His Border Bride. Blythe Gifford

       Praise for Blythe Gifford

       HIS BORDER BRIDE

      ‘Using falcons as metaphors, Blythe Gifford has successfully soared with this Highland romance.’

       —Fresh Fiction

       IN THE MASTER’S BED

      ‘… expertly crafted … fascinating historical details … give this sexy historical a richness and depth.’

       —Booklist

      ‘… excellent … Blythe Gifford is the true Master.’

       —Cataromance

       INNOCENCE UNVEILED

      ‘Blythe Gifford takes a refreshingly different setting and adds a plot brimming with dangerous secrets and deadly intrigue to create a richly detailed and completely compelling medieval romance.’

       —Chicago Tribune

       THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER

      ‘Blythe Gifford finds the perfect balance between history and romance in THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER as she expertly blends a fascinating setting and beautifully nuanced characters into a captivating love story.’

       —Chicago Tribune

      ‘Gifford has chosen a time period that is filled with kings, kingmakers and treachery. Although there is plenty of fodder for turbulence, the author uses that to move her hero and heroine together on a discovery of love. She proves that love through the ages doesn’t always run smoothly, be it between nobles or commoners.’

       —RT Book Reviews

       THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN

      ‘This debut novel by a new voice in medieval romance was for me … pure poetry! The sweetness of the ending will have you running for your tissues. Oh, yes, this is a new star on the horizon and I certainly hope to see much more from her!’

       —Historical Romance Writers

      The woman was nothing to him. Nor could she be.

      Gavin pulled his gaze away. What was it about Clare that called to him? Strong, yes. But, like her bird, alert, expecting danger any minute. Her strength was a shield. He wondered what it hid.

      She acted as if she’d never been tempted, let alone succumbed.

      He’d like to see it happen.

      He’d like to help.

      The vision filled him. Clare. Naked. Tight braid undone. Hair tumbling across her shoulders. Eyes soft, lips yielding with want.

      He downed the rest of his drink. If she knew what he was thinking it would confirm everything she believed of him.

      And she’d be right.

       AUTHOR NOTE

      This book represents a ‘border crossing’ for me. It is my first to be set on the Scottish side of the line. As I wrote, one of my touchstones was an old Kris Kristofferson song called ‘Border Lord'. The mournful lyrics tell of a man about to cross the line, both literally and figuratively. They seemed to sum up my hero perfectly—a man who cares little for rules, boundaries, and the opinions of others. What kind of woman would be a match for such a man? A woman who has lived her life prescribed by all of these. I hope you enjoy their story.

      About the Author

      After a career in public relations, advertising and marketing, BLYTHE GIFFORD returned to her first love: writing historical romance. Now her characters grapple with questions about love, work, and the meaning of life, and always find the right answers. She strives to deliver intensely emotional, compelling stories set in a vivid, authentic world. She was a finalist in the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart™ Award competition for her debut novel, THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN. She feeds her muse with music, art, history, walks and good friends. You can reach her via her website: www.BlytheGifford.com

       Previous novels by the same author:

      THE KNAVE AND THE MAIDEN

      THE HARLOT’S DAUGHTER INNOCENCE UNVEILED IN THE MASTER’S BED

       HIS BORDER BRIDE

       Blythe Gifford

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

       Dedication

      To all our parents, and their secrets.

       Acknowledgements

      Thanks to Jody Allen

      and the Writers of Scottish Romance group for helping a newcomer to the northern side of the border and to the staff at the Center for Birds of Prey, Charleston, South Carolina, for helping me understand the falcons. (All mistakes on both fronts are my own.)

       Chapter One

       Haddington, Scotland—February 1356

      After ten years away, he had come home.

      War had come with him.

      Fog, cold and damp, darkened the fading light of a February day and crept around the corners of the church before them. The iron links of his chainmail chilled the back of his neck and the English knights by his side shivered on their mounts.

      Winter was no time for a war.

      Gavin Fitzjohn looked over at his uncle, King Edward, proud lion at the peak of his prowess. More than twenty years ago, this king led the English on a similar charge into Scotland.

      That time, the King’s brother had left behind a bastard son of a Scottish mother.

      Today, that son, Gavin, rode beside his uncle, just as he had done for the last year in France. There, they had wreaked havoc on soldiers and villagers alike without a qualm until the smell of blood and smoke permeated his dreams. But he had done it because he was a knight in war.

      Now, the King assumed Fitzjohn was fully his.

      But this was not France. Now, Edward had brought the scorched earth home. In the fortnight since they had retaken Berwick, his army had slashed and burned what little the retreating Scots army had left standing.

      Gavin’s horse shifted, restless. Through the windows of the church, the choir where services were sung glowed like a beckoning lamp, light and lovely as any church he had seen across the Channel.

      The villagers huddled before their spiritual home, uncertain of what was to come. Gavin watched a man at the crowd’s edge, hands clasped, eyes closed, lips moving in prayer.

      The man’s eyes opened and met Gavin’s.

      Fear. Strong enough to taste.

      His stomach rebelled. He was sick to death of killing.

      A squire ran up to the King, carrying a torch. In the darkening twilight, the shifting flames cast unearthly light and shade across the mud-splattered surcoats and armour.

      He looked at his uncle. No more, he thought, the words a wish.

      But anger, not mercy, gripped Edward’s face. The Scots had talked