The Maiden's Defender

By E. Elizabeth Watson

Training men to be ruthless soldiers is a skill at which Highlander Teàrlach MacGregor excels. After he rescues a ward of the king, the beautiful Lady Madeline Crawford, the fierce warrior begins to yearn for a cottage of his own in the Highlands, with the sweet, delicate Madeline as the mother of his bairns.

Madeline begins to see a side of Teàrlach that nobody else does. The strong, silent Highlander takes her to her first fair, teaches her to read, and bestows upon her a passionate kiss—her very first. But Madeline is informed that she is betrothed to another with the blessing of the king, making her and Teàrlach’s love forbidden.

Teàrlach vows to make Madeline his, even if that means defying the king.

Each book in the Ladies of Scotland series is a STANDALONE story that can be enjoyed out of order.

Books in the series
An Earl for the Archeress
The Maiden's Defender

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781640633452

Book preview

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

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 Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Discover more Amara titles…

Tying the Scot

Highland Redemption

The Lady and Mr. Jones

Sister of Rogues

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by E. Elizabeth Watson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

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Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

Edited by Erin Molta

Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

Cover art from Period Images and DepositPhotos

ISBN 978-1-64063-345-2

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition November 2017

To Bella.

Prologue

Anno Domini 1192. April

The spring insects buzzed peaceably, and the evening sun promised a glowing sunset. Madeline Crawford had watched many sunsets, hoping that the warm rays would heal her broken heart. Aye, her heart was finally healing, because in this moment, she could breathe in and out and appreciate the beauty without the sadness that had plagued her for so long, threatening to kill her simple joy. In this moment, she felt content. The first time she had felt so in many months. She looked down, smiled, and adjusted a blanket, then picked up her book of Aesop’s Fables again and continued reading.

And so, the wise astrologer walked, gazing upward at the heavens—how she also enjoyed looking at the night sky and contemplating the patterns of stars—only to then fall into a well. The townsfolk gathered around him, hearing his calls of distress, only then to scold him. ‘Wise astrologer,’ they said. ‘Whilst you were staring upward at the sky, trying to divinate the meaning of the stars, you failed to see the very things here on earth that surround you…’

The very earth beneath her began to rumble as she finished the sentence. Madeline paused. The guardsmen on the wall were clattering down the walk, their arms clanking and chain mail jingling. She looked out through the open gates, down the meandering path that led along the valley between the hills.

The beating of horse hooves was growing stronger, as if the army of England were descending upon her simple stone tower to raze her home. She saw two horsemen barreling down the road toward her, both dark haired. The one in the back, as wild as the Highlands from which he had come, wore his MacGregor great kilt proudly. The horseman in front wore a dirty Irish leine, the white of it having seen brighter days, with boots lacing up his legs. His hair was shaggy, longer, his beard unmanaged. Over his shoulder was a haphazardly pleated plaid, the same color as the other man’s tartan.

Madeline snatched up her bundle of blankets, allowing the book to tumble from her hands and splay open in the dirt. Two of her servants, Fingal and the young lass Joselyn, raced for the door of the tower to hustle Madeline within.

Yet a wary tingling was coursing through her blood. She knew the man propelling toward her gate. It didn’t seem real, didn’t seem possible. It couldn’t be him. After all this time. After so many months, after she had finally resigned herself to accept Rabbie MacGregor’s marriage offer. After she had given up hope that this man would ever return. It had to be a marauder, intent on rape and pillage.

It couldn’t be him.

Madeline! the man called in a voice with a rich timbre, galloping through the wooden gates and pulling back on the reins of his mount. Madeline, stop!

She whirled around in the doorway and finally saw him as he threw himself from the saddle. The sight was a shock. She froze. It was him. It was Teàrlach MacGregor, in the flesh, in an Irish leine and boots, as if he were the fabled Fionn incarnated. His hair had always been shaggy, but he could tie it back now, if he wanted. She remembered so vividly the feel of his curls as her fingers laced through them, combing them in gentle pets as he lay upon her breast by the nighttime campfire surrounded by insect cadences and silence. Her heart ached anew.

