by Terry Spear
“Do ye ken what ye are getting yerself into, MacNabb?”
It was Gavan’s turn to smile. “I do, and I’m glad.”
The rest of their conversation became a blur as they continued to talk and drink, until time for the meal and the ceremony. Murray led him to the high table as Marsali made her entrance. In her finery, indeed. Midnight blue lace lined the neckline of a creamy silk gown. She was radiant, more beautiful than ever. Gavan watched her approach with hungry fascination. She was going to be his.
But what did she carry? Finally, she got close enough for him to realize a deerhound pup filled her arms. “’Tis my betrothal gift to ye,” she said, narrowing her eyes at her father as she handed Gavan the squirming hound. “A wee lass, out of Corrie’s sister, so she’s bound to be as smart and as fast as Corrie. And, of course,” she said, smiling, “Corrie will come with me, too. MacNabb’s kennels will be well refreshed by Murray hounds.”
Gavan swallowed and lifted the puppy. The bright-eyed deerhound stared back at him. “This means more than ye ken.” He turned to the Murray, knowing from Marsali’s expression she’d had to argue with her father for this gift. “Our kennel needs new bloodlines. Thank ye.”
The Murray nodded, then signaled for a serving lass to take the pup away so they could eat.
The fact that Gavan sat at the high table, and Marsali, dressed in her finery, had given him a gift, should have been all the hint the members of Clan Murray needed. But he heard gasps as her father announced their news. For a moment, Gavan worried there would be trouble, but then clapping and cheering filled the hall. Marsali’s father performed the simple handfasting ceremony with a length of MacNabb tartan Keenan had used to wrap around the food he’d given Gavan for the chase. It amused Gavan that Keenan had thought so far ahead, but he supposed that was a good trait for the heir. When the Murray finished speaking, Gavan kissed his bride, then raised their bound hands above their heads. All would be well, as he’d told her.
***
The next morning, Gavan smiled at his handfasted bride as they left Murray. Marsali rode serenely beside him. The puppy, his betrothal gift, slept tucked securely in a sling Marsali proudly wore, fashioned out of the cloth they’d used the evening before for the handfasting.
“I’m a MacNabb now,” she’d told him shyly as they’d dressed to leave Murray. “I wish to look like one.”
Corrie followed, for once seeming as serene as her mistress. When the standing stones came into view, Gavan pulled up. His mount shifted beneath him, then settled and dropped its head to crop at the long grass between the clumps of bluebells. Marsali’s quickly followed suit.
Marsali’s sigh drifted past him on the breeze. “Do ye think it worked? My spell? The auld superstition? I did finish the garland, ye ken.”
“Ye said ye didna!”
“I had to lie. I couldna believe the spell had worked so quickly. Ye came out of nowhere, a stranger.”
He shrugged. “Who’s to say? My riding by the same night ye wove yer garland of bluebells might only have been happenstance. Catching up to ye here, at the stones, before yer da could lock ye away in the Murray keep, might also have been luck.” He grinned at her. “Maybe no’ that one. I rode verra hard to reach ye, so ye wouldna be locked away in yer da’s tower. Or his dungeon.”
“Cellar.” Her droll tone made him laugh.
He took her hand and squeezed her fingers, then turned back to the ancient circle in its carpet of blue flowers below them. “Just look. ’Tis a magical place.”
“In moonlight, aye. In this morning light, the old stones appear to be nothing more than old rock. Yet even the sunlight seems different here.” Marsali let go his hand, slid off her mount, and set the puppy in the grass for Corrie to mind. She waited for Gavan to join her, then they walked into the circle, hand-in-hand. “No matter where we are, no matter where we go, this place will always be part of us.”
“Aye. We may wander, or we may stay at MacNabb, but we’ll come back here, often, and with our bairns, whether we go on to Murray or no’.”
Marsali turned into his arms. Her face dappled with light and leaf shadows, she seemed magically part of the circle, as he must appear to her. The weight of the setting, of who they were and what they vowed, sank into his soul, right beside the warm contentment of his love for this woman.
