From the Publisher

The last thing Sir Kenneth MacKenzie needs is a wife—even if there is a beautiful woman claiming to be his wife and living in his newly inherited castle. He has every intention of forcing her out, but Lady Mariota Macnicol has no intention of letting that happen. Original.

The Best Reviews, Etc - Harriet Klausner

"A fun fourteenth century romance. Mariota is a fascinating protagonist. Kenneth is her ideal counterpart. Readers will enjoy this solid historical starring two never-me-in-love individuals falling for one another."

A Romance Review - Bonnie

"Mystical, action-packed, and erotically saucy. A quick delicious read that reunites the reader with the popular MacKenzie clan."

RIO, Reviewers Organization International - Marilyn Rondeau

"Once again Welfonder returns the reader to her beloved medieval Scotland to give her fans a dose of romance and intrigue amongst the heather, lochs and crags of the land and people she clearly loves. Vivid imagery. Secondary characters colorfully brought to life. I was thrilled to see Devorgilla reappearing to add that delightful bit of magic I've found to be immensely satisfying in this series. Jamie "the Small" was a darling and I certainly hope to see more of him in future offerings. Well written, nicely sensual love scenes combined with a sweet ending that will melt your heart and mist your eyes are all in store for the reader."

Fresh Fiction - Suzanne Tucker

"UNTIL THE KNIGHT COMES will win your heart. It's a romantic treasure. If you love Scottish tales, this one is for you."

Booklist, American Library Association. - Lynne Welch

"Welfonder's storytelling skill and medieval scholarship shine in her latest Kintail-based Scottish romance with magical elements courtesy of the wise woman Devorgilla. And a teaser indicates that romantic misadventures will continue with young Jamie MacPherson, one of the Keeper's most loyal knights at arms."

Historical Romance Writers - Tracy Zappala

"Until the Knight Comes is a fantastic read with all the elements that make a solid historical romance. Readers will enjoy this historic tale filled with mystic touches. Also enriching the story are supporting characters, which include a romance between Nessa and the captain of the guard, as well as, some great villains you just love to hate. An excellent mix with the main heroes Mariota and Kenneth. The fire burns bright between the two from the moment they set eyes on each other to the final scenes. Welfonder builds a relationship slowly, letting readers get comfortable with our heroes and then allows readers to pull for them to make their relationship work. The payoff is a passionate joining done in the best historical style. Readers are sure to love this historical romance."

Romance Reviews Today - Carolyn Crisher

"UNTIL THE KNIGHT COMES is a fast paced, well-written story that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Even though the language and traditions are different from ours, we are effortlessly drawn into life as it was then and can easily see how bravery and fighting were an everyday part of living. Ms. Welfonder's love of Scotland is clear, and she draws us into her world of mists in a land of beauty and legend.

Romance Fetish - Vivian Whipp

"I loved this story. Mariota is headstrong and willful, and Kenneth is honorable, intelligent, and determined to keep her. They've both been burned before so they are wary of each other. The characters are well developed, spirited and quick-witted which makes for some interesting verbal dueling. The author also uses the dialect of the time, which I believe makes it more real.

I couldn't stop reading, and just had to know what happened next. The plot is full of surprises. I’m really looking forward to Bride for a Knight."

Bookloons Reviews

"Welfonder brings medieval Scotland to life once again in Until the Knight Comes."

ContraCostaTimes - Lynn Coddington

"Magical Scottish medieval. Welfonder does a fine job capturing the intensity of the lusty imperatives of young love. "Until the Knight Comes" is a fun, sexy, well-told romance with likable characters and a sweet view of life."

Heartstrings - Cheryl Jeffries

"Lush, lyrical ... a lavish tale of Highland passion and greed, given a wee dusting of fae magick to enrich it. All told, Until the Knight Comes is a dreamy Scottish romance from the talented Sue-Ellen Welfonder, a tale that is lusty, engaging, and oh-so blessed with Highland heroics (and, er, other delicious delicacies found beneath the kilt)."

Romantic Times

Blending legend, history and a bit of magic, Welfonder sweeps us away to a rugged castle on the Highland shores and into her character-driven story. UNTIL THE KNIGHT COMES resonates with Welfonder's deep love of Scotland and transports readers to a world they'll be loath to leave.