The late sun set his eyes aglow, eyes that had aged considerably in the span of these past months, but were as handsome as they had always been. She remembered them so vividly, eyes like amber, tinted with the warmth of whisky, gazing into her own eyes lovingly as he caressed her tresses behind her ears, kissed her… He was still as broad and tall, a bit thinner than he used to be, with a waist belted in thick leather. She remembered another belt she had once undone, tugging on the leather, pulling free the clasps with the shaking hands of a young woman on the verge of losing her heart forever—letting it fall, letting his trousers fall, letting those arms of his collect her in his embrace as he lay her down on his tartan among the leaves, his callused fingers brushing her legs, her thighs, as he settled between her knees…

Now here he stood, every bit as beautiful, as if he could just walk back into her life after turning heel in front of Edinburgh Castle and striding out of her world forever, leaving her to her own devices, tears in his eyes that he had tried to withhold. Her hand flew to her mouth now to cover the sob that jumped into her throat. Teàrlach had been gone for so long, she had thought him dead. They all had. She had thought her heart dead. Once she had come to terms with the anger, with the confusion of his absence, she had finally found a way to move on, to live on, and had resigned herself to marry Rabbie, Teàrlach’s second oldest brother.

He jogged to her, wild desperation evident in his eyes, but slowed to a walk, then stopped a mere foot from her. He could have touched her but he didn’t. His confused stare darted back and forth between her and the blanket she clutched nervously to her breast. He held stone still. Tears were streaming down Madeline’s cheeks. She couldn’t feel a thing and yet felt everything at once. Her heart was hammering with such force, it was all she could do to keep it from popping out of her chest.

Maddie, Teàrlach croaked, his voice gruff, and suddenly, the warrior man before her lost the battle of his own tears. Water bubbled over his lids and cascaded down his cheeks into his beard. Sweet Maddie, he whispered, and collapsed to a knee before her. I’m so sorry.

Chapter One

Anno Domini 1191, eleven months earlier

The smell of freedom was so sweet.

Madeline Crawford inhaled the fresh, spring air, then exhaled, knowing her hair wasn’t coifed properly, knowing she wore an old kirtle that had spent more time than any lady’s gown ought sitting in an herb garden. But plants were so fascinating! And so was sitting in the dirt without anyone minding. And for that matter, so was not ensuring her hair was perfect. No one would scold her for imperfect manners or expect perpetual silence from her or thunder at her for doing any number of nonsensical things. No one cared. No one was here.

She overlooked the Spout of Garnock, careful not to come too close to the cliff’s edge, and watched as rainbows reflected in the cascade of water tumbling down the rocks to continue the river’s winding. This magnificent creation was so very close to her home. Only a half an hour’s walk from Dungarnock Tower.

Though the Moreville family possessed guardianship of Dungarnock, residing nearby in Glengarnock Castle when the family wasn’t in Carlisle, she lived unimpeded. Dungarnock was a simple tower, small, with only one enclosed yard, and hardly worth the effort for warring Scottish chiefs to squabble over. Hardly decent enough for the daughter of one of Scotland’s renowned earls, despite her father’s imprisonment.

But Madeline never complained. One pile of stones was as good as the next, and she had no desire to be noticed. Fancy castles and fancy gowns weren’t important. And because Dungarnock was hidden in a glen between two rolling hills with trees concealing much of it, it sat camouflaged in the countryside. An untrained eye might even pass by on the high road and never notice that a keep stood there.

Freedom, she thought, smelling the heather, feeling the razor-sharp stings of a thistle against her fingers and not caring in the least. To feel the thistles meant she was finally feeling life. Her father had been a hard man who had despised that he had seeded daughters, never once getting his heir. He had depended on his older daughter, Mariel, to pass along the family property and titles, though Mariel had fled his never-ending wrath and eloped with an Englishman. And though Mariel and her husband had begged Madeline to move to the grand Huntington Castle northeast of Londontown, Madeline could never picture herself anywhere other than Ayrshire, Scotland.

