(Edited 9/19/14) This is in no way related to the group or the ladys posted below. I have their permission to use this stuff and also to create the page in tribute to them. This is not their page but mine showing my love to them.
~ Stay up to date on The Scrolls of Cridhe by clicking the above link
Starting on September 27th they will share a cover a day
Starting on October 4th they will be sharing a blurb a day
Starting on October 11th they will be sharing an excerpt a day
Starting on October 18th they will be sharing an interview with a hero a day.
Starting on October 25th they will be sharing an interview with a heroine a day.
Starting Saturday, there will be a rafflecopter with great prizes that will be open all month.
And what happens on November 1? Pre-orders start and we will announce the winners of the rafflecopter!
~ The Legend -
Long, long ago, in the time before time, seven sisters were called from the far reaches of the realm. Each brought unique talents, but had one common gift; the ability to weave ageless tales of love and courage. An evil witch coveted their gifts and locked them in a tower, silencing their voices upon threat of death. But the Highlands are enchanted, and magic will not countenance seven pure hearts such as theirs to be lost.
With no one else to hear them, they sang their stories to each other. Fate blew a braw Highland wind to their prison, and the sweet, high timbre of the sisters’ voices enthralled it. The wind gathered close their silver words as it raced past each day, and carried their love and goodness throughout the world...then across the ages.
Today, their words live on in the Guardians of Cridhe, seven sisters who have sworn to preserve those pure and musical hearts so long as they live. It is said these seven descend from those ancient female bards. Only their words can bear witness to that truth...
It
is finally my turn! I am so excited about this project! My contribution to the
Scrolls of Cridhe, Highland Revenge, is set in the northern Highlands in 1311
and 1340. Here is my tagline:
Good
morning, good morning (at least here in Southern California)! I'm so excited to
share with you just a snippet--the tagline--for my novella, A Tear for Memory,
in SCROLLS OF CRIDHE, Volume 1: Highland Winds. The story is set in the
mid-18th century in the Western Scottish Highlands.
Hey
everyone! Happy Saturday! I have the honour of being the first to share a wee
taste of my contribution to The Scrolls of Cridhe, Highland Winds bundle. My
novella is entitled Spirit Stones and it is set during the early 17th century
on the Isle of Skye.
BLURB:
~ A Jewel in the Vaults - by Lily Baldwin
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Good
Morning, Everyone! So I am a little giddy this morning. Then again, I think
I've been giddy since we began this project . I'm just so excited about
Highland Winds, Volume One of The Scrolls of Cridhe!!! My novella, A Jewel in
the Vaults, is set in Edinburgh in 1802. Here is my tagline: "Beneath the
ruse is a woman aching to break free."
BLURB:
She has never met a man like him before. Then again, he has never met a lad like her.
In 1802, Edinburgh’s poverty-ridden Old Town is rife with danger, but it is the only home Robbie MacKenzie has ever known. To safeguard herself against the worst villains of the street, Robbie conceals her femininity behind her shorn hair, dirt-smeared face, and tattered breeches. To all the world she is a lad, but beneath the ruse is a woman aching to break free.
Leaving his beloved Highlands behind in pursuit of his prodigal brother, Conall MacKay journeys to Edinburgh. There, he solicits the aid of a young street lad named Robbie. But Conall soon realizes that there is more to both Robbie and Edinburgh’s Old Town than meets the eye.
In a world where wickedness governs and darkness reigns, a savage struggle for dignity, survival, and love begins.
~ Stealing Moirra's Heart - by Suzan Tisdale
Good
morning everyone! Happy Wednesday! It is my turn to share the tagline for my
novella, Stealing Moirra's Heart. I had so much fun writing this story and I'm
truly honored to be a part of this fabulous group of women! My story is set in
the late 1300's. Looking forward to sharing more with you later
'She can't allow his love for her to destroy him...' Lord Grayson's Bride.
There you have it, ladies, the tag line for my novella in the upcoming release of the Scrolls of Cridhe, Volume 1, Highland Winds! For those who know my work, you know I write a bit on the dark side with a bit of an edge. and Lord Grayson's Bride, is no different.This story takes place in 1820 Inverness, Scotland. They were a very civilized l lot, these early nineteenth century Scots. Or were they?
My story takes place in the heart of the Western Highlands. The year is 1351, in autumn, when the hills are kissed by reds and golds, and cold mist curls across the land. The cover’s backdrop is Eilean Donan Castle near Skye ~ and I took the picture! Although I set an entire series at this iconic castle, calling it Eilean Creag in the books, this is the first time I’ve had the castle on a cover. So I am thrilled to bits.
BLURB:
A forbidden love so powerful it could destroy them both.
Mairi MacKenzie can bring the dead back to life. But her fame as this special healer is a curse too much to bear, and she takes refuge in the ancient broch of Dunwynde, the Glen of Winds, her secret, well-guarded home. Many are her reasons for hiding from the world, allowing folk to believe she’s a banshee. Clan MacKenzie protects her as one of their dearest treasures. Only Mairi knows how unworthy she is of her clan’s devotion.
Sir Gare MacTaggert only desires redemption. Once counted amongst Scotland’s greatest warriors, he hasn’t lifted a sword in years because of a battlefield tragedy that broke his soul. All that is left to him is his clan and his home, and now he stands to lose them as well. Scotland’s crown wants his corner of the realm strengthened and so a King’s writ has ordered him to forge an alliance – through marriage.
Yet his honor won’t allow him to wed any woman, dead as he is inside. He seeks the aid of the Glen of Winds banshee, but before she can restore his will to live, they must face a greater challenge: the forbidden love that could destroy them.
~ Here are the excerpts from the above Novellas, I will post them as they show them.
~ Spirit Stones - by Kate Robbins
Here's a scene from the beginning of Spirit Stones.
She tugged at her hair, her fingers moving furiously to hide her braid. Tucking it beneath her cloak, she left the cottage where the brush had grown over the old doorway in back. Her eyes burned from the smoke. Screams filled the air. Sheona pushed gnarled branches away with trembling hands until she found the stone wall, stopping to catch her breath and quell the fire in her chest.
They had attacked hard and fast this time, leaving no chance for the poor souls imprisoned in the fiery tombs they once called homes. Swords clanged and men shouted. No one appeared to notice her creeping along behind the wall. The old midwife she’d come to heal, had died before her arrival. Sheona had been in the village and away from the protection of the castle only moments before the fighting began.
The MacDonalds had been warring with the MacLeods for years. But recently, the attacks on both sides had become more frequent and more ferocious.
Sheona scanned the area. A root cellar was several dozen yards away, its door open. She dashed toward it, stumbling only once. Climbing inside, she closed the door and bolted it, praying no one had seen her.
She listened for sounds outside the cellar, some sign of retreat. A noise somewhere behind her drew the hairs on the back of her neck to rapt attention.
A single puff of breath.
A second.
Feet shuffled in the dirt, spreading a sick burn into her belly.
She was not alone.
Powerful arms engulfed her, squeezing tight and forcing the air from her lungs. The body behind her was huge!
“Do not scream,” a male voice whispered in her ear.
She couldn’t if she wanted to. Terror churned inside her, twisting until she was sure it would strangle her.
He turned their bodies and pressed her against the cold stone wall, securing her hands above her head. His free hand explored her back, her waist, her hip. Somewhere between exploring her hip and the inside of her thigh she stopped breathing.
“What do we have here?”
Her mind searched for an appropriate answer, but her tongue was firmly lodged in her mouth.
“Are you mute then, lass? Well then, no one will hear you scream.” His breath was hot as he whispered the words, fanning her hair.
Now that his arms did not pin her, her head felt light as air rushed back into her body. She needed to say something, try to reason with him, plead even. Above all, she could not tell him who she really was, or else she would surely find his blade across her throat.
“My name is Maggie. I’m the blacksmith’s daughter. Please, my father will give you everything we own if you do not harm me.”
He chuckled. “Maggie, is it? Well, Maggie, my name is Malcolm MacDonald, son of the chief and Lord of the Isles. As long as you do not have a dagger tucked under those skirts, you will come to no harm in my presence.”
“And how long will I be in your presence?”
A Tear for Memory - by Kathryn Lynn Davis
Tossing her thick braid over her shoulder, Caelia Rose started across the moor to the private citadel where the sunlight blessed the water in patterns through the new spring leaves. She had not gone far when she noticed Robert Hamilton walking toward her.
Caelia paused, feeling ill—or not exactly ill, but jittery, or not exactly jittery, but distinctly odd. The one thing she did not feel was afraid. “Good morrow,” she said formally when they stood near enough to speak.
“And to ye,” he replied just as formally. He toyed with his tricorn hat for a moment, then burst out with, “I beg yer pardon for my behavior yesterday. Twas unconscionably rude, and ye’d been most polite and informative. I hope ye’ll forgive me.”
It was important to him; she could see that in the way he clutched his hat in his fingers. “Perhaps,” she said lightly, “if I understood why.”
He sighed, released the pressure from his hat and shook his head. “I just…I was curious and I went too far.”
Observing him, head tilted, she decided she could believe him. Almost. “Curious about what?” She wanted to sound skeptical, but only managed perplexed. Pulling her plaid closer, she waited.
Robert was frustrated again, though he knew she had every right to question him. Or turn him away completely. But he couldn’t let that happen. “About the odd name of yer house for one. Fairies’ Haven? Tis a bit unrealistic, don’t ye think?”
“Aye, but there’s a legend about a fairy cave hidden beneath the big hill the house is built on.” Somehow, to her astonishment, he had turned and they’d begun walking together. He offered her his arm, and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world (and not the first time it had happened to her), she took it, laying her palm on his fine wool frockcoat. She noticed his arm was firm and steady.
“Och, I see. A fairy cave, is it?” He found it difficult to sound the proper note of curiosity and skepticism, though he’d never believed in fairies and such like. “And where, exactly might this hidden cave be?” She smelled slightly of oranges, and the fragrance attracted him. Which was absurd. He’d known many beauties who would not turn him away. This girl-child, though 19-years-old, was a Highland country lass, naïve and ignorant of the ways of the world. Somehow that made him ache, and he did not like the feeling. In any case, he had been the one to make a fool of himself at their last meeting, not she.
