Frederick's Queen: The Clan Graham Series Read online

  Frederick’s Queen

  Book Two of The Clan Graham Series

  By

  Suzan Tisdale

  Copyright © 2014 Suzan Tisdale

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Seductive Designs

  Photo copyright: Image of couple © Hot Damn Stock

  Background © O.Rohulya

  Plaid fabric © iStock/RuthBlack

  For the original Fred and Aggie,

  Your strength through rough times as well as your endless love and devotion to each other were the inspirations for Frederick’s Queen.

  For my cousins – Dutchie, Brian, Ronnie, Pam, Bob and Tim – thanks for the laughs and your endless supply of enthusiasm and encouragement.

  For cousin Sharon – may we never be too old to giggle at seemingly inappropriate moments in life.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Epilogue

  Prologue to Caelen’s Wife

  About the Author

  Books by Suzan Tisdale

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to extend a very special thank you to my very dear friends, Tanya Anne Crosby and Kathryn LeVeque. You’re more than just ‘sister’ authors, you’re like the sisters I never had. Your friendship, encouragement, and insight into writing means the world to me. You’ve helped me keep my feet on the ground where they belong.

  I also want to thank you to Ceci Giltenan and Tarah Scott. Know that I value your expertise and friendship. Thank you also to Sue-Ellen Welfonder, Kathryn Lynn Davis, Kate Robbins, and Lily Baldwin. The six of you have helped me keep my sanity.

  And finally, a special thank you to Suzan’s Highland Lassies—the best street team a woman could ever have!

  Prologue

  Spring, 1355 Scotland

  AGGIE MCLAREN HAD known for years that her father was insane. The fact that they were now on their way to see Rowan Graham to ask for his help in finding her a husband was all the proof anyone needed.

  Mermadak McLaren was dying. Aggie had known for weeks. He had a disease of the lungs and not much time left—mayhap, a year at best. Aggie hadn’t needed a healer to tell her what she had long suspected. His coughing fits had increased in frequency and duration. He wheezed whenever he took a breath and he was beginning to lose weight. Death seemed inevitable.

  If her father would simply die and not worry over finding her a husband, she might begin to see a glimmer of hope for her future. But the arrogant, selfish man refused to die without leaving someone at the helm of his clan.

  ’Twas why they were on this hopeless trek. Aggie was his only child and being a female, she could not, according to their clan’s rules, take over a chief of Clan McLaren. Aggie was not so ignorant of the ways of other clans. Plenty of women stood quite successfully as chief. But Clan McLaren was not so advanced in their thinking about a woman’s capabilities. According to her father and his men, there were but three things a woman was good for: sating a man’s lust, bearing his children and keeping a hearth.

  She knew it wasn’t kindness of heart or worry over his only child’s future that motivated Mermadak McLaren. It was a combination of greed and a very twisted mind.

  Her father’s selfishness, his mean streak, would not allow him to simply appoint a successor. Nay, he wanted a young man he could mold into his own image. He wanted someone ruthless and unhindered by common standards of morality or decency to take over the reins. He wanted someone who could be just as brutal as himself.

  And since he did not trust anyone within his own clan to carry on his legacy, somewhere in the twisted regions of his mind, he concluded that a husband for Aggie was the only route to take.

  As they rode across the glen, she sat behind Donnel, her father’s first lieutenant, forced to hold on to the smelly man. A tremor of revulsion trickled down her back. Donnel was of the same ilk as her father—just as vulgar and just as mean.

  Aggie learned long ago not to ask if her life could possibly get any worse, for when she did, “worse” would inevitably appear.

  A husband, she mused.

  By anyone’s standards, she was an old maid, long in the tooth at three and twenty. No one in his right mind would want to take her as a wife.

  Any man who would agree to such a union would have to be as tetched as her da. And just as old, mayhap older. And with her luck, he’d be just as mean and vicious. Aggie knew there was no hope at finding a decent man. Decent men simply did not exist.

  There had been a time, long ago, when she had been considered pretty. She used to laugh and sing, when her father was not around, of course. She had possessed a free spirit then, a fondness for life, a zest for living. That innocent, carefree little girl no longer existed. She died ten years ago.

  Now, Aggie was defective, damaged. With her scarred face she could no longer be considered pretty. She no longer laughed, or sang. She didn’t even speak.

  It wasn’t that she couldn’t speak. Nay, she was fully capable. But her father detested the sound of her voice. “Yer voice makes me ears bleed!” He needed to tell her that only once. Self-preservation had forced her into her false state of muteness.

  They’d be at Rowan Graham’s keep very soon. If there was a God—for years now she had questioned His existence—He would open up the earth and allow it to swallow her whole. Any attempts to reason with Mermadak would be ignored.