God’s country. Heaven. This beautiful waterfall confirmed it.

True, she had always lived in Scotland, and true, her father had kept her cloistered at Castle Ayr for all of her seven and ten years. But here, there were no guardsmen constantly jingling around the yard in their mail, overlooking every move from the parapet, and most importantly, there was no Harold Crawford, The Beast of Ayr—her father. She had become so used to keeping her head down, keeping to the shadows, and apologizing for things that weren’t her fault that she had lived her first sennights at Dungarnock as if she were still at home. It wasn’t until Fingal and Greta, her only servants, told her about the spout that she asked if one day she might see it. Fingal smiled, looked at her curiously, and told her she needed no permission to take a country walk.

Greta had regaled her with tales of the fae folk, of how the magical healing properties of the Spout of Garnock could cure everything from a sore thumb to a broken heart, how fairies would steal bairns and replace them with fae bairns. And more than once, the old woman had teased her that a man like the mythical Fionn might just ride out of the evening sunset to the gate and steal her heart. Imagine, a handsome warrior! Of course, she knew they teased, but it was the first time she had heard such tales, for her father had forbidden the traveling bards from setting up in his great hall, and she might have been beaten if he had suspected she had an admirer.

Now, here she stood, on the anniversary of her birth, with the wind lifting her unbound tresses, overlooking one of the most beautiful waterfalls she had ever seen—the only one she had ever seen. Today she was eight and ten, and not a single person knew except her, and she was the happiest she had ever been. This day at the end of April, in the year of the lord eleven ninety-one, Madeline Crawford could feel the sun, taste the rain, and ponder rainbows reflecting in waterfalls! And though King William had promised to find her an eligible suit, the pressures of a marital alliance were dramatically lessened due to her father’s downfall. She might very well be able to escape the institution altogether, if she kept to the shadows as always and made no royal requests.

Ah, nothing can ruin this birthday! Pity Mariel couldn’t be with her to share in her growing happiness. Nay doubt her wild sister would never believe she had actually walked for one half of an hour, unescorted, in the country. Madeline had learned quickly to be demure, quiet, and most of all, accommodating, for if she were those three things, her father would never notice how observant she was.

And she was observant. On a bending blade of grass at her feet, the color of the grass itself, sat a caterpillar. She had only seen a few in her lifetime. She smiled. Mariel had told her they were sweet wee beasties and tickled when they walked on one’s skin. She took another step closer, hoping to pick it up, when her slipper skidded on the loose soil in a crevice. Her arms flew up, and she flailed. Her foot slipped away. Before she knew it, she was sliding down the side of the rock embankment.

She shrieked.

Her hands grappled for anything they could clasp. Blades of grass offered nothing. Landing with a thud, her left knee and ankle jarred. She collapsed, crying out, buckling over into a heap.

Lord, but her bones were probably frail, for she had never needed to build up stamina. One didn’t need much strength while sitting patiently at board, sitting patiently with her needlework, or sitting patiently at Mariel’s side, begging her older sister to also be patient and for mercy’s sake, to not roll her eyes.

Madeline hadn’t run like the peasant children who accompanied their parents to Castle Ayr each morn, or her father might have meted out his discipline. And so she had always remained slender, watching the other children from her bedchamber, her pale hair resting on the sill, and more than once she had heard visitors liken her to the very fae Greta talked about. At the time, she hadn’t known what fae meant.

Her vision began to clear. Agony rippled through her leg. Spots covered her eyes. She moaned and felt nausea threaten to toss up the contents of her breakfast. She looked up at the sheer drop. How on earth would she get back up? It had to be at least three body lengths, if not more.

Panic threatened to set in, but she swallowed and muttered instead, "Okay, so there is something that can ruin this day."