“Tis just the trouble. No one’s been able to find it as far back as memory. The real name of the house is The Hill of the Hounds, from an incident in the 14th century, but the people will call it Fairies’ Haven, no matter what we do. And anyway…” She trailed off, eyes full of sadness.
“What, Caelia Rose? Tell me.” He really wanted to know, which surprised him. He frowned.
She took a deep breath and turned to catch him in her golden-brown eyes. “And anyway, the fairies have been gone for a long time.”
Stopping short, he stared at her fixedly. “Surely ye’re no’ serious? Fairies don’t exist.”
She didn’t flinch or look away or blush, but met his stare with gentle pity. “Tis what I thought ye’d say. But they do. And someday they’ll come back. I know that, Robert Hamilton.”
She removed her hand from his arm to find she missed its warmth.
“Even if they did, are ye no’ afraid of them? They’re supposed to be wily tricksters who only want to pull ye down into their world beneath the moss.”
“Some of them, mayhap. But no’ all,” she replied too quickly, her desire to believe naked in her eyes.
He swallowed once, twice, caught in that golden-brown gaze. Covering her hand briefly with his, he shivered at the heat that raced across his palm. She must have felt it too, because her eyes widened in shock. She simply could not hide what she was feeling. He could not remember a time when he had been that young and carefree.
~ Highland Revenge - by Ceci Giltenan
An excerpt from Highland Revenge:
He hadn’t gone terribly far when he caught a glimpse of white halfway up a massive oak. She was well hidden. Her plaid was dark green; he wouldn’t have noticed her among the leaves if he hadn’t been specifically looking for her. He strode closer to the tree, stopping once so he could look up through the branches. There, perched in the crotch of two thick limbs was a woman so perfectly beautiful she might have been part faery. He was left momentarily speechless. Her skin was fair, with a faint pink blush to her cheek. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but they were ringed with sooty lashes. Something told him that, regardless of their hue, they would sparkle. Her rosy lips were full and soft—lips that were made to be kissed. The late afternoon breeze ruffled the mass of black curls around her shoulders. Her léine was torn, but otherwise she appeared none the worse for wear. She is not a fairy, she is a MacNicol, he reminded himself.
She looked down at him silently with her head cocked to one side, as if she was trying to solve some puzzle. She didn’t seem remotely frightened. That would have to change if he was to exact his revenge. “Have ye had a lovely day perched in yer tree, watching us search for ye?”
“I suspect my day was better than yers.”
Her impertinent answer irritated him. “Well ye’ve had yer bit of fun, but it’s over. Climb down.”
She ignored him. “Who are ye?”
“Yer captor, and I ordered ye to climb down. Do it now.”
“Nay, I asked ye a perfectly reasonable question, and ye aren’t my captor if ye can’t reach me. Until I know who ye are, I think I’d just as soon stay free, even if I am up a tree.”
“Free? Nay lass, ye’re as good as locked in my dungeon, and I promise ye will regret yer impertinence.”
He called to one of his men. “Donald, it fair breaks my heart, but the MacNicol lass doesn’t wish to join our company.”
“An arrow would bring her down quick enough.”
“Aye it would, but ye heard her guardsman. This is Fiona MacNicol, Bhaltair’s niece. I wouldn’t want to harm a hair on her wee head.”
Donald snorted. “Ye have no love for the MacNicols, and neither do I. Have ye forgotten? One of my older brothers rode with ye that night.”
“Ye’re right, Donald. I have no love for the MacNicols, but the ransom this one will fetch will hurt Bhaltair’s greedy, black heart nearly as much as a steel blade thrust into it. Mark my words, we’ll have our revenge. We are leaving. Climb up, drag her down and bind her. She managed to evade us once and I won’t have it happen again. We have already wasted too much time on her.” He didn’t spare her another glance but called over his shoulder, “By the way, lass, I am Laird Eoin MacKay, and ye’re most assuredly my prisoner.”
~ A Jewel in the Vaults - by Lily Baldwin
I am very excited to share a taste of A Jewel in the Vaults.... Picture it...Edinburgh...1802...
“What is it ye wish of me?” she said as she held his gaze.
“Ye dunnae speak like someone born in Cowgate,” he said as those crisp blue eyes scrutinized the length of her from head to toe. The setting sun slanted though the window, alighting upon his face, making the blue of his eyes glow like the jewels adorning the dresses in the shops that lined Prince’s Street. He smiled at her now, and it took her breath away. Even white teeth gleamed at her. She had to look away. Gazing upon his bright, clean face was like staring at the sun for too long. She pretended to adjust the frayed ends of her breeches over her knees as she stammered out an answer to his comment.
“I’ve lived my whole miserable life in Cowgate.”
“Nay, lad. Dunnae lie to me. I may, indeed, be from the Highlands, but I am not as daft as ye might like to believe,” he replied as he moved closer to Robbie and took a seat on the bed across from her.
Robbie met his gaze once more, expecting to see anger or at least frustration, but instead the blue eyes looked at her with curiosity and, if she were not mistaken, kindness. Kindness was in low supply in Cowgate. Robbie was not quick to believe what she saw, but she did give the strange man sitting before her an honest answer. “My mother was French. She was not a reputable woman, but she was fine and educated. She taught me to read as well.”
The large man nodded his approval and then slouched back on the bed, resting his weight on his elbows. “Me name is Conall Mackay. As you’ve guessed, I’m from the north, although ye may find yourself surprised by just how far north I’m from. Cape Wrath is me home, and me croft sits on the tip of that. ‘Tis as north as one can travel without a boat. I watch the green earth slope into the sea and the rest of Scotland lies behind me.” He closed his eyes, and pleasure softened the masculine ridges of his face. His words made her think of her mother who had often told stories of the French countryside. Just as Robbie had not been able to picture the thick French forests or shimmering lakes, she also could not imagine what Conall saw in his mind’s eye, but she recognized the peace it brought him. How she longed for peace. She waited for him to continue, wishing to hear more of the sea and sloping earth, but instead he remained quiet, his eyes never leaving hers. She gripped the seat to keep from squirming beneath his steady gaze.
“Do ye sleep on the streets or in a lodgin’ house?”
“Nay,” she snapped as her eyes narrowed. “I have my own room in the tenements. ‘Tis not fine like this, but ‘tis mine alone.”
“Ye have no other family then?” he asked.
She shook her head, “Nay, I have no one.” She sat up straighter as she spoke, trying to make herself look bigger and braver than she really was. Normally, she would have lied and made up a pack of bloodthirsty brothers who would certainly miss the runt of the litter were she to go missing, but this strange man brought only truth to her lips. She blamed his fine eyes. How could she lie to eyes as clean and honest as a cloudless sky?
She looked down at her hands black with dirt and clenched them in frustration. How she wished they were white and fair like the lasses’ hands on Queen’s Street. The woman that she was, hidden by soot and breeches, longed to burst free from the confines of her bindings, to leave the ruse behind, and the man before her with his strange allure fueled that desire. Despite her outer display of indifference, Conall Mackay made her heart race.
~ Stealing Moirra's Heart - by Suzan Tisdale
Yay! It is my turn to post a wee little snippet from my book -- Stealing Moirra's Heart. Scotland, late 1350's.
Moirra Dundotter needed a man.
As much as she hated to admit it, ’twas true.
But not just any man. She needed one with a strong back and, preferably, a malleable mind.
With a dispirited heart, she made her way through the winding streets of the small town of Glenkirby. Paying no attention to the beautiful, bright summer morn, her mind was elsewhere engaged, focused on finding a man who would suit her needs. The longer she thought on it, the more frustrated she became for her options were few.
At nearly thirty years of age and widowed three times now, she was not considered a fine catch by the men of her clan or the little town she was now making her way through. The men who knew her thought her far too stubborn for her own good — not one to bend easily to a man’s will — and far too blunt, no matter how pretty they might consider her to be for a woman of her advanced age.
The fact that her first two husbands had died and the last one had been missing for months now did nothing to help her current situation. Moirra had a reputation for losing husbands.
’Twasn’t that she needed the comfort or love of a man. She’d had that once, with her first husband. Passion and lust with the second. Her last husband she tried very hard to forget.
Nay, she simply needed a man who could help her tend to her fields and animals. A husband would also keep the arrogant farmer to her north from offering another proposal. A husband who might also keep Sheriff Wilgart from asking more uncomfortable questions as they pertained to her aforementioned missing husband.
If she could not find a husband here in Glenkirby, she’d have to travel some three days to the next town. The pickings here were slim at best. Any unmarried man was either too young or far too old. Or worse yet, put off by her reputation and unwilling to enter into marriage with her. Even Malcomb McFarland wouldn’t have her and he was widowed with five children at home in desperate need of a mother.
Entering the town square, Moirra was ready to give up hope, return home and pack her things, when a commotion ahead caught her attention. Making her way through a small crowd of people, she was finally able to see clearly what was — or more specifically who — was making the commotion.
’Twas an odd scene before her. A large, well muscled man, was locked in the pillory. That in and of itself was not so odd. What was odd was the fact that he was dressed in fine clothing and was currently swearing at the auld woman who had just tossed a rotten cabbage at his head. From the look on the auld woman’s face, she neither spoke nor understood the French words that flew from his mouth.
But Moirra understood every word. Her mother, God rest her soul, had been French. “Vieille sorciere ride. Vous estes en cooler parce que vows avez perdu botre ta jeunesse.” Wrinkled auld hag. You’re angry because ye lost yer youth.
Moirra studied him closely for a time. Even locked in the pillory as he was, there was an educated air about him. Although he was quite dirty at the moment, what with bits of rotted cabbage dangling from his dark hair and his muddy trews and boots, it didn’t appear to Moirra that that was his normal state of dress. With her curiosity piqued, she drew closer.