Romance Reader's Connection

Welfonder has once again written an endearing tale of love set in medieval Scotland. The characters are charming with many secondary characters that will have you smiling and scenes that will have you laughing out loud. Welfonder brings to life history, legend and a story of love that will touch you. Fans of strong heroes and heroines and a great story of love, will find Ms. Welfonder's latest story a perfect fit. This author has a way of bringing the medieval era in Scotland alive.

Publishers Weekly

Welfonder's newest is a medieval romance set in Scotland. Lady Mariota Macnicol stands falsely accused of murdering her lover, but escapes, hiding out at the deserted Castle Cuidrach. When the castle's new lord, Sir Kenneth MacKenzie (the villain from Welfonder's Devil in a Kilt), arrives to take possession, she brazenly informs him that she is the chatelaine-then changes her story after she learns he is the actual owner. MacKenzie accepts Mariota's half-truths and provides her haven, and they wind up falling hard for each other, though both have been betrayed by lovers before. But Mariota remains on the run from her accusers, while MacKenzie plots to keep her at Cuidrach until he can win her trust and convince her to marry him. Their lusty dialogue grows wearisome ("[T]he intensity of him unleashed a trickling anticipation that spilled all through her, making her blood run thick and rich"), and uneven pacing keeps readers in a state of distraction, as Welfonder shifts rapidly between the romance and the book's suspense-deficient subplots. (July) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.

What People Are Saying

Sandy Blair
"Loved your characters, internal dialogue, and plotting. Thank you for sharing your vivid imagination and talent."
—author, upon the 2001 release of DEVIL IN A KILT

Product Details

• Read a Sample Chapter

Read a Sample Chapter

Until the Knight Comes

WARNER FOREVER

Chapter One

Hugh the Bastard. The three words dealt Mariota Macnicol a smiting blow, each one lodging in her throat like searing lumps of hot-burning coal as she stood on the threshold of the tower bedchamber and stared at the man she loved more than life itself.

Certainly more than her own, for she'd willingly suffered the pains of scandal and ruin to be his lady, turning her back on her well-comforted existence to pave him the way to his dreams.

His lofty ambitions. And now Hugh Alesone, Bastard of Drumodyn, was dead.

Or soon would be, for the twinkling blue eyes that had e'er besotted her were now full-glazed and bulging, the horror on his handsome face as he caught sight of her, an unmistakable recognition of his imminent end.

Aye, Mariota's golden giant of a Highland lover was about to die naked in his bed.

Naked in the arms of an equally unclothed whore. Shivering, Mariota stared, not trusting her eyes. Shock and disbelief crashed over her, stealing her breath until her anguish rose in a tide of fury, and the welling pain burst free.

"No-o-o," she cried, agony ripping her soul. "By the living God! Hugh...."

"'Tis m-my heart," he gasped, his eyes widening. Her own heart poundingfuriously, Mariota bit down on her lip as he broke away from the sweat-dampened bawd straddling him and pressed both hands against his chest, its well-muscled planes, resplendent with a smattering of golden hairs, proving as drenched and heaving as his whore's fleshy, over-generous breasts.

His penis glistened as well, highlighted almost obscenely by the glow of the night candle. Flaccid now, and surprisingly small for such a great stirk of a Highlandman, the dangling appendage was clearly wet from vigorous love play.

A truth underscored by the disarray of the bed coverings, the flagon of wine and two half-emptied goblets on a fireside table, and the trail of discarded clothing littering the rush-strewn floor.

That, and the reek of passion sated still hanging so heavily in the chill air.

"Saints have mercy!" Mariota clapped her hands to her face, the only movement she could manage for her legs felt leaden, her feet as roots of stone.

The other woman suffered no such loss of agility, scrambling off the bed so swiftly her ungainly efforts to extract herself would have been comical if her very presence didn't feel like a vise around Mariota's heart.

All but spitting and snarling, the bawd flung the last of the bed coverlets from her naked body, knocking over the flagon of wine in her clumsiness, the blood-red libations splashing onto the floor rushes.

