A Rough Wooing by Virginia Henley

CHAPTER ONE
     
     
     
    Beaumont, Northumberland
    March 1603
     
    “You are trespassing.”
    Douglas Elliot threw back her head and
laughed at the dark-visaged male astride the sleek black
Thoroughbred. “Don’t be ridiculous. You cannot possibly own
Hadrian’s Wall. Who the devil do you think you are?”
    “Sir Lancelot Greystoke. This land happens to
be mine.”
    Douglas laughed again. “Lancelot? How ironic.
Your namesake was known for chivalry not arrogance.”
    Greystoke stared at the beautiful young woman
standing atop the ancient Roman wall. Her flaming red hair was
disheveled by the wind and she seemed to be relishing this
confrontation with him. Her amusement was infectious. The corner of
his mouth twitched. “May I know your name?”
    “Indeed you may not, Sir Lancelot.”
    His dark eyes kindled. He noted the fine wool
riding skirt, the leather boots, and the green velvet doublet and
matching cloak. “Then I shall call you Firebrand.”
    She tossed her head and her glorious hair
streamed like a banner in the wind. Douglas Elliot had more good
sense than to tell the English noble her name, for then he would
know she was a Scot who lived a few miles across the Border at
Castle Elliot, near Langholm. The English and the Scots were born
enemies.
    “What brings you to Beaumont?”
    Ah, so that grand abode is Beaumont Hall
as I suspected, and its owner is the nephew of Clifford, the Earl
of Cumberland. She shrugged a shapely shoulder.
“Curiosity.”
    Almost against his will he admitted that he
found her earthy attraction irresistible. He wanted to lure her
closer. “Then allow me to satisfy your curiosity.” His arm swept
toward the hall. “I invite you to have a closer look.”
    Her thoughts darted like quicksilver as she
weighed the risk and came to a decision.
    He watched her face as she quickly assessed
his offer. When she accepted with no discernible hesitation, he
knew she loved a challenge. Does danger excite her?
    Douglas watched him dismount, and noted he
was tall. Well over six feet.
    He strode toward her and raised his arms.
    She laughed again, delighted to thwart him.
“I can’t leave my mount untethered.”
    He experienced a stab of disappointment.
“There’s a gap in the wall about two hundred yards in that
direction you can ride through.” He watched her leap from the wall
and disappear, before he remounted and galloped toward the gap.
    Her sure-footed Border pony confirmed his
suspicion that the fiery beauty was a Scot.
    They rode side by side toward the hall, and
when Douglas saw at least eight thoroughbreds grazing in the
paddock she experienced envy for the first time. Why should this
arrogant English noble own such fine horseflesh? Langholm near
Castle Elliot was known for its horse racing, but Greystoke’s
animals were far superior than anything in Scotland. The Scottish
Border Marches have felt the onslaught of English invaders for
decades. No wonder they are wealthy!
    Douglas conveniently overlooked the fact that
Scots Borderers raided cattle and robbed the English on a regular
basis. The Elliots, and their neighbors the Grahams and the
Armstrongs used the code words “There will be moonlight again” to
pass along the message that a raid was being planned.
    “Your thoroughbreds are magnificent, but
don’t you worry about reivers?”
    “Constantly. I am a Border Warden. I patrol
Cumberland to keep it safe from the Scots.”
    Douglas felt the hairs prickle on the back of
her neck. She ignored the urge to flee.
    “Knowing that makes me feel safer in my bed.
I thank you for your service, sir.”
    He felt himself harden. Bed is the last
place I’d keep you safe, Firebrand.
    Lance Greystoke drew rein before the grand
steps that led up to the mansion. The portico boasted elegant
columns that rose the full two-stories of Beaumont. The stone hall
had an attractive pink cast because it was built from the same
sandstone as Carlisle Castle, the great English stronghold that lay
four