A young boy, mayhap no aulder than ten summers, began taunting the man. “Dunnae where ye be from, ye big lout, but here, we do no’ steal!” The boy threw something unrecognizable at the man’s head before running away.
“Les puce son trop bon pour ton cul.” Fleas are too good for your arse.
The man hid his anger behind a big smile that showed straight white teeth. ’Twas all Moirra could do not to giggle. Though his French was impeccable, something in his countenance — if one could have such a thing whilst locked in a pillory — told her French was his second language. She’d always been quite good at sizing up a person’s character. Well, almost always. She’d been quite wrong about husband number three and did her best to push the thought of him from her mind.
Moirra might not know who this man was, but she sensed he was no thief. She took a step closer. Exceedingly handsome, even if he was dirty and covered with bits of rotten food. ’Twas his smile that pulled her in even closer. His full lips, when drawn back as they were, revealed beautiful, straight white teeth.
His large hands were balled into fists, and she could just make out the faint line where a ring had once been worn, on the small finger of his right hand. A signet ring mayhap? ’Twas possible when she took all the bits and pieces as a whole.
’Twas quite possible that he was a man of means, or had been at one time. Mayhap he had fallen on hard times, for she couldn’t think of another reason why a man who appeared to be educated and affluent — again, when taken as a whole — would be locked in a pillory in the center of Glenkirby. The scenario made perfectly good sense to Moirra. Wanting to know if she was correct in her assumptions, she drew even closer.
Another small boy, friend no doubt of the first, decided that he, too, wanted to taunt and torment the man. “Thief, thief, thief!” he teased. “And no’ a verra good one, neither!”
The man growled at the child and lunged forward. The pillory shook and rattled as he fought to be free of it. The little boy looked ready to wet himself, his eyes growing as wide as wagon wheels. He stepped back and stumbled, landing on his rear end with a thud. The man growled and lunged a second time. The boy scrambled to his feet and ran away.
A loud, nearly melodious laugh filled the air. ’Twasn’t the laugh of a tetched man, but rather one who was quite enjoying himself. Odd, but not the least bit off-putting or terrifying in her way of thinking. Moirra bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud as she enjoyed the scene playing out before her.
’Twas then that an idea began to form in her mind. A former man of means, down on his luck, ending up in Glenkirby of all places, now locked in a pillory for stealing, cursing at auld women and terrifying little boys, and he seemed to be taking great enjoyment from it. If she were correct, the man was harmless.
If her instincts were off, as she had been not long ago, well, things could end up going ghastly wrong again. Still, the man in the pillory was as good as any other choice she might have at the moment. What she needed was a chance to look into his eyes and see. Moirra was a firm believer that one could gain a sense of a person’s character just by looking into their eyes.
She searched the immediate vicinity for the bailie and found him leaning back in a chair, his eyes closed. Good.
While the man continued to laugh and watch the small children fleeing, Moirra quietly made her way to the pillory. She leaned in and whispered, in perfect French, “Somethin’ tells me ye be no thief.”
The man turned abruptly, his bright green eyes flashed with a hint of confusion before he masked it with air of nonchalance. Those bright eyes sparkled in the sun, and something in their twinkle warned her that she would have to tread very carefully with this man. He was dangerous. Och, not the 'he’ll slice your throat whilst ye sleep kind of dangerous'. Nay, he was the kind of dangerous that made women do foolish and stupid things.
He gave her a quick glance up and down, flashed that brilliant white smile and laughed. They were close enough that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. “I am many things, lass. All around bastard, ne’er-do-well, and rakehell. But I be no thief.”
The smoothness of his deep voice felt like a gentle caress against her skin and left a warm feeling deep in her belly. Dark hair cut short framed a most magnificent face. A perfect nose sat atop full lips. Lips that reminded her just how long it had been since she’d last joined with a man. Those lips held a promise, a dangerous promise of things she should not be thinking about. Moirra was a woman full-grown for heaven’s sake, not some innocent lass. Still, the images that flittered about her mind were enough to make her skin burn red. She swallowed hard and did her best to pretend those pleasurable and wicked thoughts had never entered her mind.
“What is yer name?” she asked, in the Scots language.
Instead of answering, he took another up-and-down glance, his eyes taking their time to make their way from her head to her toes. He let them linger far longer on her bosom than might be considered proper. It made her heart pound against her breastbone.
Returning to the French, she asked him again for his name and again, he did not answer. The man might be stubborn, but he’d met his match in Moirra Dundotter. “Fine, I shall call ye John. Pillory John.”
~ The Taming of Mairi MacKenzie - by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
My novella takes place in 1351, in Kintail, the heart of the Western Highlands.
Mairi took a deep breath, steadying herself against the wild beating of her heart, the racing of her blood. The warrior was almost upon her, his strides purposeful. Whoever he was, his eyes were deeply shadowed, their grimness leaving no doubt that he came as a miracle seeker.
Like so many before him.
All that set him apart from the others was the huge dog at his side. A massive brute, the beast could’ve been a wolf-or-deerhound, though a strain of something more savage gave him the look of a war-dog capable of tearing out a man’s throat at a single command.
Mairi felt only a surge of love for him.
He could have been her own beloved Clyde, her much-missed companion who had indeed once been a war-dog, until she’d found and nursed him back to health. Clyde’s years with her had been far too short, but he’d taught her that the softest heart could beat beneath the fiercest exterior, so she didn’t fear the stranger’s dog.
She was wary of the warrior.
So she straightened her shoulders and started forward, not wanting him to reach her door. She didn’t brandish her sword at him. Like as not, he’d flick it aside as easily if brushing lint from his sleeve. But it didn’t hurt for him to see that she was prepared to defend herself.
She just chose to do so with a casual tone and an unconcerned mien.
“Are you lost, sir?” She knew he wasn’t. “Not many wayfarers come this way.”
“I am no’ a traveler, my lady, nor have I erred direction.” He stopped before her, fixing her with his intense, dark eyes. “I am Sir Gare MacTaggert of Blackrock Castle on the other side of this fair realm, and I came to your Glen of Winds to seek the aid of its banshee.”
That I knew, good sir, and you can leave now.
The glen’s banshee cannot help you.
“There is no such being here.” Mairi gave him a third version of the truth. “You have journeyed for naught. I dwell in this glen with my husband,” she allowed herself the lie. “He will return anon-”
“Lady Mairi.” A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I was told you’d attempt to send me away, and I ken you aren’t married.” He glanced down at his dog, then back at her, his smile now gone. “Troll and I come in peace and mean you no harm. Your chieftain’s captain of the guard, Sir Marmaduke, and his men, granted us passage across their lands and into this glen.
“I spoke with them only a short while ago.” He glanced up at the cliff-tops, now thick with lowering mist and clouds. “They were good enough to take my horse back to your chief’s Eilean Creag Castle for stabling and care while I am in the Glen of Winds.”
“You cannot think to stay here.” Mairi tried to look away from him, but couldn’t. His gaze was too compelling. “I dwell alone, my broch too small for a guest.” She waited as the dog rubbed against her, bumping his great head at her hand. “Besides, you’ve truly come in vain. There isn’t a banshee to aid you or anyone.
“The banshee is me.” Mairi stood straighter, ignoring his dog. “She is a tall tale spun to keep intruders from disturbing my peace. No more, no less, see you?”
“So I was told, my lady.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment, another slight smile curving his lips. A sad one this time. “In truth, it was you who drew me here, no’ a myth. Your reputation as a healer is great, reaching even to my lands in Scotland’s distant northeastern bounds. I believe you can help me, leastways I have prayed to the gods that is so. If you will but give me your ear, I swear to depart at first light should you decide against aiding me.”
Mairi frowned, her heart beating wildly again.
The dog, Troll, was leaning into her, staring up at her with friendly, hopeful eyes. His master, Sir Gare, towered over her, a terribly appealing flicker of hope in his own gaze chipping away at her resistance.
Mairi folded her arms, every protective instinct she had screaming caution.
She didn’t want to find any man appealing.
For sure, not one who would turn on her as soon as it became clear that she couldn’t restore life to his loved one.
(A wee glimpse at the hero and heroine’s first meeting.)
“I must ask you to leave.” There, she’d said what she must.
Go before my heart yearns for you as fiercely as my woman’s body already does.
Dear heavens, he smelled of sandalwood, clean wool, leather, cold air and man, and the heady blend was fuzzing her wits, making her vulnerable. Worse, he had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if he’d actually touched her, and in intimate, sensual ways!
Mairi’s pulse quickened, a tingling, long-forgotten warmth pooling low by her thighs.
No virgin, she’d once loved well and had never denied herself passion. She recognized the danger of this man, with his alluring scent and potent virility. His tall, well-muscled body, surely hard as iron. His strong, beautiful hands that reminded her of the pleasures a skilled lover’s questing fingers could give a woman.
Joys she hadn’t known in so long.
“See here, I can do nothing for you,” she started again, sure she was glowering. “Nor can you sleep here.” She indicated the rock-sided glen, the boulder-strewn ground. “Even if I wished you to stay, there isn’t enough bracken to make the thinnest pallet.”
His gaze locked with hers, and something in his expression told her she was losing. “My dog and I can sleep on the ground.” He spoke as if everything was settled. “We have done so most nights of our journey. I need no more than my plaid, and Troll is well-furred enough to no’ feel the rocks beneath him.”
“Very well.” Mairi nodded, sure resistance was futile. “But you’ll leave on the morrow.”
“If you say you cannae help me, aye.”
“I’m telling you that now.”
“It is said you have brought back the breath of life to the coldest of the damned.” His words pierced her heart, making her soul ache. “Your fame is on every bard’s tongue, the wonders you have wrought, the miracles-”
“The tales are untrue.” Mairi tucked her hair behind an ear, kept her chin raised. “No one can bring the dead back to life.”
“Yet you have done so.”
“Aye, but-”
He stepped closer and gripped her arm, his touch sending ripples of awareness through her. “I wouldn’t be here if my request wasn’t dire, my lady. All I ask is that you restore-”
“I regret you’ve lost someone.” She did, especially that she couldn’t do what he wanted.