He knelt before her as he had two days ago when he asked her to marry him. “Here is where we began, and here is where I promise ye, we will always be together to the end of our days. As deeply rooted as these stones in the earth, ye are in my heart, my soul, part of me I willna—canna—give up. Do ye feel the same?”
“Aye. I do. And long after we’re gone, something of us will remain here.”
Behind her and beside her, the stones stood, silent witness to their declarations.
Marsali dropped to her knees and kissed Gavan, sealing their vows. Then Corrie came to them, and she spoke to her pet. “Aye, Corrie lass, ye had a paw in this, too. Or did the stones work through ye? Was the magic in ye all along?”
Corrie gave a soft woof and nuzzled the hands they held out to her, then went back up the hill to the puppy.
Gavan watched her for a moment, struck by how much the hound seemed to know. But nay, that was ridiculous. Wasn’t it?
“We are bound together now, Gavan,” Marsali said, tucking her head against his neck and bringing his attention rushing back to her, to the sensation of her lips on his throat, her hands in his hair. “Married in all ways but the kirking.”
Her intentions were plain. He cupped her cheek and met her gaze. “Are ye sure? After last night, is this no’ too soon?”
“Aye, I’m sure. Make love to me, husband. Here. Where we began, among the ancient stones and the fragrance of the bluebells.”
Gavan took her in his arms and kissed her, punctuating everything he said with another kiss. “I love ye, Marsali MacNabb…Whether because of yer spell, or these stones…The moon or yer daft hound.” He slipped the plaid from her shoulders, then the rest of her clothes and regarded her with awe. “I dinna care the reason. I love ye. I always will.”
She welcomed him as sweetly as she had for the first time last night. Her body arched, warm and eager, under his when he claimed her. Her cries of rapture teased his senses, a richer song than any she’d sung. Their climax stole his breath. He could only whisper her name, again and again.
When they came back to themselves, Marsali took his hand. “Take me home, Gavan.”
Home, aye. He had that with her. “Where ever ye are, love, I am home.”
###
More to Come:
Ready for more adventures in my Highland Talents series? The series continues with Highland Healer (Highland Talents Book 1).
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my fellow Highland historical romance writers—friends, collaborators and mentors. It does take a village. Thank you for making me welcome!
I’d especially like to thank my fellow Kissing the Highlander authors for including me in this project, and Vonda Sinclair for her fabulous cover art. I’ve had a great time. Let’s do this again!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Willa Blair is the award-wining author of Amazon and Barnes & Noble bestselling Scottish historical paranormal romance and a contributor to USA Today’s Happy Ever After romance blog.
Her popular Highland Talents series, set in a pivotal point in Scottish history, is filled with men in kilts, psi talents, and plenty of spice. Available in ebook, print, and audiobook formats, the series will soon be joined by more novels of adventure and romance.
Find Willa Blair at http://www.willablair.com.
Author’s Note: No, Corrie is not a service dog, but Tahoe was, and Murray before him, both good souls who helped a member of my family. If you’d like to find out more about all the great things service dogs do, check out Atlanta’s Canine Assistants website at http://www.canineassistants.org.
KILTS AND KISSES
Kilts and Kisses Series
Victoria Roberts
About Kilts and Kisses:
Since the deaths of her parents, Ceana Gunn has lived in the shadow of her uncle and his family. She wants nothing more than to see her clan the way it was when her father was still laird. But her uncle has other ideas. Ceana soon discovers that the only refuge to be found is in the last place she expects—the arms of her enemy.
Luthais MacKay wants to be left alone. His only interest is training his prized hawks. He certainly doesn’t have time to listen to the petty squabbling of his clan when his father travels to Edinburgh and leaves him in charge. But when Luthais discovers a mysterious woman on his lands, he’s determined to unravel her secrets…one layer at a time.