Watching her exodus, Mariota curled her hands into fists. The back of her neck throbbed, its tender skin blazing as her gaze lit on the spilled wine, some still coherent part of her seeing a reflection of Hugh's ignoble demise in the quickly spreading stain.

An irony the Bastard of Drumodyn would miss for he'd collapsed onto the bedsheets, lay staring at her from blank, unseeing eyes.

And just looking at them sent a bitter, piercing cold sluicing through her. "Dear sweet saints," she gasped, more to herself than the woman still looming so naked beside the bed. "He's dying...."

But Hugh Alesone was already gone, having left to join his forebears, breathing his inglorious last without a further word spoken.

And with his departure, a great gusting wind rushed into the room, guttering candles and sweeping across a worktable strewn with parchments, the icy blast scattering his treasured writings to every corner of the room.

Love sonnets, the most of them, and composed for Mariota, but also painstakingly gathered accountings of the ancient line from which Hugh claimed descent-even if his bastardy had constrained him to subsist on little more than his own silvered words and broth of limpets and milk.

Good enough fare until Mariota's munificence enabled the would-be bard to indulge his higher tastes and live as befitted one who believed to carry the blood of kings.

Scarce able to believe him dead, she swayed, almost reeled into the other woman. But she backed away as quickly, something about the woman's moist red lips and the slant of her eyes, prickling Mariota's nape.

"You!" she cried, awareness slamming into her. "You are-"

"Elizabeth Paterson," the whore supplied, her gray eyes cold and glittery as a winter dawn.

In numbed shock, Mariota recognized her with surety now. If not by name, then by reputation, for the woman was none other than the notorious alewife of Assynt.

Widowed and slightly older than Hugh, Elizabeth Paterson ran the Burning Bush, an establishment of less than noble repute where the high-spirited widow was rumored to offer wayfarers much more than victuals and simple lodgings.

The air around Mariota grew colder. "You are the alewife," she said, the acknowledgment sounding faraway, her voice a stranger's.

"And that surprises you?" Nowise inhibited, the bawd made no attempt to cover her spurious charms. "Did you not know Hugh had dark, lusty tastes? Needs he could only quench with someone like me?"

Mariota gritted her teeth, her world splitting open to become a yawning void filled with naught but Hugh's naked, inert form and the triumphant little sneer playing about the alewife's generous, love-swollen lips.

"Be gone from here." Mariota flicked a hand at the crumpled clothes on the floor. "Dress, and take yourself from my sight."

The bawd ignored that and lifted her chin. "A pity you returned sooner than expected, Lady Mariota," she said, her throaty voice taunting. "You might have been left to your illusions had it been otherwise."

Mariota stiffened, something inside her cracking, turning her to stone.

"I turned back before even nearing Dunach," she admitted, the name of her home bitter on her tongue. "Praise God I did not plead my father's beneficence yet again-"

The alewife sniffed. "I told Hugh he'd seen the last of Archibald Macnicol's coin. Word of your puissant father's spleen with you is widespread."

Sliding a hand down her belly, the bawd let her fingers hover above the dark tangle of her nether hair. "See you, Mariota of Dunach, Hugh knew you might return early, but he did not want to forego our amusements."

Mariota's eyes began to sting, hot gall rising in her throat. Equally damning, she seemed unable to lift her gaze from the other woman's abdomen.

Elizabeth Paterson's decidedly swollen abdomen. Her emotions churning, Mariota dug her hands into her skirts. "It would seem the two of you indulged often enough."

The other shrugged. "That may be, but 'tis not Hugh's child I carry. Not that he cared. Truth be told, he took great relish in hearing of my encounters at the alehouse." Mariota stared at her, wordless.

The alewife's lips quirked. "If you would know the whole of it," she said, reaching to trail her fingers across Mariota's stomach, "he gloried in my swelling form, even likened my sweetness to a ripening plum. His get, or no."

Recoiling from the woman's touch as well as her words, it took Mariota a moment to notice the multicolored bursts of light suddenly flashing about the alewife's fingers, and yet another to recognize the bawd's true purpose in putting her hand to Mariota's waist.

"My dirk!" Mariota's heart slammed against her ribs at the sight of her bejeweled lady's dagger in the other's hand.

