Laird of Smoke, page 1
LAIRD OF SMOKE
The Warrior Lairds of Rivenloch
Book 3
by
The intrepid son of Scots spies, Sir Adam la Nuit of Rivenloch hunts the most elusive prize of all—true love in the guise of a charming nun named Eve.
LAIRD OF SMOKE
Copyright © 2025 by Glynnis Campbell
Glynnis Campbell – Publisher
P.O. Box 341144
Arleta, California 91331
Contact: glynnis@glynnis.net
ISBN: 978-1-63480-137-9
Cover design by Richard Campbell
Formatting by Author E.M.S.
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Table of Contents
LAIRD OF SMOKE
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilog
Dear Reader
More Books by Glynnis Campbell
Dedication and Acknowledgments
About Glynnis Campbell
Contact Information
Chapter 1
Perth, Scotland
Spring 1160
The best thing about being a nun was the invisibility.
Eve tucked a stray wisp of her chestnut hair under her plain white veil. She lowered her eyes to the damp sod, her manner dutiful, humble. With her tresses hidden, and her feminine curves obscured by a nondescript gray habit, she was completely unnoticeable. Dull. Ordinary. No more conspicuous than a dead autumn leaf blowing along the ground.
Now she could venture wherever she willed without drawing attention. Which was how she managed to steal her way into the middle of the angry throng gathered before Perth Castle.
No one gave her a second glance as she wove her way through camps of striped clan pavilions, sparring soldiers, and muttering lairds. She attracted no attention as she shuffled past them all. Men-at-arms sharpening their weapons. Horses in harness stamping the sod. Maids in greasy aprons cooking oatcakes over scattered fires.
She’d learned about the siege at Perth at the nunnery. Her convent sisters might not be the most worldly women. But they had an ear for news and a penchant for gossip.
Word was King Malcolm had at last returned from abroad and was back home in Scotland.
Many of his lairds, however, were unhappy. They felt young Malcolm had made too many gestures of friendliness toward King Henry of England. At Toulouse, he’d even dared to side with Henry against Scotland’s ancient ally, France.
Rumor had it Malcolm had courted Henry’s affections simply for the honor of being knighted by the powerful king. If that had been the end of it, his moment of youthful vanity and hero worship might have been forgiven by the lairds. But to further appease Henry, Malcolm had offered to return to the English king some of the Scots lairds’ hard-won clan lands.
Six of the malcontent lairds had therefore gathered troops to lay siege to Perth Castle, where the Scots king currently resided. They hoped to force Malcolm to renounce his alliance with Henry and to secure the return of their holdings.
It was a challenging situation. King Malcolm could hardly go back on his word and undermine his new friendship with Henry. But as Eve passed through the ranks of clansmen, she heard their bitterness, their animosity. They felt betrayed by their king. The king to whom they’d once sworn an oath of fealty.
As Eve saw it, there was just one thing that transcended loyalty to king and clan.
One force that could unite them all.
One entity capable of returning peace to the realm.
God.
A sennight ago, sitting in her humble cell, packing her things, Eve had felt sure she could be a much-needed agent of change. She could bring the Lord God to these negotiations. Certainly she had the diplomacy to broker peace between the king and the clans. To be the instrument of His will.
It was what she always hoped. Spreading the word of God was her duty as a nun, after all.
Unfortunately, the abbess at the convent didn’t always agree with Eve’s liberal interpretation of God’s will. So Eve usually had to do the Lord’s work on her own, without the abbess’s knowledge.
Of course, Eve always confessed to whatever liberties she’d taken. Eventually. Then the abbess would furrow her brow, chew at her lip, and shake her head. But the large stipend Eve’s father sent to the convent was usually enough to keep the abbess from protesting too much.
It wasn’t that Eve was intentionally willful. She simply couldn’t help her sense of conviction. She got bored with the everyday charity the sisters practiced. Collecting alms for the poor. Feeding the hungry. Praying for the sick.
Eve was meant for more. She could feel that, even though the abbess warned her that was only the sin of pride whispering in her ear.
Eve didn’t believe that. She simply wanted to do good in the world. To right wrongs. To balance injustices. To take a stand for those who couldn’t defend themselves.
It was the reason she’d agreed several days ago to help an old acquaintance, Sir Hew du Lac of Rivenloch. The poor lovelorn Sir Hew had been torn from the object of his affections, Lady Carenza. Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, Carenza had been mistakenly betrothed to Hew’s cousin, the illustrious Sir Gellir Cameliard. Natually, Hew was devastated.