She knew the pain of heartache.
So before she could think better of it, she lifted her hand to his face and touched his cheek, slid her fingers along his beard. “I do wish I could help you, but all I can offer is my sympathy.”
“You misunderstand.” He caught her hand, lacing their fingers, squeezing tight. Determination burned in his eyes. “The dead I want you to revive is a man who hasn’t truly died. He stands before you.”
~ Lord Grayson's Bride - by Tarah Scott
Here is a tidbit from Lord Grayson's Bride.
Josephine took a step backwards before catching herself. Facing Nicholas alone was far more frightening than being caught half naked with his rival. He seized her free wrist, his fingers like manacles, and she gave a startled cry. He stared for a long moment, the dark rage now mingled with a sadness she too often saw in his brown eyes these days. Pain twisted her heart, but she kept her gaze emotionless.
He released her. “Do you hate me so much, Jo?”
His question shocked her—then she realized this reaction was exactly what she’d wanted. She still clutched her bodice in an effort at modesty and started to turn aside to slip her arms back into the sleeves, then stopped. What better way to remind him of her infidelity than to remain half naked?
Josephine gave a careless laugh. “A man can take as many lovers as he likes, and we women are to accept it, but when a woman wants the same privilege, you men take it personally. Once we are married, what’s to stop you from taking a mistress?”
“Shouldn’t I commit the crime before you make me pay for it?” he said.
“I saw you dance with Rebecca Evans the other night at Lady Graham’s soiree. For all I know, you’re already guilty.”
The hurt in his eyes deepened. “You know better than that.”
She lifted her chin. “Do I?”
“Would you really sabotage our marriage before it’s even begun?”
She gave a careless laugh. “Lord, you are dramatic.”
“This isn’t a childish jibe like dancing too many times with another man,” he said. “Or flirting shamelessly in front of me. You let Beaumond touch you.”
Josephine repressed a shudder of revulsion. Allowing the marquess to touch her had taken all her powers of determination. She hadn’t even been able to conjure the desire for Nicholas that plagued her in order to arouse herself when Lord Beaumond opened his trousers. But Lord Beaumond it had to be, for Nick would never forgive her for fraternizing with the man who seduced his sister.
“Let the past go, Nicholas. Your sister recovered from her affair with Beaumond. She married well and has two children she dotes on.”
“You didn’t console her in those terrible months after he tossed her aside as if she were an old rag,” he said more to himself than her, and she knew he was remembering eight years ago, when Deanna had fallen prey to Lord Beaumond’s charm at the age of eighteen. The affair carried on for two months before Nicholas discovered a letter from his sister that gave away their liaison. “We feared for her life,” he said in a bitter voice.
But Josephine remembered all too well. When Beaumond appeared at the house party yesterday, Josephine knew God—in His perverse amusement—had answered her prayers. She had accepted guilt as her ever-constant companion, and bowed even now to the reminder that allowing Lord Beaumond to seduce her was a sin not only against God, but her family and the only man she had ever loved.
Josephine waved her hand dismissively. “Young lovers are dramatic. God knows, we were.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized it, and she hurriedly added, “But never mind that. Forget the duel. Lord Beaumond is right, if you got lucky enough to kill him, you would hang.”
Nicholas’ gaze bore into her. “Would you shed a single tear if I was hanged?”
“Of course,” she snapped. “I have known you since I was a girl. I care about you.”
“But you don’t want to marry me.”
Josephine turned, afraid he would see in her eyes how very much she did want to marry him. She sauntered to a table where bronze figurines of a poet and his muse sat on a marble table. “Why should I want to marry anyone?” Jo traced a finger along the poet’s toga-clad body. “Marriage means I go from being owned by my father to being owned by my husband.” Her fingers tightened around the fabric she still pressed against her breasts. Being owned by Nicholas would be heavenly. Something inside her shattered and she found herself forcing back tears.
“Your father never treated you like chattel,” he said. She heard the clink of glass and realized he had gone to the sideboard and was pouring a drink. “He adores you and your sister.”
“You call being bartered off to a rich earl adoring?” she retorted.
A moment of deadly silence drew out between them. “A rich earl who loves you,” he finally said. “Me.”
Josephine’s heart constricted. He did love her...and she loved him. But love was the very thing that could destroy them.
“Papa accepted your offer because it came from the great Earl of Grayson,” she said. “Along with more money than anyone else was willing to offer, of course.”
“Did it occur to you that I made sure he couldn’t refuse my offer?”
She swung to face where he leaned a hip against the sideboard. “Oh, indeed, it did. When I refused your offer, you bought me. I am not at all surprised that you defend my father. You two are much alike.”
Yes,” he said, his voice hard. “We both know how to get what we want. I am not sorry, Jo. I won’t live life without you.”
“And you had the resources to buy me.”
“Don’t you think your father accepted my offer because he knows I love you?” Nicholas said. “That I will care for you…protect you?”
“From myself, you mean,” she retorted.
“Don’t act as if it hasn’t been necessary. Today is a perfect example.”
In a flash, she closed the distance between them. He slammed the glass down onto the sideboard and straightened as she went up on tiptoes in an attempt to get nose-to-nose with him.
She was still forced to tilt her head up, but narrowed her eyes, and said, “I had the situation with Lord Beaumond perfectly well in hand.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “So I saw.”
“I lived without you for six years, Nick—and quite well, if you must know. Yet you act as if I cannot take care of myself, or worse, as if no other man has ever loved me.”
“No doubt you left a string of broken hearts from Inverness to Edinburgh. But none of those poor devils knew you. God knows, if they did, they would have put as much distance as possible between themselves and you.”
“How dare you?” she breathed. “I suppose you know me, but still manage to love me?”
“Aye,” he replied. “I love you more than life itself.”
~ Don't forget to enter the Rafflecopter! They are giving away a $25 Amazon gift card, bundles of books and copies of The Scrolls of Cridhe on release!
When reviews come in I will post them for each book named above.
Don't forget to go and Join the group. What better way to stay up to date?
And what happens on November 1? Pre-orders start and we will announce the winners of the rafflecopter!
 |
| The Seven Sisters |
~ The Legend -
Long, long ago, in the time before time, seven sisters were called from the far reaches of the realm. Each brought unique talents, but had one common gift; the ability to weave ageless tales of love and courage. An evil witch coveted their gifts and locked them in a tower, silencing their voices upon threat of death. But the Highlands are enchanted, and magic will not countenance seven pure hearts such as theirs to be lost.
With no one else to hear them, they sang their stories to each other. Fate blew a braw Highland wind to their prison, and the sweet, high timbre of the sisters’ voices enthralled it. The wind gathered close their silver words as it raced past each day, and carried their love and goodness throughout the world...then across the ages.
Today, their words live on in the Guardians of Cridhe, seven sisters who have sworn to preserve those pure and musical hearts so long as they live. It is said these seven descend from those ancient female bards. Only their words can bear witness to that truth...
~ Highland Revenge - by Ceci Giltenan
It
is finally my turn! I am so excited about this project! My contribution to the
Scrolls of Cridhe, Highland Revenge, is set in the northern Highlands in 1311
and 1340. Here is my tagline:
"Does
he hate her clan enough to visit his vengeance on her? Or will he listen to her
secret and his own heart's yearning?"
BLURB:
Highland Revenge is set in the Scottish Highlands in 1340
Does he hate her clan enough to visit his vengeance on her? Or will he listen to her secret and his own heart’s yearning?
Hatred lives and breathes between medieval clans who often don’t remember why feuds began in the shadowed past.
But Eoin MacKay remembers.
He will never forget how he was treated by Bhaltair MacNicol—the acting head of Clan MacNicol. He was lucky to escape alive, and vows to have revenge.
Years later, as laird of Clan MacKay, he gets his chance when he captures Lady Fiona MacNicol. His desire for revenge is strong but he is beguiled by his captive. Can he forget his stubborn hatred long enough to listen to the secret she has kept for so long? And once he knows the truth, can he show her she is not alone and forsaken? In the end, is he strong enough to fight the combined hostilities and age-old grudges that demand he give her up?
~ A Tear for Memory - by Kathryn Lynn Davis
BLURB:
Highland Revenge is set in the Scottish Highlands in 1340
Does he hate her clan enough to visit his vengeance on her? Or will he listen to her secret and his own heart’s yearning?
Hatred lives and breathes between medieval clans who often don’t remember why feuds began in the shadowed past.
But Eoin MacKay remembers.
He will never forget how he was treated by Bhaltair MacNicol—the acting head of Clan MacNicol. He was lucky to escape alive, and vows to have revenge.
Years later, as laird of Clan MacKay, he gets his chance when he captures Lady Fiona MacNicol. His desire for revenge is strong but he is beguiled by his captive. Can he forget his stubborn hatred long enough to listen to the secret she has kept for so long? And once he knows the truth, can he show her she is not alone and forsaken? In the end, is he strong enough to fight the combined hostilities and age-old grudges that demand he give her up?
~ A Tear for Memory - by Kathryn Lynn Davis
Good
morning, good morning (at least here in Southern California)! I'm so excited to
share with you just a snippet--the tagline--for my novella, A Tear for Memory,
in SCROLLS OF CRIDHE, Volume 1: Highland Winds. The story is set in the
mid-18th century in the Western Scottish Highlands.
"How
can a seer paint 'Truth' when she’s lived a life of lies?
Will
she allow a man who has twice deceived her to open her heart to the
truth?"
BLURB:
The story is set in Glen Affric in the Scottish Highlands in 1765.
How can a seer paint ‘Truth’ when she’s lived a life of lies? Will she allow a man who has twice deceived her to open her heart to the truth?
In the Highlands of Glen Affric, years after The Forty-Five—the Jacobite rising led by Bonnie Prince Charlie—Celia Rose lives happily in Faeries’ Haven, where the lies that protect her from the past keep the magic and the faeries away. She finds her only magic when she paints, and “sees” things she cannot possibly know: she has been blessed with the Sight.
