck the eye like silver, clear as crystal. On other mornings sunrise tinted the valley with the same mellow hue as the chieftain’s gold and silver embossed shield hanging above the carved chair at the high board.

Her father had ruled from that chair. Aye and some said he had ruled from the saddle of his horse as well, merely by the fierce look of him—a terrifying sight, his shoulders swathed in a bearskin. He hadn’t always been wise or just, she admitted now. The Bear had been a man whose flaws were as one with his strengths. Still, she had loved him. Not that Erik, the last Comlyn Chieftain, had seemed to notice.

Astrid, her elder sister, had always been his favourite.

Now they were both no more, and Alexander, her brother, with them. Their essences left where they’d succumbed, haunting the granite walls of the McArthur’s Cragenlaw Castle like unwelcome guests.

Yet, her father’s image remained writ large on her memory, as if they had spoken yesterday. More than two years since, Erik the Bear had been placed in the ground, his grave marked by the huge cairn atop Bienn á Bhuird. His loyal clansmen had built the monument to mark his passing.

She gulped hard, swallowed as if the action would fill the hollow spaces loneliness had carved in her heart. Day by day, the weight of her emotions crowded together yet couldn’t fill her up. From the day they had brought the bodies of her father and brother home from Cragenlaw, she had felt alone—surrounded yet alone.

Even her husband had departed within days of making his vows before the priest.

A lesser woman might have crumpled, but not her, not Kathryn Comlyn.

She had stopped wishing, If only Father were alive. Eric the Bear was long gone. No matter that she was a wife in name only, she felt she had gained maturity. Gavyn had left Magnus and Abelard in in control—in control of her. Fate had stepped in to change that, Magnus had broken his thighbone and now had a limp that slowed him down. Abelard had simply aged, his eyes dimming so that he found it difficult to read. Their misfortune had served her. She had learned more about the running of a clan than she had known before.

And a lot of good it did her. None of that knowledge prevented her clansmen from seeing her as a woman—as naught but the Bear’s wee lassie.

Lhilidh broke into her reverie, saying, I have everything in the basket, Lady. Let’s be off now. Maw will be waiting.

It’s to be hoped she slept last night. Her pains are getting much worse. Kathryn ran her fingers through the little pots of salve, linen twists of powder and small flasks of potions, checking she had all she would need for the folks expecting her to visit over the morning. Hmm, thank you Lhilidh, it appears to be all there, as you said. Let’s be off.

They had to duck their heads low to enter the wee house. The doorway was covered by a length of auld cowhide hung from a rough wooden beam to keep out wind and rain. The grey walls, a jumble of stones pieced together into a whole, had been carved from huge rocks that the mountain birthed aeons ago. The thick thatched roof glowered down at all who entered, two bushy eyebrows of bracken hanging over each wee window. At least the heather thatch kept off the rain more ably than the gaps between the stones thwarted the wind.

Her fondness for Lhilidh, meant Kathryn had done her best to provide a few creature comforts inside for the lass’s ailing mother, though naught would cure what ailed Geala. She knew that the most her efforts could achieve was to stave off the pain that constantly doubled Geala over. First she had brought herbal decoctions and, lately, milk of the poppy. Poor Lhilidh was ignorant of the true state of affairs.

Death was no stranger to Kathryn. How could it be with the Bear as a father? The same couldn’t be said for Lhilidh. Not because Kathryn deliberately kept her suspicions to herself; she dreaded breaking the bad news to the young lass. With Geala gone, Lhilidh would have no one. That is unless one was forced to consider Nhaimeth—the wee Fool Astrid had taken with her to Cragenlaw—as family.

Reason enough to keep her counsel a while longer.

Lhilidh crossed the threshold first and ran to her mother’s side. Geala lay curled up in her plaid, her gaunt face the colour of cold ashes. I think she’s asleep, she whispered, but from her expression she feared the worst.

Kathryn followed her, touched her fingertips to Geala’s face, as startled as Lhilidh when her mother began to grumble under her breath, a hodgepodge of words too softly spoken to understand. She’s fine but in pain. See whether any wine is left in that flask we left her yesterday. She’s been dribbling and her mouth will feel dry.

Curling an arm around Geala, she propped the older woman’s lax body against her shoulder while Lhilidh tipped a cup up to her mother’s lips. That’s it, Geala. A few wee sips and you’ll start feeling more like yourself.

Soon Kathryn had her sitting up, with Lhilidh for support, while she gave her milk of the poppy for the pain. Naught else worked anymore, and no wonder. Since winter, Geala had gradually grown weaker and thinner while the bulge of her stomach had grown apace. Catching Kathryn looking, the older woman ran her much wrinkled hand over her protruding belly and gave a dry laugh that set her coughing. There are some foolish auld biddies out there who believe I’m having another bairn. She broke off on a crack of laughter then squeezed Kathryn’s hand. You ken better, lass, she acknowledged. Besides, I’ve had twa bairns, more than enough for any woman.

Three bairns, Maw, Lhilidh interrupted.

Nae, just you and Murdoch, and him dead afore his faither which is nae richt. Geala’s eyes brightened and, though her lips smiled at Kathryn, they held a flicker of slyness before settling back into her usual pain-worn expression. You never kenned that Murdoch was only your half-brother Lhilidh, aye an truth be told, half-brother to you an’ all, Kathryn.

Kathryn’s gasp fast became a frown, her thoughts racing through a maze of confusion. She soon grasped that Geala’s decision to blurt out the secrets, was the realisation that she was about to meet her maker. A priest would have been more fitting to hear her confidences, yet Geala’s disturbing confession tugged at her curiosity. Half-brother?