As for Eve, she’d been more than happy to help untangle the star-crossed hearts. Praying for God’s blessing on her good deed, she’d stolen the bride-to-be right from under the bridegroom Gellir’s nose and spirited her away to the convent to marry Sir Hew in a clandestine wedding.
Had her intervention been a wee bit daring? Aye.
Had abducting the bride of a Rivenloch warrior come with risk? No doubt.
But Eve didn’t mind danger when it came to steering the course of fate. Especially when it was clearly God’s intention and in the best interests of everyone. When it came to the Lord’s good works, Eve felt it was her calling to help Him carry them out.
As was this.
After all, God couldn’t possibly intend for King Malcolm to be welcomed home from France by six irate lairds with drawn swords.
Obviously what was needed here was divine intervention. Proving to both parties that there were more important things at stake than who owned what or who was friends with whom.
They just needed to be convinced that God favored the Scots and smiled on King Malcolm.
That all parties wished for the same thing—peace in the land and harmony among the clans.
That God meant to bless the Scots with health and wealth and prosperity.
It wasn’t exactly untrue, though Eve suspected God left men largely to their own devices. He was too busy moving heaven and earth to care much whether men warred among themselves.
Still, it was certainly true that a people at peace were more productive and happy. So she was certain God would approve.
Before she could make her way toward the gathering lairds, however, a skirmish broke out. Caught up in the clamor, Eve was elbowed aside as warriors rushed forward with their weapons drawn.
Peering between the crush of bodies, Eve was astonished to glimpse a familiar figure. It was the groom she’d disappointed by stealing his bride. The magnificent Sir Gellir of Rivenloch. What was the great knight doing here?
He appeared to be wielding his mighty sword. In defense of the king. And against the lairds.
All six of them.
Singlehandedly.
Her breath caught. One man against six? The Rivenloch warriors certainly got embroiled in some perilous undertakings.
Then she noticed Sir Gellir wasn’t quite alone. An odd-looking monk battled at his side with surprising expertise.
Eve could tell, long before the monk’s hood fell back, spilling free a waterfall of fiery curls, that the fierce fighter was a woman. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, the Rivenloch clan was known for its fighting females.
Still, she was no Rivenloch lass that Eve recognized.
There seemed to be a bond between the two fighters. Gellir was resolute in his efforts to protect the woman from their foes. And the lass battled like a vixen defending her mate.
A smile curved the
At least she hoped they would have a happy ending. They were still two against six.
But soon, incredibly, it appeared the pair of sparring sweethearts were beginning to win the upper hand.
Suddenly a bold shout rang out from the crowd. “Audite!”
The combatants began to lower their weapons. The skirmish dwindled and slowly came to a halt.
“Audite!”
All eyes were drawn to the tall monk inviting them to listen.
He peeled back his cowl, revealing his face.
Eve took in a sharp breath. And suddenly she couldn’t take another.
She’d never seen a man so perfectly made.
So handsome.
So heavenly.
So heart-melting.
This must be the man God had fashioned in His image.
He was broad-shouldered. Imposing. Confident, with an air of calm authority.
Dark curls framed his flawless face. His square jaw, cleanly shaved, was resolute. His chin lifted proudly, and yet he seemed to look down his nose at no one.
His expressive brows lowered fervently above eyes that glittered with the spark of passion and life. Eyes that could melt a woman’s heart. Or penetrate a woman’s soul. Or convince a woman to forget all about her religious calling.
Only then did Eve remember to breathe.
In the silence, he spoke in a low, rich, rolling voice colored by a soft foreign accent. A voice that made her think of the delicious wassail Sister Eithne served at Christmas. The concoction that warmed Eve to her bones and left her delightfully dizzy.
“I have brought word from Roma,” he announced, “from His Holiness.”
The crowd gasped. Eve’s heart skipped a beat.
Was it true? Had the man come from Rome?
No wonder he looked so divine. He was a messenger from the Pope.
He lifted a rolled parchment in one hand. His sleeve slipped up a few inches, exposing a well-muscled forearm.
With his free hand, he solemnly made the sign of the cross.
Reflexively, Eve mirrored the gesture.
All at once, King Malcolm called down to him from the tower of Perth Castle. “You there! Did you say His Holiness?”