When a stranger comes on a mysterious errand, he threatens those who want to keep her safe at home. Little by little, he shows her new colors, new worlds and, most compelling—new passions. But he also brings danger, for he, too, lives a lie and is not what he seems. Still, danger comes in many forms, and the truth he offers leaves Celia with a difficult choice: to believe in those who loved and raised her; or trust this man, and learn the dark secret that could both destroy her innocence and forge in her a woman’s heart.
~ Spirit Stones - by Kate Robbins
BLURB:
The story is set in Glen Affric in the Scottish Highlands in 1765.
How can a seer paint ‘Truth’ when she’s lived a life of lies? Will she allow a man who has twice deceived her to open her heart to the truth?
In the Highlands of Glen Affric, years after The Forty-Five—the Jacobite rising led by Bonnie Prince Charlie—Celia Rose lives happily in Faeries’ Haven, where the lies that protect her from the past keep the magic and the faeries away. She finds her only magic when she paints, and “sees” things she cannot possibly know: she has been blessed with the Sight.
When a stranger comes on a mysterious errand, he threatens those who want to keep her safe at home. Little by little, he shows her new colors, new worlds and, most compelling—new passions. But he also brings danger, for he, too, lives a lie and is not what he seems. Still, danger comes in many forms, and the truth he offers leaves Celia with a difficult choice: to believe in those who loved and raised her; or trust this man, and learn the dark secret that could both destroy her innocence and forge in her a woman’s heart.
~ Spirit Stones - by Kate Robbins
Hey
everyone! Happy Saturday! I have the honour of being the first to share a wee
taste of my contribution to The Scrolls of Cridhe, Highland Winds bundle. My
novella is entitled Spirit Stones and it is set during the early 17th century
on the Isle of Skye.
"Sheona
MacLeod has a gift.
Malcolm
MacDonald seeks change.
Together,
they can change destiny--if they dare."
BLURB:
Sheona MacLeod has a gift.
Connected to the spirit world, Sheona engages with souls long departed. Caught in the middle of the most vicious battle she has ever witnessed, she is captured by her bitter enemy. Armed with only her gift, can she escape his clutches and return to the safety of her clan?
Malcolm MacDonald seeks change.
Exhausted from the centuries old feud between his clan, the MacDonalds, and the MacLeods, Malcolm sees no future for any of them. His enemy’s intoxicating daughter stirs a need for peace within him that drives him to risk everything—except her.
Together, they can change destiny—if they dare.
At the climax of one of the bloodiest feuds in clan history, Malcolm and Sheona forge a powerful bond strong enough to break the shackles of prejudice and hatred.
Connected to the spirit world, Sheona engages with souls long departed. Caught in the middle of the most vicious battle she has ever witnessed, she is captured by her bitter enemy. Armed with only her gift, can she escape his clutches and return to the safety of her clan?
Malcolm MacDonald seeks change.
Exhausted from the centuries old feud between his clan, the MacDonalds, and the MacLeods, Malcolm sees no future for any of them. His enemy’s intoxicating daughter stirs a need for peace within him that drives him to risk everything—except her.
Together, they can change destiny—if they dare.
At the climax of one of the bloodiest feuds in clan history, Malcolm and Sheona forge a powerful bond strong enough to break the shackles of prejudice and hatred.
~ A Jewel in the Vaults - by Lily Baldwin
Good
Morning, Everyone! So I am a little giddy this morning. Then again, I think
I've been giddy since we began this project . I'm just so excited about
Highland Winds, Volume One of The Scrolls of Cridhe!!! My novella, A Jewel in
the Vaults, is set in Edinburgh in 1802. Here is my tagline: "Beneath the
ruse is a woman aching to break free." BLURB:
She has never met a man like him before. Then again, he has never met a lad like her.
In 1802, Edinburgh’s poverty-ridden Old Town is rife with danger, but it is the only home Robbie MacKenzie has ever known. To safeguard herself against the worst villains of the street, Robbie conceals her femininity behind her shorn hair, dirt-smeared face, and tattered breeches. To all the world she is a lad, but beneath the ruse is a woman aching to break free.
Leaving his beloved Highlands behind in pursuit of his prodigal brother, Conall MacKay journeys to Edinburgh. There, he solicits the aid of a young street lad named Robbie. But Conall soon realizes that there is more to both Robbie and Edinburgh’s Old Town than meets the eye.
In a world where wickedness governs and darkness reigns, a savage struggle for dignity, survival, and love begins.
~ Stealing Moirra's Heart - by Suzan Tisdale
Good
morning everyone! Happy Wednesday! It is my turn to share the tagline for my
novella, Stealing Moirra's Heart. I had so much fun writing this story and I'm
truly honored to be a part of this fabulous group of women! My story is set in
the late 1300's. Looking forward to sharing more with you later
"She
didn't believe he was a thief when she rescued him ... until he stole her
heart."
BLURB:
BLURB:
Moirra
Dundottar needs a man. Much as she hates to admit it, it's true. With a
reputation for losing husbands, her prospects are slim, her outlook
bleak. Until the morning she sees a strange man on the town square--a
man who's accused of being a thief and is locked in the pillory.
"Something tells me ye be no thief."
The strange man gives her a quick glance up and down, flashes a brilliant white smile and laughs. "I am many things, lass. All around bastard, ne'er-do-well, and rakehell. But I be no thief."
She didn’t believe he was a thief when she rescued him … until he stole her heart.
"Something tells me ye be no thief."
The strange man gives her a quick glance up and down, flashes a brilliant white smile and laughs. "I am many things, lass. All around bastard, ne'er-do-well, and rakehell. But I be no thief."
She didn’t believe he was a thief when she rescued him … until he stole her heart.
~ Lord Grayson's Bride - by Tarah Scott
'She can't allow his love for her to destroy him...' Lord Grayson's Bride.There you have it, ladies, the tag line for my novella in the upcoming release of the Scrolls of Cridhe, Volume 1, Highland Winds! For those who know my work, you know I write a bit on the dark side with a bit of an edge. and Lord Grayson's Bride, is no different.This story takes place in 1820 Inverness, Scotland. They were a very civilized l lot, these early nineteenth century Scots. Or were they?
BLURB: She can’t allow his love for her to destroy him...
When Nicholas Spencer, Earl of Grayson, returns to claim the woman he loves, Lady Josephine Knightly isn’t willing to forgive him for abandoning her six years ago. But neither can she resist the man he’s become.
Two days after Josephine signs the marriage contract she discovers a nasty secret that will destroy her family. The only way to protect them—to protect the only man she’s ever loved—is to disappear...or die.
Nicholas won’t make the same mistake twice and let Josephine Knightly go. She loves him. He felt it in their one kiss before he left, and in the single kiss she allowed since his return. But she’s doing everything in her power to sabotage the marriage even before it’s begun. Nicholas doesn’t care. If Hell is where he must live to have her, then she must stand by his side in the fire.
When Nicholas Spencer, Earl of Grayson, returns to claim the woman he loves, Lady Josephine Knightly isn’t willing to forgive him for abandoning her six years ago. But neither can she resist the man he’s become.
Two days after Josephine signs the marriage contract she discovers a nasty secret that will destroy her family. The only way to protect them—to protect the only man she’s ever loved—is to disappear...or die.
Nicholas won’t make the same mistake twice and let Josephine Knightly go. She loves him. He felt it in their one kiss before he left, and in the single kiss she allowed since his return. But she’s doing everything in her power to sabotage the marriage even before it’s begun. Nicholas doesn’t care. If Hell is where he must live to have her, then she must stand by his side in the fire.
~ The Taming of Mairi MacKenzie - by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
"A forbidden love so powerful, it could destroy them
both."
My story takes place in the heart of the Western Highlands. The year is 1351, in autumn, when the hills are kissed by reds and golds, and cold mist curls across the land. The cover’s backdrop is Eilean Donan Castle near Skye ~ and I took the picture! Although I set an entire series at this iconic castle, calling it Eilean Creag in the books, this is the first time I’ve had the castle on a cover. So I am thrilled to bits.
BLURB:
A forbidden love so powerful it could destroy them both.
Mairi MacKenzie can bring the dead back to life. But her fame as this special healer is a curse too much to bear, and she takes refuge in the ancient broch of Dunwynde, the Glen of Winds, her secret, well-guarded home. Many are her reasons for hiding from the world, allowing folk to believe she’s a banshee. Clan MacKenzie protects her as one of their dearest treasures. Only Mairi knows how unworthy she is of her clan’s devotion.
Sir Gare MacTaggert only desires redemption. Once counted amongst Scotland’s greatest warriors, he hasn’t lifted a sword in years because of a battlefield tragedy that broke his soul. All that is left to him is his clan and his home, and now he stands to lose them as well. Scotland’s crown wants his corner of the realm strengthened and so a King’s writ has ordered him to forge an alliance – through marriage.
Yet his honor won’t allow him to wed any woman, dead as he is inside. He seeks the aid of the Glen of Winds banshee, but before she can restore his will to live, they must face a greater challenge: the forbidden love that could destroy them.
~ Here are the excerpts from the above Novellas, I will post them as they show them.
~ Spirit Stones - by Kate Robbins
Here's a scene from the beginning of Spirit Stones.
She tugged at her hair, her fingers moving furiously to hide her braid. Tucking it beneath her cloak, she left the cottage where the brush had grown over the old doorway in back. Her eyes burned from the smoke. Screams filled the air. Sheona pushed gnarled branches away with trembling hands until she found the stone wall, stopping to catch her breath and quell the fire in her chest.
They had attacked hard and fast this time, leaving no chance for the poor souls imprisoned in the fiery tombs they once called homes. Swords clanged and men shouted. No one appeared to notice her creeping along behind the wall. The old midwife she’d come to heal, had died before her arrival. Sheona had been in the village and away from the protection of the castle only moments before the fighting began.
The MacDonalds had been warring with the MacLeods for years. But recently, the attacks on both sides had become more frequent and more ferocious.
