To Desire a Highlander

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

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  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 permissions@hbgusa.com. 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

  In 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

  Lady 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.

  Gillia
n 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.

  That they even favored her, looking on her kindly and guiding her in times of trouble.

  Now she knew differently.

  Somewhere beyond the horizon, Donell MacDonnell was making his way home.

  Gillian didn’t blink as a wave broke over the rocks, the icy water sluicing her feet. She had other concerns of much greater importance.

  She was the MacDonnell’s bespoken bride.

  Yet wedding him was the last thing she wanted.

  While not quite an ogre, he was many summers her elder. She doubted he’d ever washed his great black beard, which was bushy enough to house at least three nests of mice. His arms and legs were thicker than trees, his girth immeasurable. Worse, he suffered onion breath.

  His meaty hands bore scars, something she’d admire and honor in most warrior chieftains.

  After all, a leader unwilling to fight beside his men wasn’t worthy of his status as a commander. Regrettably, Donell’s hands weren’t just marked by battle. The skin around and beneath his fingernails was black with grime. If his breath smelled of onions, his flesh reeked of things she didn’t want to name.

  She shuddered, a chill sweeping her despite her determination to remain calm.

  A passing galley had dropped anchor at her father’s island home, Castle Sway. The ship’s crew begged, and received, hospitality for the night. Plied with generous viands and free-flowing ale, and warmed by the hearth fire, the seamen spoke freely, sharing news from afar.

  These tidings included their meeting with Donell at a well-visited seafarers’ tavern on the mainland coast.

  Unaware that their words chilled Gillian’s blood, even upending her world, they claimed he was journeying back to his isle. That he’d vowed he was eager to resume his duties as chieftain of his watery domain.

  His arrival was imminent. Or so Castle Sway’s friendly and loose-tongued guests had asserted.

  Gillian fisted her hands, clutching the folds of her skirts. She welcomed the chill numbness of her fingers. Focusing on the bone-deep cold and the sharp needle pricks racing up her wrists and along her arms kept her from thinking how opportune it would be if Donell’s galley were to spring a leak, sinking into the sea.

  She might not want to marry him, but she didn’t wish the man ill.

  Even so…

  She bit her lip, remembering how his big, dirty-nailed hand had gripped hers on the day of their betrothal. He’d lifted her fingers to his lips, his greasy beard tickling her skin as he’d kissed her knuckles.

  The hunger in his eyes as he’d done so, the way his gaze had swept her head to toe, was a memory she wished she didn’t have.

  His slow smile, which revealed the yellowish stain of his teeth…

  “Mother of all the gods.” Gillian lifted a hand to her brow, peering out across the sea. To her relief, there was no sign of Donell’s galley.

  That didn’t mean he wasn’t coming.

  The mist was thicker near the horizon, spoiling her view. He could be out there now, his ship slicing through the waves, his crew’s well-plied oars speeding him toward the steep-sided spit of rock known as Laddie’s Isle.

  Tamping down her ill ease, Gillian reached inside her cloak and slipped her hand through a slit in her skirts. She curled her fingers around the small leather pouch that hung from a narrow belt slung about her hips. She took comfort in her secret treasure’s solid weight and bulk, the hope its presence gave her. Perhaps she could still buy her way to freedom.

  “Eager for his arrival, are you?”

  Gillian jumped, whipped her hand from within her cloak, and spun about to face her oldest brother, Gowan.

  He stood less than a sword length away, towering over her. He’d crossed his arms over his chest and planted one booted foot firmly on a seaweed-draped rock. His deep russet hair, the same rich red as her own, blew about his shoulders, and he was eyeing her intently, peering at her as if she’d grown two heads.

  “You startled me.” Gillian lifted her chin, ignoring his question.

  “And you surprise me.” He flicked a glance at the sea. “I wouldnae have thought you were so keen to greet the man.”

  “You think I’m here to welcome him?” She tossed her head, knew her cheeks were flaming. “Could be I’m hoping his galley doesn’t appear.”

  “You ken it will, lass.” He stepped closer, set his hands on her shoulders. “That’s as sure as the morrow’s dawn. No’ liking it will change naught.”