Aye, but dinnae worry, that was a lang time afore you were born. Ma son grew into a fine figure o’ a man just like his faither. She laughed, though few might have recognised it for one as the sound rasped up the walls of a dry throat before she thought to continue. Whether he would have been as lusty and hard to refuse as the Bear, we’ll never ken since his years on this earth ended while he fought at the Bear’s side.

This brought to mind the last man to fight at her Father’s side, Doughall Farquhar. The Bear had dragged her out to meet her first Farquhar groom and, praise be to God, he had died before they made their vows and, aye, her father soon after. She found it hard to believe Erik the bear had kept a son secret from them all. A brother, Geala’s son.

Kathryn sought to bring the lad to mind, but her father had frowned on his daughter’s becoming too friendly with the clansmen. In his eyes, his daughters had been meant for something better, worth more than a common warrior, and look at her now, married to a warrior from the wrong side of the border, though few would say he was wrought from the common mould. Geala was right about her father; there was no denying that as a Chieftain he had looked the part—a fair mountain of a man, larger than life. From the depths of her memory, she plucked out her earliest recollections of him wearing his bearskin cloak. Powerful he’d been, rugged as the mountain he presided over, even in death, from the high cairn.

Lhilidh broke in on Kathryn’s thoughts, Am I … are we…?

Nae, she’s nae sister of yours. Geala cackled again, this time as if the pair of them were there for her amusement. The Bear and me didn’t last past his first marriage.

That was as may be, but Lhilidh’s newfound courage made her insistent. "An’ what about Nhaimeth? Is he my brother?’ the lass asked, while Kathryn sat in front of them on a stool—waiting, listening, wondering what had drawn her ‘sister’ toward the dwarf.

Nhaimeth, ye say? Nae, I didn’t give birth to that wee fool. His faither thrust him on me when his wife died giving the bairn life. Blamed the bairn, an’ if not for me he’d like as not have left him on the mountain.

She shook her head as if she regretted her moment of compassion. Ach, I was feeding Murdoch anyway and had enough milk for twa, an’ he was but a bairn, nae matter what he looked like with his crooked back and stumpy legs. Aye, that’s God’s truth. Wi’ the twa lads under my roof I never had to worry about lang cauld winters with nae food again. It was enough.

Reaching up with a claw-like hand, Geala patted her daughter’s hand. Yer faither was a braw man, and I still had my bonnie looks then. But he was only visiting. I hardly ken if he’s alive or dead—probably the last, him being handy with a sword. You have his eyes and his fine straight nose, lass. Quality.’ Geala touched the round snub nose that centred her worn features. Dinnae look for more." She finished then as the poppy’s strength, left her weak and no longer able to hold her head up. Geala leaned back, her head in the crook of Lhilidh’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

Soon Lhilidh had her mother wrapped once again inside the folds of her warm plaid. Geala had fallen back once more into the land of dreams by the time Lhilidh tucked her up in the thick wolfskin—a comfort provided by Kathryn.

After a few more visits to clan’s folk who were ailing, they returned to the hall, climbing the wide, worn steps of the steep slope side by side. They walked a while in silence before Lhilidh found the courage to speak the thoughts on her mind, It would have been nice to have a sister. Even so, I would never have presumed. You’re the lady of the hall and I’m happy to be your maid.

It’s strange to discover that, though we were ignorant of the truth, we once had a brother in common. I truly wouldn’t have minded having you for a sister. It can’t be denied that, like you, I have no one. You realise that Geala hasn’t got long now; naught anybody can do will make her better? Lhilidh nodded. Shortly you and I will have only each other to rely on, and I’m happy that it’s so.

You have Brodwyn.

Kathryn broke out in smiles, as if the bad humour she had woken up in had been cast aside. Lhilidh, you make jest. Next you’ll be adding that null Harald to the list, since he’s my cousin as well; but Brodwyn… I’d as soon take a wild cat to friend.

Though she didn’t smile, since they were her betters, Lhilidh’s eyes creased at the corners, if only for a moment. You have the Raven, she spoke his name in the way folk had once mentioned the Bear, with a hint of wonder.

Kathryn’s top lip curled from habit, at the thought of her husband. The Raven. He was a paradox of a man if she ever had beheld one, with a face that inhabited some folks’ nightmares if you came upon the wrong side of his features. Yet the first time she beheld him, her breath had caught, swelled in her throat with an emotion she didn’t understand. His straight hair, black as a raven’s wing, the aristocratic nose and full lips… She’d thought that at last she had something for Brodwyn to be jealous of, then he’d turned and she had perceived how wrong she was. Knowing Brodwyn, she would probably have laughed, have derided the contrasting sides of a face that bespoke a creature both myth and man.

Then she discovered he was just a man wanting his own way, and so stubborn. Pull down the Dun on the Bienn? Not if she could prevent it.

Farquhar would likely pull the tall cairn down piece by piece and use the stones to build the Keep he had been so set upon the last time they spoke.

The last time…

Kathryn closed her eyes. At first, she had felt wicked for having thoughts in her mind she dared not express aloud. Gradually she had come to realise that, like Geala, she would have to be happy with the lot that fate had sent her. And as time passed, the notion that she could ever be chief of the clan receded. She had tried—aye she had—with little measure of success. It seemed a woman could have only the amount of power a man allowed her.

She shrugged inwardly at the continuation of a thought that had presented itself around yuletide. Though Brodwyn was not the example she would have chosen, Kathryn soon became aware that acting the shrill-tempered shrew she had presented to Gavyn on their wedding night would reap her no rewards. If only the other methods of grasping the power she craved didn’t strike her as base … yet what option did she have?

If the Raven ever returned to Dun Bhuird, she would have to do what she could to make him fall in love with her.

As they reached the top of the ridge, she opened her gaze to the bright day through air so clear, so pure; she could see the breeze toss green waves through stems