  To speak, to voice her opinion, to share her thoughts would mean a beating. And Mermadak McLaren had never shown any mercy when inflicting punishments. She had the scars to prove it. Nay, it was best to remain quiet. Aye, the beating would come later when he realized no man would be able to look past her defects or her scars.

  The last man her father had tried to betroth her to had backed out when he saw her for the first time. History oft repeats itself and Aggie had no doubt this time would be no exception. No man would want her.

  Mayhap she could try running away again. She was older and wiser now. She would make certain Mermadak was truly passed out from too much drink. She would take little Ailrig—her heart felt heavy when she thought of the sweet child—with her. Through no fault of his own the boy had been born a bastard. Aggie’s mother, God rest her soul, had broug
ht him to live amongst their clan. Her mother could not formally adopt the babe. Mermadak would never have allowed it. Still, she gave him a home, and, together with Aggie, lots of love.

  When Ailrig was three, Lila McLaren had died. ’Twas then that everything began to fall apart. Mermadak grew meaner by the day and not because he missed his wife. Truth be told, he had never really cared much for Lila. But she was the only person who seemed to be able to rein in that temper of his. With no voice of reason, with no one there to temper his anger, Mermadak did as he pleased and became the man he was today—vicious, cruel, hateful and greedy.

  Aggie had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she would never marry. She possessed too many scars. Many of them ran much deeper than those left on her skin. A sane man wouldn’t want someone like her, what with all her defects and imperfections.

  Still, her father was hell-bent on trying to find her a husband.

  One

  FREDERICK MACKINTOSH KNELT before the altar of the tiny kirk. The late morning sun streamed in through the windows and door bringing with it a pleasant summer breeze and the sound of children’s laughter.

  A year ago, the sound of children laughing and playing would not have tugged so strongly at his heart. Many changes had taken place around Graham keep over the past six months. But those changes were slight in comparison to the changes taking place in Frederick’s heart.

  His chief, Rowan Graham, had married a beautiful and feisty auburn haired woman, right after Hogmanay. Rowan and Arline had settled into married life quite comfortably. Any previous worries over Arline’s ability to conceive were laid to rest a few short months ago when Rowan and Arline announced she was with child. No one was happier to hear that bit of news than Rowan’s five-year-old daughter, Lily—born from his first marriage. The wee Lily wanted lots of sisters and voiced her opinion on that subject quite frequently.

  Clan Graham’s numbers had increased by nearly three hundred men back in January. The newcomers were lowlanders, used to a less structured and less honorable way of living. Still, they were grateful for the home Rowan had offered them.

  It was the love Rowan and Arline openly displayed for each other that began to make Frederick question his future. Frederick had never given much thought to having a wife and children. He’d been far too busy enjoying life as a bachelor to give much thought to anything save his drinking and whoring ways.

  But seeing how Rowan had gone from such a lonely life, to one filled with contentment, happiness, and hope for the future, it gave Frederick pause. He was nearing thirty summers. Mayhap it was time to think of those things.

  ’Twas why he was in the kirk. He was praying for a wife. Aye, it shocked him to his marrow when he made the self-discovery a few weeks ago. ’Twas as if someone was whispering in his ear; Frederick, ye need a wife.

  At first, he’d done his best to ignore it, to fight the voice to the bitter end. He tried gallantly to drink the faint murmurs out of his head. He went on a four day debauched, drunken escapade. The story of his exploits would undoubtedly live longer than he would.

  But, ’twas all for naught. No matter how much whisky he consumed or how many wenches he took to his bed, the voice was still there. Incessant, unrelenting and growing louder. Frederick, ye need a wife.

  Fighting didn’t help. Sparring didn’t help. Drinking and whoring didn’t help. The voice was still there. Frederick, ye need a wife.

  When none of his baser antics worked to exorcise the voice, he decided, mayhap, he should pray. Mayhap, if he prayed long enough and hard enough, he could get the blasted voice to leave his head. So off to the kirk he went.

  Two hours later, he realized praying for the voice to leave was futile. Mayhap it was God, or one of God’s messengers, speaking in his ear. Mayhap it was time to give up drinking and carousing and focus on a more stable future. That realization hit him with such grand force it nearly stole his breath away. Him, Frederick Mackintosh, married and having children? Aye, apparently ’twas God’s intent.

  Being the seventh of nine sons of John Mackintosh, Frederick held no hope of ever being chief of his family clan. Even though he had always secretly desired being the chief of the Mackintoshes, he knew the chances were next to none of that ever happening. He’d come to live among the Grahams more than seven years ago, seeing how he was not truly needed amongst the Mackintoshes. His mother and Rowan’s were cousins. Frederick had happily accepted Rowan’s offer of a home and place among his people.

  Frederick and Rowan were as close as brothers now. Whether it was divine intervention or a keen intellect, or more likely than not Rowan having his back, that kept Frederick’s head attached to his neck, he was not rightly sure. He reckoned it was a good combination of the three.

