To Desire a Highlander

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

A Preview of
To Love a Highlander

Newsletters

Copyright Page

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

In loving remembrance and to honor three very special souls: Tricia Heintz, my longtime reader and friend. Tricia was always upbeat, a trait displayed by her email by-name, Sunshyne. A great joy to all who knew her, she was fiercely devoted to her family and friends. She left us way too soon, but her beautiful light shines on, undimmed in the hearts of all who loved her.

Dan Phillips was the husband of another longtime reader and friend, Cathy Phillips. Rarely have I known a couple more in love and devoted to each other. Cathy and Dan were the stuff of real romance, not the fiction kind. I wish they’d made their 40th anniversary, but they had 39 beautiful years and a love so strong, it will live on forever.

And for my darling wee Em, with the whole of my heart. You shared my desk chair through the writing of all my books, beginning with
Devil in a Kilt
and you almost made it through this one as well. I would need to write a new book to say how much you meant to me. I will love you forever and miss you so much. But we will be together again. Until then, wait for me, my little friend.

Acknowledgments

From the beginning of my writing career, my world has been blessed by beautiful readers who, like me, appreciate all the wonder of medieval Scotland, Highland magic, animals (real and mythical), meddling crones, and—of course—big, bold Highland heroes and the strong and proud heroines who love them. You’ve shared my belief that reading a book is actually opening a portal and being swept away to wherever or whenever your heart desires. Thank you so much for your love, enthusiasm, and support. It has meant and means so much to have you on this journey with me. A thousand blessings and all my love to each one of you.

As always, to my very handsome husband, Manfred, who gifted me with a standing suit of armor early in my career (in celebration of a book release). He is my true knight in shining armor, always was and ever shall be. Also for my dear wee Jack Russell, Em. My brightest shining star for so many years, and still. I miss you so, little man.

All good women should know that a Highlander’s smile is as dangerous as his sword, perhaps even more so.

—Roag the Bear, a master of the art

The Legend of Laddie’s Isle

I
n distant times when Scotland’s Western Isles and the Hebridean Sea were young and largely empty, few men were brave enough to sail such wild and treacherous waters. Fearsome beasties could dwell there, lurking beneath the white-capped waves, lying in wait for the unwary. All knew the gods and their minions held sway in this far-flung, untamed place. Such powerful deities didn’t look kindly on those who’d dare to claim what was theirs.

Even so, some men tried.

These brave souls were Highlanders, known to be bold and adventurous.

No scaly-tailed, boat-swallowing serpent or even an angry, trident-wielding sea god could dissuade them. Strong, hardy, and fearless, these warriors sailed their galleys deep into this vast and magnificent world of islands and islets. They looked in awe at the many sheer cliffs and soaring peaks, the sheltered coves of gleaming white sand. Their oarsmen rowed with skill and power,
the ships flashing across the dark blue swells. Not to be outdone, well-practiced helmsmen guided them expertly past glistening-black skerries, the jagged rocks kissed by luminous sea spray.

Wherever their galleys took them, the splendor of this place known as the “Isles on the Edge of the Sea” only grew greater and greater.

Men’s hearts beat faster at the beauty.

Many were consumed by a burning wish to grab a piece of this glorious seascape for their own.

Sadly, such fierce craving is dangerous.

Otherwise sensible men forget themselves, greed and desire driving them to carelessness. Wits often evaporate when temptation is so great.

When that happens, doom soon follows.

Yet the lure of the Hebrides is potent and powerful.

Men who’ve looked upon such grandeur are forever changed, their souls ensnared. For they’ve breathed the chill, peat-scented air, and felt the rush of cold, sea-borne wind, the magic of the Isles, entering their blood. Such men are never again free, escape impossible.

Truth be told, they wouldn’t leave if they could.

Some such adventurers lost their lives trying to stay.

And so it came about that one of the most remote corners of this watery world harbors a long-uninhabited islet and its half-ruined keep.

A rocky spit of land said to be home to no more than wild winds and stronger currents.

The tower doesn’t have a name, for it was never intended to be anyone’s refuge. Its origins reach far back in time to days no longer remembered. Even so, some whisper that the keep’s first stones were laid in memory
of a wee laddie who washed ashore there after his father’s galley splintered on a nearby reef during a storm. All men were lost that day and many of their women perished as well, dying of broken hearts when they learned of the tragedy.

Storytellers say that men built a cairn in the boy’s honor, setting stones to mark his last resting place on this earth.

Seamen, being a superstitious, good-hearted lot, allowed no ship to pass without dropping anchor so that a few stones could be added to the memorial.

This gesture of respect was carried on for centuries.

In time, the cairn grew into a tower. But the passing years dimmed memories and so the nameless keep began to crumble, its once-proud walls falling shamefully apart. Seabirds claimed the cold, dank stones and the hall echoed with the howl of gales and the lashing of rain. Soon, the wee isle, so rock-hewn and windswept, also bore the taint of being haunted. Men sailing by stayed clear, no longer willing to stop in honor of the lost laddie.

But now the island had a name.

Hebrideans call it Laddie’s Isle and claim the boy walks the island on stormy nights when the clouds slide away from the moon. Witnesses swear that the lad glows. That he wears a torn plaid and carries a small, luminous dirk that he points toward the deadly skerries that damned his father’s ship. He is credited with saving more than a few lives in rough and terrible seas.

Even so, because of the reefs and the ghost, many men hesitate to speak the name Laddie’s Isle.

Until the day the Scottish King sends a man to claim the crumbling keep and use the island to perform secret duties in the royal name.

This newcomer is as big, bold, and daring as a rogue adventurer can be. He fears neither wild winds nor huge, tossing seas. To be sure, he isn’t worried about ghosts and ancient legends. Indeed, he’s a man who laughs in the face of danger, even welcoming trouble. Little does he know how much he’s about to get…

Chapter One

Laddie’s Isle

Spring 1400

L
ady Gillian MacGuire knew the moment the gods abandoned her.

They’d fled as soon as she’d set foot on this much-maligned island. Even her brothers had made the sign against evil as they’d climbed aboard their father’s ship. Good men didn’t sail these waters.

Not if they valued their lives.

The currents were too strong; the seas wild and rough. Unpredictable winds blew always, cutting as knives and colder than hell.

Gillian glanced about the bleak and fearsome shoreline, chilled already.

No one could blame her long-lost betrothed for leaving the place. Shivering, she drew her cloak tighter. She could almost believe the tales that the rocky little island was haunted. That it was cursed because of its dark and sad history. But now there was word her betrothed was
returning after five years away—to reclaim his home and to take his bride.

Gillian stepped closer to the water’s edge. Behind her, sheer cliffs loomed high and black. Everywhere else, the sea boiled and churned, lashing against the jagged shore. The spray dampened her skirts and misted her skin. Above her, seabirds wheeled and cried, and the chill air smelled strongly of the sea. The salty tang quickened her pulse, stirring her Hebridean heart even as her world threatened to crash down around her.

But tears and pity weren’t for her, a chieftain’s daughter. She preferred to stand tall, shoulders squared and chin high. A brave young woman with long centuries of noble blood in her veins, she prided herself on her strength.

She was equally proud of her by-name, the Spitfire of the Isles. Secretly, she’d also believed she held the gods’ ears.