For a fleeting moment, she thought of her father’s head guardsman, Teàrlach. He had always kept his distance, yet once, during a confrontation in Castle Ayr’s yard last winter, he had pulled her behind him to protect her. That, and he had taken food she had smuggled out of the pantries to her sister, who at the time, had been locked in her father’s prison tower. Those moments were the closest she had ever been to him and the only time he had ever touched her. She had noticed him eying her from time to time, certain it meant nothing. He was an observant man and likely had been assessing his surroundings, even if she had imagined that he simply wanted to look at her. After the king summoned her to Edinburgh upon her father’s imprisonment, before placing her at Dungarnock, she never saw the brown-eyed guardsman again. But his moment of protection repeated itself in her mind. What she wouldn’t give for his vise-like hand to swoop out of nowhere and pull her back up now.

Even Fionn would be welcome, if the mythical warrior cared to emerge from the sunlight and transport her back to the top of the cliff. There was no one around, and it would be hours before anyone thought to come looking. I have to get out of this mess alone. She grabbed at the rocky wall, finding a hand hold, and began to pull herself to standing. Pain shot through her leg. She had never broken a bone in her life, but she knew instantly that something was wrong.

Balancing on one foot and leaning against the wall, she made the mistake of resting her weight on her left leg again. Dear Lord! she exclaimed, tears stinging her eyes.

She broke into a sweat. Her hair so free and flowing moments ago was now an irritable menace tangling in her face. She shoved the locks behind her ears and reached down, gathered her skirts, and pulled the back hem up between her legs where she tied it with the front so that the mass of fabric was out of the way. Her stockings were ripped. Blood oozed down her leg from the cuts she had received while sliding down the rock, like a side of meat across a knife. The sight of the blood did her in. Faint of heart, she crumpled over unconscious.

…

Teàrlach MacGregor heard a female shriek. It was a faint echo, but he recognized it all the same. His trained ears knew distress when they heard it. He turned his horse, King, off the path in what seemed like the direction of the noise and trotted into the countryside. Careful to avoid any hidden holes or crevices in the long grass, he slowly maneuvered his prized destrier, a brown mount the color of polished dark leather, with a thick neck and sturdy legs.

Anyone there? he hollered, cupping his hand around his mouth.

Nothing.

He knew this land like the back of his hand and decided the likeliest place for an accident would be the Spout of Garnock. Heaven forbid someone had tumbled over the edge to their death, for he had no desire to pick up broken bones this day. This day had been off to a decent start. Today, he hadn’t reached for his flask of whisky to give him the courage to rise from bed. Today was one of the few days he hadn’t thought of the lass he knew he could never have, the lass he envisioned when he would let a tavern whore suck him off to ease the base impulses that plagued every man.

Being the fourth son of a Highland chief had its benefits. He had coin if he needed it, and clout when he needed it. But being a fourth son had its downfalls. He would never be the important heir and would be lucky if he inherited more than a plot of land. No matter. Teàrlach MacGregor needed no recognition. His skills were what kept him fed and afforded him a good life. He could stand in a room against the wall, gathering information for an hour without anyone noticing, despite being a massive six feet and seven inches tall. And he could fight like the dirtiest scrapper, if needs be. Those were skills that had made him valuable to the Beast of Ayr. The former Sheriff of Ayr, he corrected himself.

But Harold Crawford, the sheriff, was in prison, and his second daughter, Madeline, was out of his reach, taken by King William, who was acting as her guardian in Edinburgh until a proper marriage could be arranged. Her marriage would probably be strategic in the growing politics with England. A Highland clan chief’s fourth son didn’t qualify as bridegroom material.

He’d had no reason to remain at Castle Ayr as the head guardsman. Fighting and training men to be ruthless warriors were skills at which he excelled. He knew he was good and made excellent coin. Teàrlach MacGregor might not have much in the way of hereditary claim, but he could kill three men by himself with nothing but a sword and a couple of daggers. And, if the lady he’d admired from afar was in the king’s custody and her father imprisoned, then he’d had no wish to stay.

So he’d left. Castle Ayr had been commandeered by the king. The fallen Sheriff of Ayr had been jailed in England under King Richard the Lionheart before being transported to King William of Scotland for seditious plotting. News had spread that Teàrlach MacGregor, the quiet, hulking guardsman, was on the prowl for new employ. He had been immediately contracted by a Lowland laird at Dalkeith Castle for a three-month contract in January, and now, as he maneuvered his horse toward the sound of distress, that contract was completed. Already he’d had three new offers. His training skills, teaching men to ruthlessly fight, were in high demand. They were what had attracted Henry de Moreville to him. Of the three offers, Moreville had offered the most generous purse.

