by Leigh, Lori
Inside Laird of the Game
“Send me an angel,” he silently pleaded with the ancient Celtic Gods.
Laird Alexander G. MacKenna had a sixth sense when it came to routing out their enemy. The shrill battle cry of the MacKenna Clan echoed down the shoreline as the meanest, most despicable warriors that walked the earth descended on the Prince. Swords clanged — horses battled as the two powerful forces met in fierce combat!
“Bloody hell!” Alexander took a second look at the lovely lady stranded in the midst of the battle. His Angel had been delivered, but to the wrong army!
What would you do if Heaven put an Angel in your arms? Hang on, with everything you have!
Melissa Johnson’s an American tourist. Her vacation in Scotland becomes a magical romp as she believes she has stepped through time. She suddenly must face life as it was in the eighteenth century – without speed dial to her favorite deli, or a blow dryer. Her manicure is a wreck, and her choice of clothing causes riots among the warriors. Through the mists of time he claimed her, and she surrenders her heart to the handsome Celtic Laird.
Alexander will risk it all. Hearts will break, battles will be won and lost, but only one man can claim title to…
Laird of the Game
What Reviewers Are Saying About Laird of the Game
Ms Leigh has once again held me spellbound. I loved the Highlander theme with all its lusty yet deeply emotional connections between not just the main characters, but some of the minor ones as well. Ms Leigh writes a well-crafted story that draws her reader in and manages to bring laughter to the fore, even in the midst of danger. ~Coffeetime Romance
Lori Leigh has crafted a distinctive tale that is sure to please. LAIRD OF THE GAME will make you laugh and leave you with a twinkle in your eye. This semi-comic romp contains a warm hearted romance and is sure to make you sigh. I will certainly be reading more of Ms. Leigh’s charming work. ~Romance Junkies
Laird of the Game
Lori Leigh
Vintage Romance Publishing
Goose Creek, South Carolina
www.vrpublishing.com
Laird of the Game
Copyright ©2006 Lori Wattawa
Cover illustration copyright © 2006 Patricia Foltz
Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vintage Romance Publishing, LLC, 107 Clearview Circle , Goose Creek, SC 29445.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
ISBN: 0-9785368-4-3
PUBLISHED BY VINTAGE ROMANCE PUBLISHING, LLC
www.vrpublishing.com
For Gerard Butler
My Liege, my Laird, my luv…
And, the Ladies of the Laird
Where the river runs under the trees
That’s where you’ll find me
In joy’s embrace gazing, lovingly
There the rapture shines through the lace
Of summer’s brow, hold me now
Where the heart runs wild and free
That’s where you’ll love me
In ecstasy’s dance singing, happily
There the moment is ever a chance
Of lover’s sigh, in the night
Where the beauty fades into the years
That’s when you’ll need me
To dry all your tears loving, laughter
There in splendor love is sweet surrender
Of moments bide, by your side
Where the moon fills sun and thee
That’s where you’ll lay me
On bended knee smiling, softly
Where the river runs under the trees
Of glory’s passed
Home at last
Lori Leigh
Chapter One
A time to remember…
The Celtic Warrior Game in the Highlands of Scotland has begun.
The Bookies in London are having a heyday. The favorite again is the handsome Laird MacKenna; however, Prince George promised a startling upset and vowed to win the Celtic Warrior Game this year.
Alexander G. MacKenna is Laird of the Game. He’s as cocky as ever and has assured his stockholders victory, as usual. The MacKenna boys are always a favorite with the ladies and will be sorely missed during the month long game.
On the Streets with Rosabel
The echo of a hundred mounted warriors thundered over the glens of Scotland. Long before the tourists that lined the country road on the edge of the Balquhidder caught sight of the magnificent warriors, they heard the rumble of hooves crossing the heat-baked earth and stone. The cheers rose as the Laird crested the hill on his black stallion.
The fearless warhorse reared up on his hind legs and then descended into the valley. The warriors followed their Laird in precise formation that dazzled the tourists in a spectacle of living history. The tourists that lined the road cheered them on to victory.
“Has anyone seen Melissa? Where has she gone off to now?” The Tourist Guide rounded up her group and they boarded the bus.
“Come along, ladies, we still have much to do and see. We can’t wait any longer and must stay on schedule to see it all.”
“She’ll find her way back,” the ladies commented. “She went looking for the site where they filmed Reign of Fire. There’s an old castle on the map.”
“Didn’t they film that in Ireland?”
“Can we also fit in a stop for Ewan McGregor and Ioin Gruffund?”
“Did you see the warrior on that horse? Oh, Lord, wasn’t he handsome!”