Other Highland Titles by Victoria Roberts:
Bad Boys of the Highlands series
Temptation in a Kilt—Book One
X Marks the Scot—Book Two
To Wed a Wicked Highlander—Book Three
Highland Spies series
My Highland Spy—Book One
Kilts and Daggers—Book Two
DEDICATION
To wee Jamie, the newest addition to our clan. Ye’ll always be our little pirate. Aargh!
Dear Readers:
My mom used to tell my daughter that “Reading opens up worlds to you.” I’m a firm believer in that fact, and I write because I don’t want to live just one life. I choose to have many.
You may notice that I incorporate Scottish Gaelic into all my novels. As an author in this genre, I feel it’s my duty to honor Scottish traditions and keep the past alive. I can remember my own grandmothers slipping back and forth between English and Polish/Russian/Czech in the middle of conversations, especially when they didn’t want the grandchildren understanding their words or curses. (Some of which were very creative, I assure you.)
During the era of King James I of England, the king believed Highlanders were nothing but a bunch of barbarians. He felt these men needed to heel. And how did the king attempt to do that? King James made solid efforts by trying to abolish the Gaelic language and Scottish culture.
All my books are about kilted heroes and warriors from the past because everyone deserves a happy ending. I hope you enjoy my latest tale from the Scottish Highlands.—Victoria
www.VictoriaRobertsAuthor.com
Chapter 1
1607, Scottish Highlands
“She’s a witch.”
“Anna, contrary to whatever ye are thinking in that wee brain of yours, our aunt is nay witch. She believes heavily in superstition. There’s a difference.”
Ceana Gunn stood on the parapet of her home as a cool breeze combed through her loose tendrils. She closed her eyes and prayed for patience. There were days when her fifteen-year-old sister drove her completely mad. And this was one of those times. Ceana gazed out at her father’s lands, deep in thought.
The mossy fields were a lovely shade of green, and dappled purple heather reached up from the grass as if asking the sun to carry it away in a warm embrace. A hawk glided fluidly through the air and then swooped down to capture its latest prey. In the distance, the forest line encircling the loch was lush with pine trees and foliage.
How Ceana wished she could escape there now. She missed the much simpler pleasures of her youth and longed for peace and solitude, away from everything and everyone. When her brief moment of solace was interrupted again by her sister’s endless prattle, Ceana mentally suppressed a sigh.
“But Aunt Marta said birds bring about death. How would she know that if she wasnae a witch?”
Ceana didn’t want to tell Anna that if she didn’t stop talking, she’d bring about her own demise, but the last thing Ceana wanted was for her sister to be as superstitious as their aunt. “Ye cannae take everything Aunt Marta says as the truth. Besides, she doesnae feel that way about all birds—only crows, ye know.”
Anna put her hands on the stone wall. Leaning forward over the edge, her long, blond locks caught in the gentle wind. “Do ye think ʼtis safe to go down now?”
“I think we should wait until we’re certain the company have taken their leave. Mayhap then our dear cousin Sorcha will nae be vying for so much attention and making such a fool of herself. ʼTis hard to believe she is a Gunn and shares our blood.”
“Aye, we should wait.” Anna brushed down the blue day dress that complemented her ivory skin. The color of the fabric matched her azure eyes, and the hues of the sky made her look as though she was painted onto an artist’s canvas. She was the picture of their mother.
“I donna understand why Sorcha acts the way she does.” Anna continued with her commentary to Ceana’s dismay. “I think she forgets that we all used to play together as children. I donna know what has happened to her. She isnae the same person. She’s changed, and nae for the better I tell ye.” Anna took a short breath.
“Why do ye think Aunt Marta and Uncle John treat her differently than us? They let her have anything she wants. All Sorcha has to do is ask. And ye’ve seen her trunks. How many gowns can one woman have before ʼtis enough? When was the last time Aunt Marta had dresses made for us, eh?”
Ceana gave her sister a wry grin. “Of course Aunt Marta and Uncle John treat Sorcha differently. She’s their daughter.”
