My Highland Bride
Authors: Maeve Greyson
My Highland Bride
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept eBook Original
Copyright © 2015 by Maeve Greyson
Excerpt from
My Tempting Highlander
by Maeve Greyson copyright © 2015 by Maeve Greyson
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
My Tempting Highlander
by Maeve Greyson. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 9780553395082
Cover design: Seductive Designs
Cover photographs: © Jenn LeBlanc/Illustrated Romance (couple),
© Depositphotos.com/inigocia (landscape)
v4.1
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Contents
Excerpt from
My Tempting Highlander
Chapter 1
S
COTLAND—
T
HE
H
IGHLANDS—
T
HIRTEENTH
C
ENTURY
“Have ye e’er seen such a lovely set o’ bosoms?”
Colum Garrison lowered his cup enough to peer past the metal rim.
Aye.
Diarmuid had the right of it there. The man had a keen eye when it came to the lasses. The newest serving girl was indeed a comely maid blessed with a bounty of curves.
Colum drained the tankard, licking the last of the tangy ale from his lips as he slid the empty mug to the table. “An untapped MacKenna keg against that fine ale ye bring all the way from Ireland. What say ye? I gi’ ye fair odds. Whoe’er leaves the hall with her on his arm claims the spoils.”
Diarmuid squinted one eye shut while scrubbing his fingers through the short black beard curling along his jaw. “Fair odds, me arse. If I win the gift of the lass’s charms, ye’ll gi’ me yer best bow along wi’ that keg of fine MacKenna whisky.”
Colum tapped a thumb against the handle of his empty tankard. Yon sweetling would easily choose him o’er Diarmuid, but wager his best bow? O’er something as flighty as a woman’s druthers? Instinct and past experience with Diarmuid’s less-than-scrupulous wagers gave him pause. The man’s terms reeked with the stench of a carefully laid trap. Colum drummed his fingers atop the rough table. “That bow was a gift from the chieftain. There’s none like it in all the Highlands.”
Diarmuid grinned, held up his index finger, then slowly allowed it to droop at the knuckle. He gave a sly wink as he flipped the sagging appendage, making it appear boneless. “What ails ye, m’friend? Are ye no’ feelin’
up
for the wee challenge?”
Colum banged his empty mug atop the long trestle table and waved the girl toward them. “I’ll show ye ‘
up.’
After the lass has been with me, she’ll no’ have a hunger for yer wee sausage.”
Diarmuid rubbed his hands together, his impish grin widening into a devilish smile. “We shall see, man-at-arms. We shall see.”
The teasing look in the young woman’s eyes, paired with the coy tilting of her head, settled the matter nicely.
Aye.
The lass is as good as mine, and so is another keg of Diarmuid’s fine ale.
Colum slowly traced a fingertip around the curve of his mug. Soon his fingers would trace along much finer curves.
The girl tucked her broad wooden platter under one arm and sashayed toward them. When she reached the men, the red-haired vixen leaned across the bench and propped a hand atop the table. Her smile widened as she not so subtly arched her back, providing an even better view of the creamy cleavage about to spill free of her tightly laced kirtle. “Aye, master. Can I be a fetchin’ anythin’ for ye?”
Colum released his most beguiling smile, leaned forward, and ever so gently slid a finger beneath the young maid’s silky chin. Diarmuid ne’er stood a chance. This wee filly was already his. The truth of it shone in her clear blue eyes and her barely parted lips, already beggin’ for his kisses.
A deep voice boomed across the crowded hall. “Colum! Here. Now. The MacKenna bids ye see him in his solar at once. Best be about it, man.”
Colum let his hand drop to the table, clenching his teeth to keep from cursing aloud. Damn Galen and his ill-timed interruptions. What the hell was wrong wi’ the man? Could he no’ see there was serious business at hand?
Diarmuid chuckled and scooted Colum farther down the bench, bumping his way in front of the still smiling maid. “Dinna worry, friend. I’ll make sure this fine young lass doesna feel neglected by yer absence.” Diarmuid tickled a finger up and down the maid’s lightly freckled forearm as a beguiling smile lit up his face. “Do ye happen to fancy sausages, m’dear one?”
A low-throated growl escaped him as Colum swung out from the bench and stood. He searched the far wall of stone archways for Galen. ’Twas a sorry day when he’d been fool enough to make that clot-head his second in command. Aye, Galen was a fine warrior, but the stubborn bastard had a talent for bein’ a verra large pain in the arse.
Barrel-chested Galen grinned and waved from the widest of the arches leading up to the private rooms of the keep. He nodded and winked, rolling up on his toes to bounce a bit higher than his stumpy height, which barely brought him to Colum’s shoulder. His smirking grin widened to a toothy smile as Colum closed in on him. “Now, lad, dinna fret. I’m sure ye can win the lass back from Diarmuid as soon as the chief is done wi’ ye.”