She fumbled at her skirts, her cold fingers finding the blade's empty sheath, the discovery sending chills down her spine.

"You've stolen my dirk!" "Say you?" The alewife feigned astonishment. "Och, nay, my lady, 'tis not stealing it I am-only borrowing."

"Borrowing?"

The alewife nodded, her mouth curving in a satisfied smile as she returned to the bed and, with the dirk's blade, swept several of Hugh's windblown parchments onto the floor.

Spearing one that yet clung to the edge of the mattress, she waved the thing at Mariota. "See you, lady, to your face he called you his minx but behind your back he named you a fool," she said, her tone steeped in derision. "I was neither. Ours was an understanding of mutual fulfillment and I meant to use him as boldly as he used me."

Her eyes flashing, she yanked the scroll off the dagger and tossed it at Hugh's body, her mouth twisting in another mirthless smile when the parchment landed on his shriveled manhood.

But, as quickly, her attention flickered to the half opened window shutters across the room, and something about the glint in her eyes iced Mariota's blood.

"Did you know that your precious Hugh carved footholds in the outer wall of this tower?" She spoke softly, her fingers playing over the gemstones in the dagger's hilt. "He cut them there to allow such as me to win in and out of this chamber discreetly."

"Indeed?" Mariota raised a brow. "I see nary a shred of discretion on you."

The odd look in Elizabeth Paterson's eyes intensified, her expression hardening. "The need for suchlike is past, would you not agree?"

Mariota held her rival's stare and hoped her own features appeared as cold. Drawing a deep breath, she strove to ignore the tight edges of fear beginning to beat through her, the rapid hammering of her heart.

"Tcha, my lady, all that remains is my need for revenge." The woman's contemptuous glance slid over Mariota. "Aye, vengeance will be mine and served on you!" she hissed, hauling out to slap Mariota full across the face.

Mariota gasped, the smashing blow sending her reeling. She flung up an arm to stave off further blows, but her knees gave out and she sank to the floor.

"Not so proud now, are you?" The whore's face darkened with malice.

Mariota blinked, tried not to gag on the blood filling her mouth as Elizabeth Paterson's menace and her own pain slipped over her like a sheet of cloaking ice.

"Fie, but you have lost your wits, eh?" The alewife leaned close, spite pouring off her. "You'd best gather them, for when I climb out yon window, your life will be worth less than these floor rushes," she vowed, scooping up a handful and letting them drift onto Mariota's head.

"A meet revenge, Mariota of Dunach, for with your untimely return, you have ruined my life!"

Mariota stared at her, the woman's gall restoring her tongue if not her strength. "'Tis you who-"

"'Tis I who could have made Hugh a master at barderie," the other boasted, waving the dagger for emphasis.

"You come of a long line of fighting men, warrior lairds who live by the sword," she went on, her eyes blazing. "I have the blood of poets, and a sufficiency of influence in bardic circles to have seen him on his way. So soon as he'd amassed enough coin for us to journey forth from this bog-ridden land of dark hills and desolation."

"Sweet Jesu, you are mad," Mariota breathed, her cheek still burning like a brand. "Hugh would ne'er-" "Hugh would as he pleased, and he ne'er intended to make you his wife," the other flashed, bringing the blade dangerously close to Mariota's face. "But if it soothes your mind, I had no use for him beyond his promise to settle me with a new alehouse-a fine establishment to serve a better lot than frequent the Burning Bush."

Mariota struggled to her knees, silently cursing the light-headedness that kept her from standing. She did turn a blistering stare on the woman. "And now you, like I, have nothing."

"Not so," Elizabeth Paterson disagreed, whirling back to the bed, a whooshing streak of steel revealing her intent.

"No-o-o!" Mariota's eyes flew wide as the dagger plunged into Hugh the Bastard's chest. "In sweet mercy's name!"

"Not mercy, revenge." Her tone chilling, the ghastly deed done, the alewife calmly retrieved her gown from the parchment-littered floor and crossed to the windows.

Heedless of her nakedness and with her flaunting wealth of hair swirling around her, she tossed her gown into the dark night beyond, hoisted herself onto the broad stone ledge.