  Gillian drew a tight breath, saying nothing.

  She kept her chin high, hoping Gowan—her favorite among her eight brothers—wouldn’t hear the racing of her heart, the dread churning in her belly. He might sympathize with her, to a degree. But as a man, born and bred of the Isles and with their ways and traditions carved into his bones, he wouldn’t understand her displeasure.

  “Anything is possible if the will is there.” She stood straighter, forcing herself to believe her words. “The highest mountain can be torn down if you take away one rock at a time.”

  “Aye, and by the time you’re done, you’ll be so auld and addled, you’ll nae longer remember why you started such a fool’s errand.”

  “It’s no’ foolish to me.”

  Her brother frowned, shook his head slowly. “You dinnae ken what you’re saying.”

  “I do.” She did.

  She’d empty the sea with a thimble if doing so would keep her from becoming Donell’s bride.

  “All lasses must wed, as well you know.” Gowan lifted a hand, tucked her hair behind her ear. “That is just the way of it, how life here has e’er been and aye will be. You could do worse than the MacDonnell. He has his own isle, small though it is. His tower will be sound enough, once repaired. The prospects are grand.” He swept out an arm, taking in the endless stretch of the sea, the shimmering mist. “Magnificent enough to swell the heart of any Hebridean.”

  “I’ve nothing against Laddie’s Isle.” Gillian spoke true. “It’s Donell I cannot abide. You weren’t at Sway when he came for the betrothal ceremony. None of you were there,” she reminded him, sure that if her brothers hadn’t been away at sea, and had been home, in their father’s hall, they’d have argued against the match.

  “He is a toad.” She raised a hand when he started to protest. “He’s also ancient, a graybeard.”

  “Lass…” Her brother took her hand between both of his own, his grip warm and firm. “Donell MacDonnell is no more than ten summers older than you. That much I know. The last five years have fogged your memory.”

  “I wish that were so.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Did Father send you to find me?” She slipped her hand from his grasp, suspicious.

  Wasn’t it in their sire’s best interest to be rid of her? A good enough natured man, but much too lusty for his age, Mungo MacGuire had a new young wife. Lady
Lorna wasn’t even as old as Gillian. If the clan tongue-waggers were to be believed, she was just as hot-blooded as her adoring husband. It was whispered that she’d vowed to give him more sons than the eight he already had.

  Lady Lorna also didn’t much care for sharing her new home with her husband’s daughter.

  Gillian frowned, her blood heating even more.

  Gowan angled his head, watching her with eyes that missed nothing. “Da is too busy ordering our brothers about, making them ready the keep for MacDonnell’s arrival. He didnae send me to look for you.”

  “If he did, he needn’t have bothered. I’d almost rather stay here.” She glanced toward the cliffs, the nameless tower that claimed the promontory’s best vantage point. “What awaits me at Sway, but Lady Lorna’s peevish glares and taunts? I’m hard-pressed to say which ill is worse. Sharing a hall with a shrew or being shackled to an ogre.”

  To his credit, Gowan looked embarrassed.

  But he held his tongue, still not siding with her.

  “You should’ve stayed in the tower, enjoyed a few ales with our brothers.” Gillian held his gaze, seeing no reason for anything but the truth. Perhaps she should have also remained at the keep. She could be sitting by the fire with her beloved hound, Skog, stroking his scraggly fur, rubbing his bony shoulders, wishing them anywhere but this bleak isle, dreading Donell’s arrival.

  Instead, she’d picked her way down to the rocks, drawn here as if by an unseen power.

  Even now, she felt the fine hairs on her nape lifting, stirred by a tingling sensation that also rippled down her back and along her arms. She shivered, hoped Gowan wouldn’t notice.

  She took a breath, attempted her most level voice. “I know you have my best interests at heart. But there’s nothing you can say or do to make this day a good one.”

  “Aye, well.” Gowan glanced again at the sea, then to her. “Could be you’ll find Donell to your liking.” He sounded hopeful. “The ship’s crew spoke highly of him. They said he wore a fine mail shirt and more arm rings than the Viking warlords of old.”