Dammit, but he was almost to Glengarnock Castle and the Moreville family’s Scottish holding. All he wanted to do was get there, get working, and swing his sword arm a few times. He was growing lazy, for it had been over a sennight since he had practiced it. Imbibing in his whisky, raging against a quintain, or better yet, an opponent, had eased his restlessness and made him forget the woman he was daft enough to want. Searching for a bloody damsel in distress was not part of this day’s plan.

He approached a dip in the hill, then an ascent up rocky terrain, more treacherous than the tall grass, but easier to navigate with the sparse foliage. As he neared the waterfall, he surveyed the edge for weaknesses. Last thing he needed was for King to slip a hoof on the pebbly edge and plummet to his death, taking Teàrlach down with him. Avoiding the rim, he walked King as far as the horse agreed to go, turned him sideways, and peered over.

A woman lay below, hair pale gold, arms long and slender, and a horrible prickle shot up his spine and down his arms, standing his hair on edge. Usually, he would swoop into action, but this time he actually blinked, rubbing the corners of his eyes with his thumb and pointer to make sure he wasn’t seeing false images. But the same exact woman was there when he looked down again. His heart hammered his chest.

Lady…Lady Madeline Crawford?

It couldn’t be. Madeline was in Edinburgh at court, a ward to the king. It had to be a trick of the eye, a woman who looked a hell of a lot like her. Otherwise, those impish Scottish fae were proving themselves real and playing a terrible trick on him. The woman, her leg bleeding through her stockings, didn’t move and by all accounts was dead.

Lady Madeline? Is that you? he asked again. He had rarely spoken to her directly, even if he knew her well, and her name felt foreign on his tongue.

Still no response, not a twitch or a groan. But his eyes didn’t lie. Bloody hell shite bastard… Be damned, ye daft eejit, he scolded himself. The woman needed help, regardless of who she looked like, and he was sitting in his saddle looking down at her like an imbecile.

Another string of curses tumbled through his mind as he threw himself off the horse’s back and looked down at her tangled hair. A feeling of dread, unlike anything he had felt before, sank in his gut like an anchor. He had a rope withdrawn from his packs and wrapped around the nearest tree faster than he had ever moved before, dashing back to the edge and tossing the remaining coil over to slap the rock below.

He scaled down. It wasn’t hard, but the lady beneath him didn’t look strong enough to climb a flight of stairs, let alone climb up from such a drop. Reaching the bottom as the spray of water from the fall misted over him, he jumped down and knelt at her side. His heart, hammering moments ago, came to a dead halt and plummeted to the ground.

It was her. It was Madeline Crawford. It was her. In this remote area. Lying at the bottom of a waterfall, miles from Edinburgh. Alone.

Lady Madeline? he asked, squatting beside her, placing his fingers to her neck to feel a steady pulse.

Relief doused the dread burning his stomach. He exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Questions flooded his mind. Why was she not in Edinburgh? How did she manage to fall off a cliff, shallow as it was? Where was her escort? Had she been a victim of foul play? Bile turned his stomach in somersaults. Had she been…raped? And dumped over the edge? God in heaven no! He reached to her arm, giving her a gentle shake.

Lady Madeline, he prompted again, too fearful to move her in case something was broken. Such a fall could kill a man, snap his back, or leave him paralyzed and invalid.

A moan escaped her. He exhaled another lungful.

…

Madeline could hear her name as if spoken from a distance, muted. She reached up to rub her eyes. They fluttered open, squinting into the sun hammering down upon the earth. She blinked. The male voice saying her name became clear. Her eyes focused. Hovering over her was a robust head of dark, curling hair that hung scruffy over the ears, piercing eyes the color of whisky, and both belonging to a looming man with the breadth of a warhorse. Coming to her senses, she shoved away, hastening to scoot out from beneath him, dragging her injured leg.