Anna let out a primal growl. “Mayhap, but times like these make me realize how much I miss our mother and father. What I wouldnae give to have them here with us now.”
“I know, Sister. I miss them too.”
Ceana straightened her spine and willed the tears not to fall. Although two years should’ve been ample time to erase memories of the past, the circumstances of her parents’ deaths still haunted her. Most of the time she had a hard time acknowledging that her mother and father were no longer of this world.
A thoughtful smile curved Ceana’s mouth as she remembered the gleam in her mother’s eyes every time the woman laid eyes on her husband. And how could she forget the loving gesture of her father’s hand placed at her mother’s back every time her parents walked side by side? The two of them had been inseparable, but knowing she’d never be able to see them again was like having her beating heart impaled by a sharp dagger.
“I see the look on your face, Ceana. Donna try to hide it. Ye recognize the truth for what it is. If Father and Mother werenae killed by those vagrants who robbed them on the road, Father would still be laird. And ye know verra well that ye would now be the one foolishly vying for attention, not Sorcha.” When Ceana pursed her lips, Anna added, “I know. Ye would ne’er behave the way that Sorcha does. But does it nae trouble ye?”
Ceana became uneasy under her sister’s scrutiny and shifted her weight. “There is naught we can do to change the past. We need to look toward the future and nae look behind. That’s what Mother and Father would’ve wanted for us.” Turning her head away from her prying sister, Ceana stared blankly into the courtyard below, refusing to admit that Anna was right.
A loud commotion came from the bailey, causing Anna to glance over the wall. “I think ʼtis safe to return. The latest suitor has taken his leave.”
“Let us give thanks to God for small favors. I donna know how many more of these visits I can bear.”
When Ceana and Anna entered the great hall, servants were working to clear the long wooden table on the dais of meats, breads, and cheeses—but not before Anna managed to grab a handful of food. She didn’t even wait to sit down before she broke off a piece of bread and gobbled it down.
“I’m famished,” she said. “At least there’s something remaining for us to eat this time. Ye better grab a bite before ’tis too late. How many more suitors do ye think will come before these men clean us out of our stores for the winter?”
“I see the two of ye managed to find your way back. More’s the pity, if ye ask me.”
Anna’s eyes blazed with anger. “We didnae ask ye.”
“Sorcha, ye look lovely.” Ceana made every effort to mask the look of contempt that crossed her face. Too bad her cousin’s comeline
ss didn’t outweigh her dreadful demeanor. Ceana had to fight an internal battle every day to make certain that Sorcha’s abhorrent behavior wasn’t contagious.
Her cousin’s newest gown was gold and trimmed with blackwork embroidery. The neck opening was filled in with a linen partlet, and a ribbon sash was secured at Sorcha’s slender waist. Her ash-brown hair clustered in short curls around her oval face, the same face that currently studied Ceana from head to toe.
“Mother had this gown made for me. I think ʼtis rather fitting for the occasion. Wouldnae ye say?”
Anna huffed. “I’d say ye—”
“Aye. ʼTis quite lovely.”
Sorcha glared at Anna. “Ye two will nae ruin this for me. Do ye hear me?”
“Ruin this for ye?” Anna’s voice went up a notch. “If nae for my father, there would be naught—”
“Na can an còrr! Tha sin gu leòr!” Say no more! That is enough! “Good heavens, child. I can hear all of ye from across the hall. There is nay need for these constant squabbles.” Aunt Marta placed silvery locks of hair behind her ear and then smoothed her red skirts. She was a petite woman with a square chin and a wide mouth that looked large for such a small frame.
“Our guest has departed. Take your leave and wash your sleeve,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the gold fabric of Sorcha’s dress.
“I donna see any dirt on Sorcha’s dress.”
Aunt Marta raised her hands to Anna’s cheeks. “Och, lassie. I know her dress isnae soiled. Sorcha is going to find out which suitor will take her to wife.”