Sheona scanned the area. A root cellar was several dozen yards away, its door open. She dashed toward it, stumbling only once. Climbing inside, she closed the door and bolted it, praying no one had seen her.
She listened for sounds outside the cellar, some sign of retreat. A noise somewhere behind her drew the hairs on the back of her neck to rapt attention.
A single puff of breath.
A second.
Feet shuffled in the dirt, spreading a sick burn into her belly.
She was not alone.
Powerful arms engulfed her, squeezing tight and forcing the air from her lungs. The body behind her was huge!
“Do not scream,” a male voice whispered in her ear.
She couldn’t if she wanted to. Terror churned inside her, twisting until she was sure it would strangle her.
He turned their bodies and pressed her against the cold stone wall, securing her hands above her head. His free hand explored her back, her waist, her hip. Somewhere between exploring her hip and the inside of her thigh she stopped breathing.
“What do we have here?”
Her mind searched for an appropriate answer, but her tongue was firmly lodged in her mouth.
“Are you mute then, lass? Well then, no one will hear you scream.” His breath was hot as he whispered the words, fanning her hair.
Now that his arms did not pin her, her head felt light as air rushed back into her body. She needed to say something, try to reason with him, plead even. Above all, she could not tell him who she really was, or else she would surely find his blade across her throat.
“My name is Maggie. I’m the blacksmith’s daughter. Please, my father will give you everything we own if you do not harm me.”
He chuckled. “Maggie, is it? Well, Maggie, my name is Malcolm MacDonald, son of the chief and Lord of the Isles. As long as you do not have a dagger tucked under those skirts, you will come to no harm in my presence.”
“And how long will I be in your presence?”
A Tear for Memory - by Kathryn Lynn Davis
Tossing her thick braid over her shoulder, Caelia Rose started across the moor to the private citadel where the sunlight blessed the water in patterns through the new spring leaves. She had not gone far when she noticed Robert Hamilton walking toward her.
Caelia paused, feeling ill—or not exactly ill, but jittery, or not exactly jittery, but distinctly odd. The one thing she did not feel was afraid. “Good morrow,” she said formally when they stood near enough to speak.
“And to ye,” he replied just as formally. He toyed with his tricorn hat for a moment, then burst out with, “I beg yer pardon for my behavior yesterday. Twas unconscionably rude, and ye’d been most polite and informative. I hope ye’ll forgive me.”
It was important to him; she could see that in the way he clutched his hat in his fingers. “Perhaps,” she said lightly, “if I understood why.”
He sighed, released the pressure from his hat and shook his head. “I just…I was curious and I went too far.”
Observing him, head tilted, she decided she could believe him. Almost. “Curious about what?” She wanted to sound skeptical, but only managed perplexed. Pulling her plaid closer, she waited.
Robert was frustrated again, though he knew she had every right to question him. Or turn him away completely. But he couldn’t let that happen. “About the odd name of yer house for one. Fairies’ Haven? Tis a bit unrealistic, don’t ye think?”
“Aye, but there’s a legend about a fairy cave hidden beneath the big hill the house is built on.” Somehow, to her astonishment, he had turned and they’d begun walking together. He offered her his arm, and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world (and not the first time it had happened to her), she took it, laying her palm on his fine wool frockcoat. She noticed his arm was firm and steady.
“Och, I see. A fairy cave, is it?” He found it difficult to sound the proper note of curiosity and skepticism, though he’d never believed in fairies and such like. “And where, exactly might this hidden cave be?” She smelled slightly of oranges, and the fragrance attracted him. Which was absurd. He’d known many beauties who would not turn him away. This girl-child, though 19-years-old, was a Highland country lass, naïve and ignorant of the ways of the world. Somehow that made him ache, and he did not like the feeling. In any case, he had been the one to make a fool of himself at their last meeting, not she.
“Tis just the trouble. No one’s been able to find it as far back as memory. The real name of the house is The Hill of the Hounds, from an incident in the 14th century, but the people will call it Fairies’ Haven, no matter what we do. And anyway…” She trailed off, eyes full of sadness.
“What, Caelia Rose? Tell me.” He really wanted to know, which surprised him. He frowned.
She took a deep breath and turned to catch him in her golden-brown eyes. “And anyway, the fairies have been gone for a long time.”
Stopping short, he stared at her fixedly. “Surely ye’re no’ serious? Fairies don’t exist.”
She didn’t flinch or look away or blush, but met his stare with gentle pity. “Tis what I thought ye’d say. But they do. And someday they’ll come back. I know that, Robert Hamilton.”
She removed her hand from his arm to find she missed its warmth.
“Even if they did, are ye no’ afraid of them? They’re supposed to be wily tricksters who only want to pull ye down into their world beneath the moss.”
“Some of them, mayhap. But no’ all,” she replied too quickly, her desire to believe naked in her eyes.
He swallowed once, twice, caught in that golden-brown gaze. Covering her hand briefly with his, he shivered at the heat that raced across his palm. She must have felt it too, because her eyes widened in shock. She simply could not hide what she was feeling. He could not remember a time when he had been that young and carefree.
~ Highland Revenge - by Ceci Giltenan
An excerpt from Highland Revenge:
He hadn’t gone terribly far when he caught a glimpse of white halfway up a massive oak. She was well hidden. Her plaid was dark green; he wouldn’t have noticed her among the leaves if he hadn’t been specifically looking for her. He strode closer to the tree, stopping once so he could look up through the branches. There, perched in the crotch of two thick limbs was a woman so perfectly beautiful she might have been part faery. He was left momentarily speechless. Her skin was fair, with a faint pink blush to her cheek. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but they were ringed with sooty lashes. Something told him that, regardless of their hue, they would sparkle. Her rosy lips were full and soft—lips that were made to be kissed. The late afternoon breeze ruffled the mass of black curls around her shoulders. Her léine was torn, but otherwise she appeared none the worse for wear. She is not a fairy, she is a MacNicol, he reminded himself.
She looked down at him silently with her head cocked to one side, as if she was trying to solve some puzzle. She didn’t seem remotely frightened. That would have to change if he was to exact his revenge. “Have ye had a lovely day perched in yer tree, watching us search for ye?”
“I suspect my day was better than yers.”
Her impertinent answer irritated him. “Well ye’ve had yer bit of fun, but it’s over. Climb down.”
She ignored him. “Who are ye?”
“Yer captor, and I ordered ye to climb down. Do it now.”
“Nay, I asked ye a perfectly reasonable question, and ye aren’t my captor if ye can’t reach me. Until I know who ye are, I think I’d just as soon stay free, even if I am up a tree.”
“Free? Nay lass, ye’re as good as locked in my dungeon, and I promise ye will regret yer impertinence.”
He called to one of his men. “Donald, it fair breaks my heart, but the MacNicol lass doesn’t wish to join our company.”
“An arrow would bring her down quick enough.”
“Aye it would, but ye heard her guardsman. This is Fiona MacNicol, Bhaltair’s niece. I wouldn’t want to harm a hair on her wee head.”
Donald snorted. “Ye have no love for the MacNicols, and neither do I. Have ye forgotten? One of my older brothers rode with ye that night.”
“Ye’re right, Donald. I have no love for the MacNicols, but the ransom this one will fetch will hurt Bhaltair’s greedy, black heart nearly as much as a steel blade thrust into it. Mark my words, we’ll have our revenge. We are leaving. Climb up, drag her down and bind her. She managed to evade us once and I won’t have it happen again. We have already wasted too much time on her.” He didn’t spare her another glance but called over his shoulder, “By the way, lass, I am Laird Eoin MacKay, and ye’re most assuredly my prisoner.”
~ A Jewel in the Vaults - by Lily Baldwin
I am very excited to share a taste of A Jewel in the Vaults.... Picture it...Edinburgh...1802...
“What is it ye wish of me?” she said as she held his gaze.
“Ye dunnae speak like someone born in Cowgate,” he said as those crisp blue eyes scrutinized the length of her from head to toe. The setting sun slanted though the window, alighting upon his face, making the blue of his eyes glow like the jewels adorning the dresses in the shops that lined Prince’s Street. He smiled at her now, and it took her breath away. Even white teeth gleamed at her. She had to look away. Gazing upon his bright, clean face was like staring at the sun for too long. She pretended to adjust the frayed ends of her breeches over her knees as she stammered out an answer to his comment.
“I’ve lived my whole miserable life in Cowgate.”
“Nay, lad. Dunnae lie to me. I may, indeed, be from the Highlands, but I am not as daft as ye might like to believe,” he replied as he moved closer to Robbie and took a seat on the bed across from her.
Robbie met his gaze once more, expecting to see anger or at least frustration, but instead the blue eyes looked at her with curiosity and, if she were not mistaken, kindness. Kindness was in low supply in Cowgate. Robbie was not quick to believe what she saw, but she did give the strange man sitting before her an honest answer. “My mother was French. She was not a reputable woman, but she was fine and educated. She taught me to read as well.”
The large man nodded his approval and then slouched back on the bed, resting his weight on his elbows. “Me name is Conall Mackay. As you’ve guessed, I’m from the north, although ye may find yourself surprised by just how far north I’m from. Cape Wrath is me home, and me croft sits on the tip of that. ‘Tis as north as one can travel without a boat. I watch the green earth slope into the sea and the rest of Scotland lies behind me.” He closed his eyes, and pleasure softened the masculine ridges of his face. His words made her think of her mother who had often told stories of the French countryside. Just as Robbie had not been able to picture the thick French forests or shimmering lakes, she also could not imagine what Conall saw in his mind’s eye, but she recognized the peace it brought him. How she longed for peace. She waited for him to continue, wishing to hear more of the sea and sloping earth, but instead he remained quiet, his eyes never leaving hers. She gripped the seat to keep from squirming beneath his steady gaze.
“Do ye sleep on the streets or in a lodgin’ house?”
“Nay,” she snapped as her eyes narrowed. “I have my own room in the tenements. ‘Tis not fine like this, but ‘tis mine alone.”
