A Rake at the Highland Court: The Highland Ladies Book Four

by Barclay, Celeste

  Light! I’m sure of it. I can finally see it coming from a keep. Dear God above, please allow me in. I just need---

  His Highland Pledge BOOK 4 SNEAK PEEK

  Magnus Sinclair detested being at the royal court. There was nothing redeemable in his eyes, and his face ensured everyone knew the Highland giant was not there to exchange pleasantries. Standing at six and a half feet tall, he towered over almost every man in the king’s household and all the men who sought the monarch’s attention. Only a few visiting Highlanders mirrored him in height and physique. As though sticking out like a sore thumb from his height and his insistence upon wearing his plaid was not enough, he felt naked without his claymore. Locked away in his chamber, his two-handed broadsword was as much a part of him as either hand. For the safety of the king and his family, they allowed no one to wear or carry a sword into the main gathering hall. Magnus’s sword forged to accommodate his size, and even though custom designed, the enormous sword looked like little more than a young lad’s wooden practice sword when Magnus held it. Needless to say, it was not a welcome sight strapped to his back. When he arrived the day before, he resigned himself to just carrying his dirks, of which he had at least eight on various parts of his body.

  Arriving early the previous morning, Magnus spent all of the day and much of the evening in a passageway, standing, awaiting an audience with the king. This day came and went, just as the previous one had, with no indicator of when the king would meet with him. This only aggravated Magnus more as a representative from the Sinclair clan summoned rather than volunteered to attend court.

  His Highland Surprise BOOK 5 SNEAK PEEK

  Tavish Sinclair stood frozen in the Great Hall of his clan's keep as he listened to his father.

  "Ye canna be serious!" He realized his voice was quiet as he spoke to Laird Liam Sinclair, but in his head, it was a roar. "I dinna need a wife. I dinna want a wife."

  Tavish's body was so still he looked like a statue carved from marble, his expression like a death mask.

  He canna mean it. I simply flirted one too many times with the elder man's daughter, Isabella. I will stay away and then this nonsense will pass.

  "It isnae aboot Isabella or any of the local lasses ye ken so well. The king has decreed that I must make a match between our clans. Ye are the older of ma two unmarried sons. The duty falls to ye."

  "But Magnus is already at court."

  He recognized he sounded petulant, but Tavish Sinclair was a confirmed bachelor. He never intended to settle down with one woman. The Sinclair men, once their oath made, never were unfaithful to their wives. He refused to make that traditional vow, so instead he avoided marriage like it were a fire sweeping through hay.

  "Aye, Magnus is at court. And taking far longer than expected. I worry something befell him. The king's message was rather cryptic on that front. I would have ye go to court and see that yer brother fares well, and while there, ye can meet the lass. Ye ken I will force none of ye into an unhappy marriage. I ask only that ye meet her. See if ye suit."

  Pirates of the Isles

  The Blond Devil of the Sea BOOK 1 SNEAK PEEK

  Caragh lifted her torch into the air as she made her way down the precarious Cornish cliffside. She made out the hulking shape of a ship, but the dead of night made it impossible to see who was there. She and the fishermen of Bedruthan Steps weren’t expecting any shipments that night. But her younger brother Eddie, who stood watch at the entrance to their hiding place, had spotted the ship and signaled up to the village watchman, who alerted Caragh.

  As her boot slid along the dirt and sand, she cursed having to carry the torch and wished she could have sunlight to guide her. She knew these cliffs well, and it was for that reason it was better that she moved slowly than stop moving once and for all. Caragh feared the light from her torch would carry out to the boat. Despite her efforts to keep the flame small, the solitary light would be a beacon.

  When Caragh came to the final twist in the path before the sand, she snuffed out her torch and started to run to the cave where the main source of the village’s income lay in hiding. She heard movement along the trail above her head and knew the local fishermen would soon join her on the beach. These men, both young and old, were strong from days spent pulling in the full trawling nets and hoisting the larger catches onto their boats. However, these men weren’t well-trained swordsmen, and the fear of pirate raids was ever-present. Caragh feared that was who the villagers would face that night.