Lady Madeline, he started, holding his palms up in the spirit of peace.

She paused, scrutinized him. Her eyes widened. And recognition dawned. Was she imagining it? She had just been thinking of him.

Teàrlach? Teàrlach MacGregor?

Her scrutiny was replaced with wariness. Had her father been released from prison? Had he sent MacGregor, his head of guard, to retrieve her from Dungarnock? Fear washed over her and she paled. Life had been a wonder. She couldn’t go back to him! How had the guardsman found her out in this remote way? What would he do with her? She began shaking her head, her chest rising and falling as she attempted to hold her composure. She had always been able to remain calm, composed, and patient. But all those traits now threatened to flee. No… How did you find me? Does my faither go free? Does he demand me back?

Teàrlach shook his head. If she wasn’t mistaken, his eyes furrowed and his jaw hardened angrily. Why? Was he angry about her father’s imprisonment? He had, after all, been her father’s head man. Her father had been cruel. More so to her older sister, Mariel, but to her as well, and Madeline knew the fear she had done so well to hide from everyone now sprang across her face.

Nay, Lady. I chanced upon you. I heard a scream. Are you injured? Can you walk? Who did this to you? Who threw you over this cliff?

She shrank back at his intensity, more like an interrogation, when he visibly tempered his anger, swallowed, and gentled his voice. Madeline was used to forceful men, but Teàrlach MacGregor was typically mild-mannered, quiet, able to go unnoticed as easily as a fly upon the wall. Anger from him was ill-placed.

I apologize. I’m frightening you. It’s nay my intent, he stated. I travel to Glengarnock Castle. Laird Henry de Moreville has hired me. I heard you scream. Did someone push you off this cliff, Lady? If so, I’d like to know because he’s a dead man when I find him.

She shook her head, biting her lip nervously. His gaze darted to her lips and lingered there before rising back to her eyes. She studied him, his unmarked surcoat draping between his thighs like a gray curtain belted around his middle. She knew he was a Highlander, but he wore the garments of the more civilized world. And yet he boasted a massive claymore strapped over his back, a mail habergeon beneath his surcoat, and the hilts of several daggers protruded from his belt and sleeves as well as the traditional handle of the sgian dubh in his boot. So not all Highland traditions had been abandoned with his tartan.

Nay body threw me off. I slipped on loose ground and fell.

She would die of embarrassment to tell an experienced warrior she had fallen because she’d been fascinated by a caterpillar. He would think her daft. Likely he had seen his fair share of caterpillars, losing interest in them as a lad.

…

Okay. He breathed. So he wouldn’t need to slit some rapist’s neck after all, but be damned if he couldn’t stop watching her bite her lower lip. The act was sensual, though he knew she didn’t mean it as such. But her lips were full, pink, and biting them seemed like a skilled tactic to lure a man away from his senses. He rolled the lingering tension from his shoulders. Knowing the cause of her fall didn’t cause the questions tumbling about his head to cease, but it did ease the tightness of his muscles, and before he could figure out why she was here in the first place, she needed her injuries assessed.

Next question, he continued, like the commander he was, his voice imposing. Your leg is bleeding. Is anything broken?

Blush raged across her face as her eyes darted down to the dress tied up between her knees. She hastened to undo the knot. What an embarrassment, she whispered. I thought I would have to climb out alone and only meant to make my skirts less of a nuisance. I meant no impropriety.

His eyes fastened to her legs. Fine legs indeed. He had always maintained a sweet image of the lass he had admired. Until now.

I understand. I’m nay offended.

Lord no, he wasn’t offended. If it weren’t for the blood seeping through the rips in her stockings, he would have admired the slender curvature of each leg with slower appreciation. She finished untying the gown and threw the underskirts and kirtle over her legs, covering her feet completely.

My leg is injured, my laird.

His face remained impassive, his brow perpetually firm, but he grew distant. My oldest brother, Padriag, is Laird. Rabbie is next in line, followed by Seamus. I’m nay a laird, Lady. I’m just the son of one.