“Ye have no other family then?” he asked.
She shook her head, “Nay, I have no one.” She sat up straighter as she spoke, trying to make herself look bigger and braver than she really was. Normally, she would have lied and made up a pack of bloodthirsty brothers who would certainly miss the runt of the litter were she to go missing, but this strange man brought only truth to her lips. She blamed his fine eyes. How could she lie to eyes as clean and honest as a cloudless sky?
She looked down at her hands black with dirt and clenched them in frustration. How she wished they were white and fair like the lasses’ hands on Queen’s Street. The woman that she was, hidden by soot and breeches, longed to burst free from the confines of her bindings, to leave the ruse behind, and the man before her with his strange allure fueled that desire. Despite her outer display of indifference, Conall Mackay made her heart race.
~ Stealing Moirra's Heart - by Suzan Tisdale
Yay! It is my turn to post a wee little snippet from my book -- Stealing Moirra's Heart. Scotland, late 1350's.
Moirra Dundotter needed a man.
As much as she hated to admit it, ’twas true.
But not just any man. She needed one with a strong back and, preferably, a malleable mind.
With a dispirited heart, she made her way through the winding streets of the small town of Glenkirby. Paying no attention to the beautiful, bright summer morn, her mind was elsewhere engaged, focused on finding a man who would suit her needs. The longer she thought on it, the more frustrated she became for her options were few.
At nearly thirty years of age and widowed three times now, she was not considered a fine catch by the men of her clan or the little town she was now making her way through. The men who knew her thought her far too stubborn for her own good — not one to bend easily to a man’s will — and far too blunt, no matter how pretty they might consider her to be for a woman of her advanced age.
The fact that her first two husbands had died and the last one had been missing for months now did nothing to help her current situation. Moirra had a reputation for losing husbands.
’Twasn’t that she needed the comfort or love of a man. She’d had that once, with her first husband. Passion and lust with the second. Her last husband she tried very hard to forget.
Nay, she simply needed a man who could help her tend to her fields and animals. A husband would also keep the arrogant farmer to her north from offering another proposal. A husband who might also keep Sheriff Wilgart from asking more uncomfortable questions as they pertained to her aforementioned missing husband.
If she could not find a husband here in Glenkirby, she’d have to travel some three days to the next town. The pickings here were slim at best. Any unmarried man was either too young or far too old. Or worse yet, put off by her reputation and unwilling to enter into marriage with her. Even Malcomb McFarland wouldn’t have her and he was widowed with five children at home in desperate need of a mother.
Entering the town square, Moirra was ready to give up hope, return home and pack her things, when a commotion ahead caught her attention. Making her way through a small crowd of people, she was finally able to see clearly what was — or more specifically who — was making the commotion.
’Twas an odd scene before her. A large, well muscled man, was locked in the pillory. That in and of itself was not so odd. What was odd was the fact that he was dressed in fine clothing and was currently swearing at the auld woman who had just tossed a rotten cabbage at his head. From the look on the auld woman’s face, she neither spoke nor understood the French words that flew from his mouth.
But Moirra understood every word. Her mother, God rest her soul, had been French. “Vieille sorciere ride. Vous estes en cooler parce que vows avez perdu botre ta jeunesse.” Wrinkled auld hag. You’re angry because ye lost yer youth.
Moirra studied him closely for a time. Even locked in the pillory as he was, there was an educated air about him. Although he was quite dirty at the moment, what with bits of rotted cabbage dangling from his dark hair and his muddy trews and boots, it didn’t appear to Moirra that that was his normal state of dress. With her curiosity piqued, she drew closer.
A young boy, mayhap no aulder than ten summers, began taunting the man. “Dunnae where ye be from, ye big lout, but here, we do no’ steal!” The boy threw something unrecognizable at the man’s head before running away.
“Les puce son trop bon pour ton cul.” Fleas are too good for your arse.
The man hid his anger behind a big smile that showed straight white teeth. ’Twas all Moirra could do not to giggle. Though his French was impeccable, something in his countenance — if one could have such a thing whilst locked in a pillory — told her French was his second language. She’d always been quite good at sizing up a person’s character. Well, almost always. She’d been quite wrong about husband number three and did her best to push the thought of him from her mind.
Moirra might not know who this man was, but she sensed he was no thief. She took a step closer. Exceedingly handsome, even if he was dirty and covered with bits of rotten food. ’Twas his smile that pulled her in even closer. His full lips, when drawn back as they were, revealed beautiful, straight white teeth.
His large hands were balled into fists, and she could just make out the faint line where a ring had once been worn, on the small finger of his right hand. A signet ring mayhap? ’Twas possible when she took all the bits and pieces as a whole.
’Twas quite possible that he was a man of means, or had been at one time. Mayhap he had fallen on hard times, for she couldn’t think of another reason why a man who appeared to be educated and affluent — again, when taken as a whole — would be locked in a pillory in the center of Glenkirby. The scenario made perfectly good sense to Moirra. Wanting to know if she was correct in her assumptions, she drew even closer.
Another small boy, friend no doubt of the first, decided that he, too, wanted to taunt and torment the man. “Thief, thief, thief!” he teased. “And no’ a verra good one, neither!”
The man growled at the child and lunged forward. The pillory shook and rattled as he fought to be free of it. The little boy looked ready to wet himself, his eyes growing as wide as wagon wheels. He stepped back and stumbled, landing on his rear end with a thud. The man growled and lunged a second time. The boy scrambled to his feet and ran away.
A loud, nearly melodious laugh filled the air. ’Twasn’t the laugh of a tetched man, but rather one who was quite enjoying himself. Odd, but not the least bit off-putting or terrifying in her way of thinking. Moirra bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing out loud as she enjoyed the scene playing out before her.
’Twas then that an idea began to form in her mind. A former man of means, down on his luck, ending up in Glenkirby of all places, now locked in a pillory for stealing, cursing at auld women and terrifying little boys, and he seemed to be taking great enjoyment from it. If she were correct, the man was harmless.
If her instincts were off, as she had been not long ago, well, things could end up going ghastly wrong again. Still, the man in the pillory was as good as any other choice she might have at the moment. What she needed was a chance to look into his eyes and see. Moirra was a firm believer that one could gain a sense of a person’s character just by looking into their eyes.
She searched the immediate vicinity for the bailie and found him leaning back in a chair, his eyes closed. Good.
While the man continued to laugh and watch the small children fleeing, Moirra quietly made her way to the pillory. She leaned in and whispered, in perfect French, “Somethin’ tells me ye be no thief.”
The man turned abruptly, his bright green eyes flashed with a hint of confusion before he masked it with air of nonchalance. Those bright eyes sparkled in the sun, and something in their twinkle warned her that she would have to tread very carefully with this man. He was dangerous. Och, not the 'he’ll slice your throat whilst ye sleep kind of dangerous'. Nay, he was the kind of dangerous that made women do foolish and stupid things.
He gave her a quick glance up and down, flashed that brilliant white smile and laughed. They were close enough that she could feel his warm breath on her cheek. “I am many things, lass. All around bastard, ne’er-do-well, and rakehell. But I be no thief.”
The smoothness of his deep voice felt like a gentle caress against her skin and left a warm feeling deep in her belly. Dark hair cut short framed a most magnificent face. A perfect nose sat atop full lips. Lips that reminded her just how long it had been since she’d last joined with a man. Those lips held a promise, a dangerous promise of things she should not be thinking about. Moirra was a woman full-grown for heaven’s sake, not some innocent lass. Still, the images that flittered about her mind were enough to make her skin burn red. She swallowed hard and did her best to pretend those pleasurable and wicked thoughts had never entered her mind.
“What is yer name?” she asked, in the Scots language.
Instead of answering, he took another up-and-down glance, his eyes taking their time to make their way from her head to her toes. He let them linger far longer on her bosom than might be considered proper. It made her heart pound against her breastbone.
Returning to the French, she asked him again for his name and again, he did not answer. The man might be stubborn, but he’d met his match in Moirra Dundotter. “Fine, I shall call ye John. Pillory John.”
~ The Taming of Mairi MacKenzie - by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
My novella takes place in 1351, in Kintail, the heart of the Western Highlands.
Mairi took a deep breath, steadying herself against the wild beating of her heart, the racing of her blood. The warrior was almost upon her, his strides purposeful. Whoever he was, his eyes were deeply shadowed, their grimness leaving no doubt that he came as a miracle seeker.
Like so many before him.
All that set him apart from the others was the huge dog at his side. A massive brute, the beast could’ve been a wolf-or-deerhound, though a strain of something more savage gave him the look of a war-dog capable of tearing out a man’s throat at a single command.
Mairi felt only a surge of love for him.
He could have been her own beloved Clyde, her much-missed companion who had indeed once been a war-dog, until she’d found and nursed him back to health. Clyde’s years with her had been far too short, but he’d taught her that the softest heart could beat beneath the fiercest exterior, so she didn’t fear the stranger’s dog.
She was wary of the warrior.
So she straightened her shoulders and started forward, not wanting him to reach her door. She didn’t brandish her sword at him. Like as not, he’d flick it aside as easily if brushing lint from his sleeve. But it didn’t hurt for him to see that she was prepared to defend herself.
She just chose to do so with a casual tone and an unconcerned mien.
“Are you lost, sir?” She knew he wasn’t. “Not many wayfarers come this way.”
“I am no’ a traveler, my lady, nor have I erred direction.” He stopped before her, fixing her with his intense, dark eyes. “I am Sir Gare MacTaggert of Blackrock Castle on the other side of this fair realm, and I came to your Glen of Winds to seek the aid of its banshee.”
That I knew, good sir, and you can leave now.
The glen’s banshee cannot help you.
“There is no such being here.” Mairi gave him a third version of the truth. “You have journeyed for naught. I dwell in this glen with my husband,” she allowed herself the lie. “He will return anon-”
“Lady Mairi.” A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I was told you’d attempt to send me away, and I ken you aren’t married.” He glanced down at his dog, then back at her, his smile now gone. “Troll and I come in peace and mean you no harm. Your chieftain’s captain of the guard, Sir Marmaduke, and his men, granted us passage across their lands and into this glen.