“Si! Il Papa Alexander III!” the monk called back. “You are Rex Scotiae?”
“We are,” the king confirmed.
“Then, Signore, the missive is for your ears as well.”
A message from the Pope to the king? Could he intend to broker peace?
Her mind reeled. Then, as soon as she could think straight, a reprehensible idea slipped into Eve’s brain.
Never mind that the holy monk was handsome and compelling and persuasive.
He was about to undermine her ambitions and foil her plans to save the day.
Of course that thought was beneath her. Prideful. Ridiculous. Did it matter who handled the negotiations? As long as the results were beneficial, what difference did it make who initiated them?
If the Pope wished to claim credit for solving the conflict, so be it. After all, she’d said it herself. A happy ending made the details unimportant.
Yet the thought kept biting at her like a determined flea.
For months, she’d longed to do something important.
More important than rescuing pups from abusive owners.
More significant than praying over sick children.
More heroic than helping a knight elope with his true love.
And now, when she finally had an opportunity to prove her worth, who had shown up to ruin her plans? None other than the esteemed representative of the Pope himself.
She sighed.
It was an unspeakably selfish thought. She knew that. Selfish and unworthy of her station as a nun. The abbess had even told her so. But she’d always had a hard time controlling her wayward thoughts.
Like the wayward thoughts she was having now as she let her gaze course down the monk’s impressive form.
His cassock, belted below his waist, clung to his narrow hips and trim buttocks. The powerful gestures he made as he spoke to the lairds belied the sedentary life of a monk. His hands were muscular, closing into fists and then opening with strength and grace. He held one commanding finger aloft to make a point. Then he clasped his hands together like a warrior celebrating his victory.
She could imagine those manly fingers running through her hair…caressing her cheek…brushing her lips…
She started as he turned to follow the lairds, across the bridge from the bailey to the motte. Of course. King Malcolm wasn’t coming to them. He’d naturally conduct negotiations privately, in the comfort of his keep. A place a mere nun couldn’t follow. No matter how invisible she was.
Shite.
She’d hoped to make the acquaintance of the Pope’s representative. After all, he was an important man in the church.
She frowned.
Then she straightened with determination. She could fix this.
She’d simply wait for him to emerge, she decided, and strike up a conversation with him. Inquire about some biblical interpretation or request moral direction. Before they parted, she’d whisper her name in his ear and ask him to pass it along to the Pope. Perhaps, with holy guidance from on high, Eve could find her Greater Purpose.
It was a worthy notion.
However, her plans to wait patiently among the pavilions were foiled when a contingent of Rivenlochs suddenly arrived.
Sweet Saints! Had they followed her?
Eve dared not let them see her. Any of the Rivenloch clanfolk might recognize her. She was the nun who’d been at Darragh Castle for the clan wedding, after all—right before Sir Gellir’s betrothed had mysteriously disappeared.
Nuns might be invisible, but the Rivenlochs were clever and discerning. With the exception of Sir Hew, of course. Hew, not realizing Eve was a nun, had once tried to court her.
In any event, she needed to slip out of sight and watch from afar.
The worst thing about being a Rivenloch, Adam decided, was the visibility.
The clan was so well-known, it was nigh impossible for a Rivenloch man to blink an eye without someone reporting it to the town crier.
Yet, despite being the nephew of the laird, Adam la Nuit had somehow escaped the curse of Rivenloch fame. His cousins and even his sister were renown for their words and deeds. But no one really saw or remembered Adam. Which was how he was able to pose as the emissary of the Pope.
He supposed any other man would have been shaking in his boots to commit such sacrilege.
But Adam wasn’t afraid. Situations like this seldom frightened him. Indeed, his unflappable nature made his Rivenloch kin assume he was fearless.
That wasn’t quite true.
There were things Adam feared. Rabid wolves. Debilitating sickness. Being permanently marked by a scar that would make him forever identifiable.
But feigning to be the messenger of the Pope? That didn’t scare him.
After all, he reasoned, no one in Scotland knew what the Pope’s emissaries looked like. If indeed the Pope even had such emissaries.
Adam spoke passable Latin, and he could feign a respectable Roman accent.
Besides, he’d played lofty roles before. The French artist Godefroid de Claire. The German Minnesänger Meinloh von Sevelingen. The mystic Hildegard of Bingen. To obtain free lodging, he’d once posed as the right hand man of young King Malcolm himself, while his cousin Brand pretended to be the king.