"Be warned. Hugh's men will have heard the ruckus," she said, looking pleased. "When they come, your dirk will be raging from the Bastard's heart. You will be thought to have murdered him. Vengeance will be mine." And then she was gone, her parting words echoing in the empty chamber, the threat behind them giving Mariota the strength to clamber to her feet.

She staggered forward, intent on reclaiming her dagger however mean the task, but the moment her fingers curled around the blade's jeweled hilt, the sudden clamor of pounding feet stayed her hand. Harsh male voices, raised in outrage and disbelief.

Hugh's men. A half score of them pushed into the room, ready anger flaring on their bearded faces, hot fury thrumming along every inch of their brawny, plaid-hung bodies. Her own body chilled to ice, Mariota faced them. "God as my witness, I did not kill him. 'Twas-"

"Whore! See whose blade pierced his heart!" The nearest man pointed at the dagger hilt thrusting from Hugh's chest. The dirk's jewels sparkled, each colored stone screaming her guilt. "Think you we do not have eyes?"

"And lo! See the handprint on her cheek," another yelled, seizing her arm. "They fought and she slew him in his sleep!"

A third man spat on the floor.

"Hear me, you err ..." Mariota protested, but her tongue proved too thick, the agony in her head and arm too laming.

With the last of her strength, she jerked free and threw a glance at the window. But nothing stirred save a thin smirr of rain.

Elizabeth Paterson may well have been a moonbeam- a figment of Mariota's imagination. But the blade lodged in Hugh the Bastard's heart was real.

And it was hers-as all at Drumodyn knew. She knew she was innocent. And that Hugh the Bastard was a bastard in more ways than one.

A murrain on the man and all his perfidy! Her peace so won, she offered her arm to the guard who'd seized her only moments before, let the fire in her eyes dare him into escorting her from the chamber.

Mariota of Dunach, proud if misguided daughter of the far-famed Archibald Macnicol, would be double damned if she'd tremble and cower before any man.

And she'd be thrice cursed, and gladly, if ever she fell prey to love again.

"Pigs will sing from trees the day I take a wife." His mind spoken, Kenneth MacKenzie glanced around the dais table of Eilean Creag Castle's great hall, looking for understanding. Perhaps a sympathetic nod or, at the very least, a companionable grunt to acknowledge the wisdom of his views.

He received neither. Worse, he was almost certain he'd caught one or two looks of pity.

Having none of that, he fixed his gaze on the high, vaulted ceiling. Just long enough to swallow the snort rising in his throat. Dear to him or nay, the menfolk of Clan MacKenzie had addled wits when it came to the lasses.

He knew the dangers. Not that he ne'er appreciated the amiable sweetness of soft, well-rounded and acquiescing females. Their warm loveliness and other such intoxicating accoutrements. He relished suchlike indeed.

But only with a good measure of caution and when mutual need and satisfaction could be assured, hearts and emotions unfettered.

A wife was a wholly different matter. And utterly out of the question.

"Singing pigs? And in trees?" Elspeth, Eilean Creag's female seneschal shook her gray head as she plunked down a platter of oatcakes in front of him. "Tut, tut, laddie, here is no way to talk."

The only woman in the hall this early of a morn, and the most free-spoken one at that, she dusted her hands on her skirts and looked at him, her merry eyes displaying how little she thought of his declaration.

Her certainty that he'd unsay the words. But Kenneth made no reply. Nor did he regret the sentiment.

Indeed, were it not for the respected old woman's bustling presence, he would have spoken more boldly. Told every gog-eyed, woman-crazed fool who called the loch-girt castle their home exactly what he thought of their jabber. As it was, he simply pressed his lips together and reached for an oatcake.

Not that the sternest look he could muster or even stuffing his mouth with Eilean Creag's finest baked delicacies might spare him the seneschal's keen-eyed perusal. Or her opinion.

"Stranger things than singing pigs have been known to roost in these hills," she said, proving it. Leaning close, she topped his ale cup. "A wise man is prudent with his vows."

"And a wise woman knows when to curb her tongue," Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail, declared from his laird's chair at the head of the high table. "She knows, too, when men wish to be left alone."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Until the Knight Comes by Sue-Ellen Welfonder Copyright © 2006 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder. Excerpted by permission.
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