“I spoke with them only a short while ago.” He glanced up at the cliff-tops, now thick with lowering mist and clouds. “They were good enough to take my horse back to your chief’s Eilean Creag Castle for stabling and care while I am in the Glen of Winds.”
“You cannot think to stay here.” Mairi tried to look away from him, but couldn’t. His gaze was too compelling. “I dwell alone, my broch too small for a guest.” She waited as the dog rubbed against her, bumping his great head at her hand. “Besides, you’ve truly come in vain. There isn’t a banshee to aid you or anyone.
“The banshee is me.” Mairi stood straighter, ignoring his dog. “She is a tall tale spun to keep intruders from disturbing my peace. No more, no less, see you?”
“So I was told, my lady.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment, another slight smile curving his lips. A sad one this time. “In truth, it was you who drew me here, no’ a myth. Your reputation as a healer is great, reaching even to my lands in Scotland’s distant northeastern bounds. I believe you can help me, leastways I have prayed to the gods that is so. If you will but give me your ear, I swear to depart at first light should you decide against aiding me.”
Mairi frowned, her heart beating wildly again.
The dog, Troll, was leaning into her, staring up at her with friendly, hopeful eyes. His master, Sir Gare, towered over her, a terribly appealing flicker of hope in his own gaze chipping away at her resistance.
Mairi folded her arms, every protective instinct she had screaming caution.
She didn’t want to find any man appealing.
For sure, not one who would turn on her as soon as it became clear that she couldn’t restore life to his loved one.
(A wee glimpse at the hero and heroine’s first meeting.)
“I must ask you to leave.” There, she’d said what she must.
Go before my heart yearns for you as fiercely as my woman’s body already does.
Dear heavens, he smelled of sandalwood, clean wool, leather, cold air and man, and the heady blend was fuzzing her wits, making her vulnerable. Worse, he had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if he’d actually touched her, and in intimate, sensual ways!
Mairi’s pulse quickened, a tingling, long-forgotten warmth pooling low by her thighs.
No virgin, she’d once loved well and had never denied herself passion. She recognized the danger of this man, with his alluring scent and potent virility. His tall, well-muscled body, surely hard as iron. His strong, beautiful hands that reminded her of the pleasures a skilled lover’s questing fingers could give a woman.
Joys she hadn’t known in so long.
“See here, I can do nothing for you,” she started again, sure she was glowering. “Nor can you sleep here.” She indicated the rock-sided glen, the boulder-strewn ground. “Even if I wished you to stay, there isn’t enough bracken to make the thinnest pallet.”
His gaze locked with hers, and something in his expression told her she was losing. “My dog and I can sleep on the ground.” He spoke as if everything was settled. “We have done so most nights of our journey. I need no more than my plaid, and Troll is well-furred enough to no’ feel the rocks beneath him.”
“Very well.” Mairi nodded, sure resistance was futile. “But you’ll leave on the morrow.”
“If you say you cannae help me, aye.”
“I’m telling you that now.”
“It is said you have brought back the breath of life to the coldest of the damned.” His words pierced her heart, making her soul ache. “Your fame is on every bard’s tongue, the wonders you have wrought, the miracles-”
“The tales are untrue.” Mairi tucked her hair behind an ear, kept her chin raised. “No one can bring the dead back to life.”
“Yet you have done so.”
“Aye, but-”
He stepped closer and gripped her arm, his touch sending ripples of awareness through her. “I wouldn’t be here if my request wasn’t dire, my lady. All I ask is that you restore-”
“I regret you’ve lost someone.” She did, especially that she couldn’t do what he wanted.
She knew the pain of heartache.
So before she could think better of it, she lifted her hand to his face and touched his cheek, slid her fingers along his beard. “I do wish I could help you, but all I can offer is my sympathy.”
“You misunderstand.” He caught her hand, lacing their fingers, squeezing tight. Determination burned in his eyes. “The dead I want you to revive is a man who hasn’t truly died. He stands before you.”
~ Lord Grayson's Bride - by Tarah Scott
Here is a tidbit from Lord Grayson's Bride.
Josephine took a step backwards before catching herself. Facing Nicholas alone was far more frightening than being caught half naked with his rival. He seized her free wrist, his fingers like manacles, and she gave a startled cry. He stared for a long moment, the dark rage now mingled with a sadness she too often saw in his brown eyes these days. Pain twisted her heart, but she kept her gaze emotionless.
He released her. “Do you hate me so much, Jo?”
His question shocked her—then she realized this reaction was exactly what she’d wanted. She still clutched her bodice in an effort at modesty and started to turn aside to slip her arms back into the sleeves, then stopped. What better way to remind him of her infidelity than to remain half naked?
Josephine gave a careless laugh. “A man can take as many lovers as he likes, and we women are to accept it, but when a woman wants the same privilege, you men take it personally. Once we are married, what’s to stop you from taking a mistress?”
“Shouldn’t I commit the crime before you make me pay for it?” he said.
“I saw you dance with Rebecca Evans the other night at Lady Graham’s soiree. For all I know, you’re already guilty.”
The hurt in his eyes deepened. “You know better than that.”
She lifted her chin. “Do I?”
“Would you really sabotage our marriage before it’s even begun?”
She gave a careless laugh. “Lord, you are dramatic.”
“This isn’t a childish jibe like dancing too many times with another man,” he said. “Or flirting shamelessly in front of me. You let Beaumond touch you.”
Josephine repressed a shudder of revulsion. Allowing the marquess to touch her had taken all her powers of determination. She hadn’t even been able to conjure the desire for Nicholas that plagued her in order to arouse herself when Lord Beaumond opened his trousers. But Lord Beaumond it had to be, for Nick would never forgive her for fraternizing with the man who seduced his sister.
“Let the past go, Nicholas. Your sister recovered from her affair with Beaumond. She married well and has two children she dotes on.”
“You didn’t console her in those terrible months after he tossed her aside as if she were an old rag,” he said more to himself than her, and she knew he was remembering eight years ago, when Deanna had fallen prey to Lord Beaumond’s charm at the age of eighteen. The affair carried on for two months before Nicholas discovered a letter from his sister that gave away their liaison. “We feared for her life,” he said in a bitter voice.
But Josephine remembered all too well. When Beaumond appeared at the house party yesterday, Josephine knew God—in His perverse amusement—had answered her prayers. She had accepted guilt as her ever-constant companion, and bowed even now to the reminder that allowing Lord Beaumond to seduce her was a sin not only against God, but her family and the only man she had ever loved.
Josephine waved her hand dismissively. “Young lovers are dramatic. God knows, we were.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized it, and she hurriedly added, “But never mind that. Forget the duel. Lord Beaumond is right, if you got lucky enough to kill him, you would hang.”
Nicholas’ gaze bore into her. “Would you shed a single tear if I was hanged?”
“Of course,” she snapped. “I have known you since I was a girl. I care about you.”
“But you don’t want to marry me.”
Josephine turned, afraid he would see in her eyes how very much she did want to marry him. She sauntered to a table where bronze figurines of a poet and his muse sat on a marble table. “Why should I want to marry anyone?” Jo traced a finger along the poet’s toga-clad body. “Marriage means I go from being owned by my father to being owned by my husband.” Her fingers tightened around the fabric she still pressed against her breasts. Being owned by Nicholas would be heavenly. Something inside her shattered and she found herself forcing back tears.
“Your father never treated you like chattel,” he said. She heard the clink of glass and realized he had gone to the sideboard and was pouring a drink. “He adores you and your sister.”
“You call being bartered off to a rich earl adoring?” she retorted.
A moment of deadly silence drew out between them. “A rich earl who loves you,” he finally said. “Me.”
Josephine’s heart constricted. He did love her...and she loved him. But love was the very thing that could destroy them.
“Papa accepted your offer because it came from the great Earl of Grayson,” she said. “Along with more money than anyone else was willing to offer, of course.”
“Did it occur to you that I made sure he couldn’t refuse my offer?”
She swung to face where he leaned a hip against the sideboard. “Oh, indeed, it did. When I refused your offer, you bought me. I am not at all surprised that you defend my father. You two are much alike.”
Yes,” he said, his voice hard. “We both know how to get what we want. I am not sorry, Jo. I won’t live life without you.”
“And you had the resources to buy me.”
“Don’t you think your father accepted my offer because he knows I love you?” Nicholas said. “That I will care for you…protect you?”
“From myself, you mean,” she retorted.
“Don’t act as if it hasn’t been necessary. Today is a perfect example.”
In a flash, she closed the distance between them. He slammed the glass down onto the sideboard and straightened as she went up on tiptoes in an attempt to get nose-to-nose with him.
She was still forced to tilt her head up, but narrowed her eyes, and said, “I had the situation with Lord Beaumond perfectly well in hand.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “So I saw.”
“I lived without you for six years, Nick—and quite well, if you must know. Yet you act as if I cannot take care of myself, or worse, as if no other man has ever loved me.”
“No doubt you left a string of broken hearts from Inverness to Edinburgh. But none of those poor devils knew you. God knows, if they did, they would have put as much distance as possible between themselves and you.”
“How dare you?” she breathed. “I suppose you know me, but still manage to love me?”
“Aye,” he replied. “I love you more than life itself.”
~ Don't forget to enter the Rafflecopter! They are giving away a $25 Amazon gift card, bundles of books and copies of The Scrolls of Cridhe on release!
When reviews come in I will post them for each book named above.
Don't forget to go and Join the group. What better way to stay up to date?
Great Kimi. Really good job and great way to keep up with all the activities concerning the group.
ReplyDeleteAll of you are awesome!! Such a wonderful gift...I will be getting mine as soon as I can... Love your new site...
ReplyDeleteI know. I asked them all If it was ok to make a page featuring them. I mean I love each and everyone of them and thought best way to let them know was to make this. Barbi this is just my page I made in tribute to the lady's.
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