“Ye just cost me m’best bow and a keg of whisky.” Colum shoved Galen aside as he shouldered through the doorway.
Galen lowered his broad shoulder and effectively bounced Colum a few steps sideways into the opposing wall. The man might be short of stature but he was nearly as wide as he was tall and stood as solid as
Beinn Nibheis.
He jabbed a short stubby finger toward the center of Colum’s chest. “I saved ye from yer chieftain’s wrath, ye ungrateful bastard. Were ye no’ just tellin’ me how the MacKenna warned ye to leave the maids alone for a bit? Did he no’ tell ye he grows weary of gettin’ his arse chewed by both his wife and her grandmother for how ye run through the women in the keep? Good Lord, man. Ye should be a thankin’ me. I saw Mother Sinclair herself headin’ toward ye from the kitchens.”
Damn the squat bastard.
Colum rolled his shoulder, still stinging from scraping the rough stone of the wall, and glanced back behind them. Sure enough, Granny Sinclair was currently blessing out Diarmuid. She had one bony hand clamped around the serving girl’s elbow while she shook a bent finger just inches from the tip of Diarmuid’s nose. The old woman didna even pause for breath as she whipped around and shook the same scolding finger in the face of the wide-eyed maid.
It appeared a debt of gratitude was owed rather than a swift kick in the arse. Colum clapped a hand to Galen’s meaty shoulder and hurried them both farther down the hall. “I owe ye greatly, m’fine friend. I swear t’ye, I’ll do the sword dance at yer next weddin’.”
Galen shook his head and held up a hand. “I’ve seen yer great gawkin’ form hoppin’ about to the pipes. Spare me the favor, ye oversized son of a
Lochlanach
.”
Colum gave Galen a friendly shove and widened his stride. Galen wasna the first man to accuse him of Viking ancestry. And what of it? Colum found no fault in bein’ compared to some o’ the most fearless warriors on land or sea. “So tell me, friend. Does our chief truly wish to see me or were ye merely savin’ me hide?”
Galen’s bushy brows arched higher on his balding head, greatly resembling a pair of oversized wooly worms. “Oh no, lad. The MacKenna did summon yer arse.”
“For?”
“I dinna ken.” Galen shook his head and scratched a hairy shoulder before yanking the neck of his tunic back in place. “But I did hear him say ’twas really for Mother Sinclair—her and the Lady Trulie. What the hell have ye done now, and do ye even remember her name?”
Colum stopped dead in his tracks. An uncomfortable sense of foreboding settled in his gut, then took to churning like a great serpent stirring the bowels of the sea. “Mother Sinclair, ye say?”
“Aye.” Galen solemnly nodded.
“
And
the Lady Trulie?”
“Aye.” Galen pulled up short, easing back a step as they reached the arch leading to the stairwell up to the chieftain’s private rooms. The man eyed the narrow doorway as though it were the gateway to hell.
“And yer certain ye’ve no idea of what it might be?” Colum glanced toward the winding stone steps leading up to the MacKenna’s solar and swallowed hard. With the Sinclair women plotting against him, he’d feel more at ease going to the gallows.
Galen gripped Colum’s upper arm, then hurriedly motioned the sign of the cross over his chest. “I dinna ken. But I will say a prayer for ye and I’ll also make a sacrifice to the old gods as well. Here’s to the hopes that all the entities watch over ye. I feel ye’ll be a needin’ the lot o’ them.” Galen jerked his chin toward his chest, squeezed Colum’s arm one last time, then turned and barreled back down the hallway.
Colum watched Galen disappear through the arch. A deep-seated sense of survival strongly advised him to follow the man.
Nay.
Colum shook free of the urge. He’d saved the MacKenna’s life several times; surely his chief would protect him from whate’er the women plotted.
He traced his fingertips along the cold rough stones of the tower wall as he slowly climbed the winding stairs.
Aye. The MacKenna will protect me.
A delayed flash of pride surged through him.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Afraid of two women?
Colum sucked in a deep breath and took the remaining steps two at a time.
Nay. I’m no’ a coward.
As soon as the words crossed his mind, he felt a bit sheepish. He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself of his own courage.
Colum sensed the tension in the room as soon as he walked through the door of the chieftain’s private solar. He paused a moment, wiping his damp palms against the coarse wool of his plaid. Well, mayhap not tension—’twas more like the gut-tightening feel a man got the night before battle. There was damn sure somethin’ ill a stirrin’, and he didna care for the feel of it at all.
Gray MacKenna, chieftain of Clan MacKenna and Colum’s best friend since they were both snot-nosed lads, lounged comfortably on one end of a pillowed bench with an unreadable look on his face that could only mean trouble. His wife, Lady Trulie, sat at his side, one hand slowly stroking her great rounded belly as though comforting the child within.