  The Dark Heart of the Sea BOOK 2 SNEAK PEEK

  Ruairí MacNeil opened the door to the Three Merry Lads and tried not to curl his nose in disgust. The overpowering odor of too many bodies, stale beers, and burned food created a cloud of stench inside the tavern. Ruairí scanned the crowd as he stepped inside and immediately noticed that many members of his crew were already settled, a pint in one hand and a woman in the other. His ship, the Lady Charity, had docked an hour earlier. With their most recent bounty already stored in the nearby cave, Ruairí had granted them shore leave. He nodded his head once to his first mate, Kyle, who was the only sober one in the lot. Ruairí made another visual sweep of the room, checking whether there were any other sailors who might be less enthused to see him come ashore. When he was satisfied none of his rivals were waiting to stab him, he attempted to make his way to the bar. As he pushed through the standing-room-only main room, he noticed a tavern wench attempting to carry a tray of empty mugs to the bar. She was a sturdy sort, but short when compared to the mountainous Highlanders and Hebrideans who made up the patrons of the Lads. Ruairí couldn’t help but smile as she tried to twist and shoulder her way past men who blocked her on purpose to give themselves more time to ogle her body.

  It was rare that Ruairí felt mercy, sympathy, or compassion for anyone, let alone a woman, but there was an odd twinge in his heart as he watched her try to maintain her smile as she became more frustrated. The woman swatted away a hand that dared come too close to her modest neckline. That observation caused Ruairí to quirk a brow and inspect the woman. She had on a clean white blouse–a rarity in this tavern–and it fit loosely over her entire bust. It left much to the imagination, and Ruairí found his was alive and well. Her skirts reached her ankles instead of hiked up on either side like the other women who worked in the tavern. From what Ruairí could tell, she looked more like a farmer’s wife than a tavern wench. She didn’t fit in.

  Ruairí’s sense of compassion grew alongside his annoyance at not being able to make his way to the bar. He began to elbow men around him, and the crowd parted. Between his size and reputation, Ruairí MacNeil was a hard man to ignore. He grasped the top of the woman’s hips and propelled her forward. She attempted to look over her shoulder, but she couldn’t make out the man who was either her captor or her protector. When they made it to the bar, the woman set her tray down and spun around.

  Viking Glory

  Leif BOOK 1 SNEAK PEEK

  Leif looked around his chambers within his father’s longhouse and breathed a sigh of relief. He noticed the large fur rugs spread throughout the chamber. His two favorites placed strategically before the fire and the bedside he preferred. He looked at his shield that hung on the wall near the door in a symbolic position but waiting at the ready. The chests that held his clothes and some of his finer acquisitions from voyages near and far sat beside his bed and along the far wall. And in the center was his most favorite possession. His oversized bed was one of the few that could accommodate his long and broad frame. He shook his head at his longing to climb under the pile of furs and on the stuffed mattress that beckoned him. He took in the chair placed before the fire where he longed to sit now with a cup of warm mead. It had been two months since he slept in his own bed, and he looked forward to nothing more than pulling the furs over his head and sleeping until he could no longer ignore his hunger. Alas, he would not be crawling into his bed again for several more hours. A feast awaited him to celebrate his and his crew’s return from their latest ex
pedition to explore the isle of Britannia. He bathed and wore fresh clothes, so he had no excuse for lingering other than a bone weariness that set in during the last storm at sea. He was eager to spend time at home no matter how much he loved sailing. Their last expedition had been profitable with several raids of monasteries that yielded jewels and both silver and gold, but he was ready for respite.

  Leif left his chambers and knocked on the door next to his. He heard movement on the other side, but it was only moments before his sister, Freya, opened her door. She, too, looked tired but clean. A few pieces of jewelry she confiscated from the holy houses that allegedly swore to a life of poverty and deprivation adorned her trim frame.