Her face paled and she looked down, clasping her hands together in her lap. I’m sorry for the offense, sire, and will do well never to make the mistake again. My apologies.

He looked at her, her head bowed, her words spoken with smooth precision. He had watched her perfect the art of acquiescing over the years, but he didn’t like her feeling as if she needed to do so with him.

Just thought you should know, he muttered. I’m a sword for hire, but nay much more.

Squatting, he leaned over his knees.

What of your head? he continued, taking hold of her face on either side, turning it to inspect it in its entirety. You were rendered unconscious. Where did you hit it?

Surprisingly, she didn’t recoil from him this time.

I didn’t, sire. I’m ashamed to say that I was quite well, apart from my leg, when I landed, and only fainted upon seeing my own blood. ’Tis foolish, I know.

He felt the heat of her blush against his palms. It was the most he had ever touched her, and the feeling made excitement shoot through him. Lord, but this was the woman he had wanted for so long and had resolved himself to never see again. Yet here he was. With her. Alone.

No one, not her father, her sister, or the other guardsmen were around to dictate how he should conduct himself. If he chose to talk to her, he could. If he chose to hold onto her face and head a moment longer than necessary, he could. And what if he chose to steal a kiss? He could probably do that too and Madeline, the quiet and obedient maiden, would never yell at him or slap him, even if she was shocked. But that wasn’t his style. His older brothers had always teased him, calling him shy, a caora, but he wasn’t that either. He was careful.

I once worked for a skilled fighter who lost his supper at the sight of his own blood, Teàrlach replied, hoping to ease her mind, deciding not to tell her it was her own father who did so, for the Sheriff of Ayrshire had been a hard man who certainly had no trouble with the sight of another’s blood. Be ashamed not. He dropped his hands and stood. Keep your leg still.

He grabbed the rope hanging over the ledge and walked back up the cliff, hoisting himself, weighted in mail, with rhythmic pulls.

…

Wait! she called, before remembering her voice was naturally soft. He took no notice anyway.

But was he leaving? For a moment, her heart thumped harder. She took a deep, calming breath. Of course, he wouldn’t leave her after the concern she had seen on his face. At first, his intensity had looked angry. But no. It had been concern. There was something eager about him that she had never noticed at Castle Ayr, where he used to send covert glances her way whenever they were in the same space. He had never crossed a line. Never spoken to her. Always went about his business. Did his duty. With her father’s reputation, he knew better than to engage her in idle chat, which made his eagerness now curious.

She watched him. The man made climbing a cliff look simple. And what serendipity! The stars had aligned perfectly to ensure he would be passing through at precisely the right time, just as she was imagining his arms pulling her to safety. His touch upon her face had been kind, and aside from an appropriate kiss on the hand from various noblemen, she had never been touched so carefully by a man. She had never been touched at all. Just feeling his fingers kneading over her

Reviews for The Maiden's Defender

[cathygeha · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Maiden’s Defender by E. Elizabeth WatsonLadies of Scotland #2Madeline Crawford is a mouse…a mouse that has learned to creep around without incurring the wrath of her father. She is nothing like her stronger sister who appeared in book one of this series. Well, Madeline finds herself as the ward of the king with Lord DeMoreville the man in charge of taking care of her and he is a no good rotten scoundrel…to say the least. On her eighteenth birthday she is out and about enjoying the countryside when she takes a tumble and Teàrlach MacGregor comes to her rescue. The two knew one another in the past when he was working for her father but a new phase in their lives begins when they meet again. With Teàrlach on his way to DeMoreville’s stronghold and having seen the needs of Madeline he is appalled to find out what his new boss is actually up to.This story has a man who is a fourth son with nothing he feels he has to offer, a woman that is browbeaten but with a dowry, an evil man pulling strings, romance, separation, loss and an eventual HEA for the two. Madeline grows as the story progresses moving from mouse to more and Teàrlach…well…he finally wises up but it takes a bit longer than it should have, in my opinion. Thank you to NetGalley and Entangled Publishing for the ARC – This is my honest review. 3-4 Stars