  As he knelt before the altar, he opened his heart, his mind and his ears for the first time in his adult life. Instead of praying for the good lord to give him something tangible, Frederick prayed for guidance. Once he quieted his mind, he was able to listen to his heart’s true desires.

  In the peaceful kirk, Frederick discovered many things about himself and his heart. He discovered that he did, in fact, want a wife and children. He also wanted to be more than just the second in command in Rowan Graham’s army of warriors. Aye, he knew plenty of men coveted his position, for he too had coveted it long ago. But he found, much to his own dismay, that he wanted more. Not more tangible things necessarily. He realized he wanted to be more, to give more and for his life to have more of a purpose than just drinking and whoring.

  By the time he was ready to leave the kirk he had made several important decisions. First he’d give up his debauched ways and focus on his future. He would look at women with more respect than he had in the past. He’d give up drinking and bedding amiable lasses. He’d grow up, be an upstanding man of good character and morals.

  He suppressed the urge to chuckle aloud at that thought. If any of his friends heard him voice such things, they would undoubtedly believe it was either a grand jest or he had finally drunk away what little sanity he owned. Either way, the laughter that would ensue would be unbearable. He’d keep his newfound ambitions and desires to himself.

  Frederick next made a mental list of the traits and characteristics his future wife would need to possess. It went without saying that she’d have to be a beautiful young woman. One with a good head on her shoulders and a strong sense of honor and duty. He didn’t think he could spend the rest of his days with a homely, quiet lass who was afraid to speak her mind. Nay, he wanted someone with a fine disposition and spirit. She’d also have to enjoy a physical relationship. He would settle for no less than that. In truth, he wanted someone like the Lady Arline—tall, elegant, graceful and mayhap, the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. An auburn haired lass, with blazing green eyes, rosy lips and a fiery disposition. Lady Arline Graham would be the proverbial stick with which he would measure his future wife.

  It would also help if his future wife were to possess enough land that they might be able to begin a clan of their own. That wasn’t as important as the outer beauty and other traits, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt. If all else failed, he could petition his father for funds to acquire land of his own. Either way, she would have to be the kind of woman who would make a superb wife of a clan chief. She must know how to run a keep, read and write, and figure sums. Those would be necessary attributes if they were to build the kind of life he now found he desperately desired.

  His final prayer was that God would grant him such a wife. With his heart feeling much lighter, Frederick Mackintosh left the little kirk and went in search of Rowan. Frederick had no doubt that Rowan could help him find such a woman.

  “YE REMEMBER TO keep yer trap shut,” Mermadak McLaren warned as he guided his horse through the gates of the Graham keep.

  Mermadak needn’t say to whom he directed his order. Aggie knew without question that her father spoke to her. Though why he thought he needed to remind her again to remain mute was a question she’d kee
p to herself.

  Donnel, a smelly and repugnant man, had drawn the short straw earlier in the morning. He was forced to share his mount with Aggie. She had been tempted to tell him that she was just as unhappy with the arrangement, but she had no desire for him to box her ears or for her father to take his strap to her backside.

  Traveling with them this day were five other McLaren men. Most of them were aulder, in their forties. Although they may have varied in size and coloring, underneath the dirt and grime, they were all the same. Ill-tempered, gruff, nasty and easy to anger, much like her father.

  “I’ll no’ have ye ruinin’ this like ye did the last time,” Mermadak continued with his warnings as they made their way toward the stables. “It will do ye good to remember what happened the last time ye failed me.”

  How could she forget? It had taken her more than a fortnight to recover from that particular beating.

  They rode in silence the remainder of the way. The courtyard was filled with people all going about their daily business. Children chased one another, squealing with laughter as they ran along. Aggie wasn’t used to seeing happy, well-fed children. She found it strangely comforting—another thing she was unaccustomed to.

  Arriving at the stables, Donnel grunted over his shoulder at Aggie. “Finally. I be tired of ye sittin’ behind me. Get down.”

  Aggie swallowed her retort and slid from the horse. Donnel barely gave her time to step away before he dismounted. Had she not been paying attention, he would have kicked her in the head when he swung his leg over his saddle.

  Three young lads that Aggie estimated to be around two and ten came out of the stables to offer assistance.

  “Good day to ye, sir!” a dark haired lad said with a smile as he offered to take the reins to Donnel’s mount.

  “Be gone with ye, ye beastie,” Donnel scolded. “I’ll tend to me own horse.”

  The boy’s eyes grew wide with surprise. He and his friends looked up at the aulder men for a brief moment. Aggie felt her cheeks grow flush with embarrassment. She was certain these young lads were not used to being around such gruff and ill-mannered men. The boys decided they’d not argue and took off running toward the keep.