  “That armband suits you well. It compliments your muscles,” Leif smirked and dodged a strike from one of those muscular arms.

  Only a year younger than he, his sister was a well-known and feared shield maiden. Her lithe form was strong and agile making her a ferocious and competent opponent to any man. Freya’s beauty was stunning, but Leif had taken every opportunity since they were children to tease her about her unusual strength even among the female warriors.

  “At least one of us inherited our father’s prowess. Such a shame it wasn’t you.”

  Freya BOOK 2 SNEAK PEEK

  “Does he have nothing better to do than stare?” Freya huffed as she and Tyra left the training field.

  Freya Ivarsdóttir was a renowned and much feared shieldmaiden and the daughter of a jarl. At twenty-four years old, she had already spent half of her life training and raiding with her Norse tribe.

  Tyra looked back over her shoulder and scanned the field of battling Norsemen as they trained. As Freya’s best friend, Tyra was used to Freya’s sometimes brittle disposition, and she knew when her friend was hiding something. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The ongoing skirmishes against their neighbors and the general way of life in the northern Trondelag meant the men and women tasked with defending their tribes trained daily. Tyra watched as they swung axes, swords thrust, and spears hurled. She looked around at the many longhouses that created the perimeter of the homestead. Women stood outside doing laundry, one woman swept dust out her front door, and several people stood around engaged in easy conversation.

  “I don’t see anyone. Well, maybe a ghost from your past, but he’s watched you for years.”

  “What? No. Wait, what do you mean he’s watched me for years?”

  “Ever since the two of you a few summers ago--- Well, you know. Skellig’s had his eye on you, and I think you broke his heart. I believe he’s hoping for more than just a reunion under the furs.”

  “Never.”

  “Then who could you have meant?” Tyra smirked before adding in a sing-song voice, “Erik?”

  Tyra & Bjorn BOOK 3 SNEAK PEEK

  10 years ago

  Tyra extended her arm to Bjorn and jerked him from the ground where she had just knocked him onto his backside. She slid her foot under the hilt of his sword and kicked it until her hand wrapped around the handle. She handed it back to Bjorn with a smirk.

  “Maybe one day you’ll be able to keep up. Today isn’t that day,” Tyra goaded.

  They had been sparing once more, and the result was typical. Tyra Vigosdóttir knocked Bjorn Jansson onto his arse time and again despite being two years younger, only coming to the middle of his chest, and being a woman. They had been sparring since they were children, and at seventeen, Bjorn resented Tyra, who was only fifteen, still being able to best him. He was a renowned warrior in his own right, but somehow Tyra read him better than he knew himself. She was always one, but usually three, moves ahead of him.

  Before Bjorn could say thank you, she spun on her heels and marched away, her honey blonde braid swinging down her back. Bjorn grimaced as he recalled the loathing he had seen in her eyes as they fought. For the longest time, there had been a teasing glint as she bested him, but for the last three moons, it had been anger and disgust. He accepted that he deserved it, but it still stung.

  He moved to the side of the training ring and stepped into the shadows as he took a long draw from the water skin. He watched as Tyra stood speaking to their friend Strian. Bjorn wanted to grimace at the sight of Strian and Tyra together, but he knew it was not his friend’s fault. Bjorn’s mind wandered to when they friendship ended three moons ago. Bjorn remembered as though the events were happening before his eyes. The early spring weather was unseasonably warm, and after training, Bjorn looked for Tyra as he usually did. He did not make a habit of talking to her or standing near her but having been in love with her since he was seven, he was used to being drawn to her. When he was unable to find her but spotted his cousins Leif and Freya, he wondered where Tyra disappeared to. She and Freya were best friends and rarely apart, so he made his way to his cousins as he looked around.

  “You seem to be missing your other half,” he grinned at Freya.

