Scottish Brides

Love blooms where the
heather grows
...

Christina Dodd
Stephanie Laurens
Julia Quinn
Karen Ranney

SCOTTISH BRIDES

A land of legend and wild beauty—of clans, lairds, honor and passion—there's something about Scotland that stirs our hearts to romance. Now, in one incomparable volume, four of your favorite authors present stirring tales of hearts won and weddings-to-be, featuring a quartet of unforgettable heroines about to discover the rapture of love in a world as untamed as the men they will one day marry.

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CHRISTINA

DODD

STEPHANIE

LAURENS

JULIA

QUINN

KAREN

RANNEY

SCOTTISH

BRIDES

 

Contents

 

 

 

Under the Kilt

 

One

“Andra didn't tell you about the marriage kilt?” Lady. . .

 

Two

Andra didn't quite hiss when she saw Hadden's broad. . .

 

Three

Hadden could scarcely contain his rage as he followed. . .

 

Four

Hadden kept his legs between Andra's, using his knees. . .

 

Five

The sound of her laughter softened his ire and irresistibly. . .

 

Six

Grasping the handle on the trapdoor, Andra tugged. . .

 

Seven

With both hands on her waist, Hadden lifted Andra. . .

 

Eight

Hadden was an ordinary man with ordinary needs. . .

 

A Note from Christina Dodd

 

Rose in Bloom

 

One

“What the devil are you doing here?”. . .

 

Two

Duncan's prediction proved accurate; the next day . . .

 

Three

Rose began the next day determined to keep her distance . . .

 

Four

Clarissa retired immediately after luncheon, apparently . . .

 

STEPHANIE LAURENS

 

Gretna Greene

 

One

Margaret Pennypacker had chased her brother half-. . .

 

Two

Their truce lasted all of two minutes. Margaret wasn't . . .

 

Three

Margaret yelped in surprise as she slid through the . . .

 

Four

The rain had subsided, but the damp night air was a . . .

 

Five

His lips brushed against hers slowly, in the barest of . . .

 

Six

Margaret came awake the following morning just the . . .

 

JULIA QUINN

 

The Glenlyon Bride

 

One

“I'll not marry the witch,” Lachlan said. . .

 

Two

It was raining, a very fine mist that ended almost as . . .

 

Three

He had thought about her all day, this woman with . . .

 

Four

Janet slept heavily and woke late. She had crept to . . .

 

Five

She could not wait for darkness; it could not come . . .

 

Six

The light of the full moon had made the path easier to . . .

 

Seven

She looked so happy standing there with a smile on . . .

 

Eight

Not even Harriet could spoil her mood. Nor could Jeremy, . . .

 

Nine

Lachlan whirled her in such a tight circle that the . . .

 

Ten

His fingers threaded through the hair at her temples; . . .

 

Eleven

He dismounted before he reached the house, then . . .

 

Twelve

“Who is he, Janet?” . . .

 

Thirteen

“What do you mean, she's not here?” Lachlan said . . .

 

Fourteen

He had plans, wonderful plans that would somehow . . .

 

KAREN RANNEY

 

Books by Christina Dodd

 

Copyright

 

About the Publisher

 

 

 

Under the Kilt

 

 

 

 

Christina Dodd

 

One

 

 

 

Scotland, 1805

 

“Andra didn't tell you about the marriage kilt?” Lady
Valéry sipped the wickedly strong whiskey and relished the warmth it spread through her aged veins. “My heavens, what did you do to offend? The MacNachtans
always
drag out that marriage kilt to show everyone, whether they wish it or not.”

The fire warmed the study, the candles lit the darkened corners, the clock ticked on the mantel, and Hadden sat, long legs stretched out before him, the very portrait of masculine power and grace.

The very image of offended virility.

Lady Valéry hid a grin in her goblet. The boy—he was thirty-one, but she considered him a boy—did not take rejection well.

“Andra MacNachtan is unreasonable.” He scowled into his goblet. “A black-headed, noodle-brained woman without a care for anyone but herself.”

Lady Valéry waited, but he said nothing more. He only gulped at his whiskey, his fourth since dinner and three more than the usually temperate drinker ever consumed.

“Yes. Well.” She returned to her scheme. “The marriage kilt is exactly your kind of tradition. There's a ragged old plaid cloth that's reputed to bring good luck to the newly-weds if it's wrapped around their shoulders . . .” She paused artfully for effect. “No, wait, let me think . . . if they kiss the sporran . . . no, perhaps it was something about wifely obedience. If I could remember the tale, I would tell you, and you could copy it into your treatise. But I'm an old lady; my memory's not what it used to be—”

Hadden lifted his bloodshot blue eyes to glare at her.

Perhaps that was laying it on a little too thick. Hastily, she abandoned that tack and, in a brisk, no-nonsense tone, said, “And I was never interested in that old-fashioned balderdash. I remember the ‘good old days'—smoking fires, galloping clap, gin slums. No, give me my modern conveniences. You young folks can go poking around and call those days romantic and worthy of note, but I don't.”

“It's not just
your
youth I'm recording, Your Grace, much though you would like to believe that.”

Surly and sarcastic,
she noted, his usual state since his return from Castle MacNachtan almost two months ago.

“It's a whole way of life. Since Culloden, Scotland has changed. The old ways that have existed since William Wallace and Robert the Bruce are disappearing without a trace.” He straightened his shoulders, leaned forward intently. “I want to record those fragile fragments of culture before they are gone forever. If I don't record them, no one will.”

Lady Valéry watched him with satisfaction. He'd been this emphatic and enthusiastic almost from the first moment he'd arrived at her Scottish estate, a skinny, frightened nine-year-old. He'd taken to the open spaces and gray mists of the Highlands. He'd grown tall and hearty as he roamed the glens and braes, and he'd discovered in the clans and the ancient ways of life a continuity his own existence lacked.

Not that his sister hadn't made a home for him—she had—but nothing could substitute for two parents and a place to call his own.

Lady Valéry had hoped, when she sent him to Castle Mac-Nachtan, he would find his place there.

Instead, he'd come back silent and grumpy, brooding in a manner quite unlike his normal personable self.

Once Lady Valéry had diagnosed the malady that vexed him, she had resolved to set all to rights, and her plan, as always, was working perfectly.

“I understand now. You're tactfully telling me you're not interested in the MacNachtans' wedding kilt because it's not important.” She set her goblet down with a thump. “I don't blame you a bit. It is an obscure legend, and rather absurd, and the MacNachtans are a dying clan. That girl, that Andra, is the last of them as far as I know. Yes, you're right.” She acted as if he had spoken. “If you don't record
their
history before that clan fades away, it will be of no consequence.”