  “Tyra was hot and wanted time to soak, so she went to the fjord.”

  “Alone?” Bjorn’s heart began to race. Tyra was a force to be reckoned with when she was armed, but she would be vulnerable undressed and alone. “Why didn’t you go with her?”

  “She said she wanted some time to herself,” Freya shrugged. “We aren’t one person. We do things apart.”

  Bjorn grunted as he walked to the tree line then ran until he spotted the fjord to his left. He slowed his pace, cautious not to make his presence known in case someone did lurk within the trees watching Tyra. He drew his sword as he approached the shore. He scanned the area but could not hear nor see anyone else. His chest was tight with alternating pangs of fear and anger for Tyra’s foolishness. He sheathed his sword and waded into the water. He had seen Tyra’s blonde head sitting at the surface as the rest of her soaked. She stood and spun around a knife pointing at him when she heard his splashes.

  Tyra’s eyes opened wide as she took in Bjorn standing knee deep with a look of fury on his face. She had seen him angry countless times, usually directed at her for beating him, but this was far more intense than she had seen before.

  Bjorn’s mind screamed that his chest and cock would detonate simultaneously as both throbbed. He had been with more than one woman, and he had seen different body types over the years, but he had seen nothing as beautiful as the water nymph who stood before him. She was exquisite with long legs and slender hips. She had broad shoulders and muscles from years of training. Her breasts were not as large as usually drew him, but they would easily fill his hands. He forced his eyes from the thatch of dark hair that protected the place he most wanted to be at that moment.

  “Bjorn?” her hushed tones barely carried to him.

  Strian VIKING GLORY BOOK 4

  Strian looked over his shoulder at the woman rowing just two benches behind him. Other Norsemen surrounded her, but she appeared out of place and alone. Despite trying to remain focused on navigating his ship towards the fjord just beyond his home, Strian Eindrideson failed to overcome the temptation to look back at Gressa time and again.

  Gressa Jorgensdóttir refused to lift her gaze from the shoulder blades of the people seated in front of her. She followed the rhythm of the other rowers as her oar dipped and slid first through the water then in the air before returning to the water. She could feel Strian’s eyes on her even though she had not looked up in hours. She refused. She refused to acknowledge him, and she refused to acknowledge her own feelings, or rather the ones he stirred in her. She forced her mind to focus on the motions needed to keep her oar synchronized with the other rowers. She would not allow herself to think about how her hands, blistered and raw, ached from rowing for hours after not having touched an oar in years. She would not think about how her stomach rumbled from refusing anything but the most meager amounts of food; one of the few rebellious acts available to her. She would not think about how once again fate forced an abrupt sacrifice of the life she had. She would not think about Strian. There was far more for her not to think about than what she was willing to enterta
in, but her attempts to force her mind away from the painful topics only made them linger in the forefront of her mind even more. Gressa caught herself before she shook her head.

  Strian gave up all attempts at ignoring Gressa the second day aboard his ship. It was an exercise in futility to pretend she did not exist. He had never been able to ignore her, and ten years of separation had not changed that. Gressa stood out from the rest with her heart-shaped face, dark brown hair, and deep blue eyes with their almond shape, giving proof to her Sami heritage. None of her clothes resembled the ones he remembered. Gone were the conical rolled toes on her boots or the beading at the hems of her wrists and collar that she wore at home. The more subdued forest colors of a Welsh bowman replaced her Sami clothing. Her clothes had always made her stand out, first as a Sami and now as a Welshwoman. But Strian knew the clothes did not matter. His memories clutched to the images of Gressa when she was undressed. He snapped his eyes back to the water and slammed the door shut on those memories. They had haunted him ever since he last saw Gressa, and now they caused a painful knot to squeeze his heart.

  “Captain, Tyra’s given the signal that we are only five knots from the entrance to the fjord. We will be home soon.” Strian nodded once to his first mate and followed the man to the stern where he took the rudder from one of his oarsmen.