“There was a warrior on that magnificent Friesian?”
“Isn’t this where Mel Gibson filmed Braveheart?” One of her charges sighed in awe.
“Tonight, we’re going to one of Gerard Butler’s favorite pubs in Glasgow, and then tomorrow we will be standing on the same hilltop that Liam Neeson filmed Rob Roy.”
“Wonderful!” The group clapped in appreciation!
“It’s a pity Melissa will miss it all.” The Tour Guide shook her head, and started the engine.
***
Alexander called a halt on the ridge and surveyed the horizon along the rocky coastline for any sign of their enemy, Prince George. The powerful Laird’s mouth was set in a determined line, and his eyes narrowed against brilliant morning sunshine. He breathed deeply the scents of horseflesh and leather. A fine spray of salty ocean wafted over him, and long-forgotten childhood memories flooded back to mingle with the mist. It was time to remember their heritage and set aside the modern-day world.
As a child Alex had watched his father stand on this ridge. He was a powerful man, formidable, but tenderhearted when it came to Lily, his wife and mother to his seven sons. As the eldest son, Alex had become the Laird and stood alone as the Chief for the MacKenna Clan, but the mantle of power weighed as heavily as the ancient sword sheathed at his side.
Alex was brooding again, as his younger brothers called the dark moods that would send him into a whirlwind of long days at his office and few hours of fun and pleasure. They were there to relax and enjoy their summer away from boardrooms. Alex let out a long sigh and focused his attention on the horizon.
It was 1745 once again, and he was a Celtic warrior!
A
lexander fought a ferocious battle on his eighteenth birthday and claimed the title, Laird of the Celtic Warrior Game that their ancestor, Baron Girard Jolbert, had begun centuries ago. It was a heritage that put not only a vast fortune into their hands but also the problems that came from being young, wealthy, and handsome. His younger brothers had nearly driven him mad!
Every summer they revisited their Celtic heritage of ancient battles and mighty warriors. Modern day twenty-first century weapons were not allowed in battle. They fought on horseback, as their ancestors fought with their feet, hands, and their intuition. They wore the red and blue plaid tartan Kilt, white saffron shirt, and black riding boots that had become their signature. Eighteen years had passed, and Alex had yet to be defeated. Victory for Laird MacKenna was inevitable. Alexander MacKenna was Laird of the Game, and with his six brothers beside him, he was invincible.
Waves whooshed onto the rocky shore in frothy cream and liquid emeralds. Alex respected the power behind the waves that curled into a fist and smashed boulders into pebbles. He flexed his fingers instinctively, and rested on the hilt of the ancient sword at his side.
The tip of a feather disappeared into the clouds. The morning mist lingered in wispy apparitions of warriors long gone, and dewdrops glistened on the grassy slope in a fairy treasure of sparkling jewels that would soon evaporate in the heat of a July afternoon. His movements were deathly silent and graceful from years of training. The peace and quiet that surrounded him was a ruse that alarmed his instincts. A gentle breeze crackled with intensity, and he felt a tingle on the back of his neck. It was as if the ancient Celtic Gods were anxious that something mysterious was about to happen.
War had been declared on Prince George, and the enemy was within their reach. Alexander studied every move the Prince made for eighteen years. His cousin, Prince George, had promised a surprise. Alex stepped into the role of Laird of his domain. George had talked about retiring from the game and returning to his nightlife in London with Niki, his glamorous lady that he adored. Alex knew every move he would make before George gave the order. It had become almost disappointing and far too predictable. Alex wanted a challenge; there was no thrill in conquest when winning came too easily. It had come time for both Alex and George to retire and pass the honors of victory on to younger challengers.
As if reading his thoughts, his black Friesian stallion snorted a hot, steamy disapproval for the long wait and shook his handsome head. The long hair that surrounded the hooves defined the distinctive breed.
“Soon, Yorath,” Alex quietly comforted his horse with a calming hand. The name meant Handsome Lord and was appropriate for the magnificent warhorse. Emily, one of his many lady friends, had named the horse when he was still a young colt. The horse was formidable in battle, and just his presence would make the warriors shudder in fear.
Well over a hundred heavily armed warriors waited for the command to attack. It was an adventure of a lifetime. Gideon, Alex’s younger brother and their doctor, had assured him that every warrior was physically fit and ready for battle.
Their instruction included several months of training on horseback under the strict supervision of Rebecca, their Master Horsewoman. The warriors lovingly called her their Rebel. It was a nickname Daniel MacKenna, Alexander’s younger brother, had given her when she offered to knock him in the nose for falling off his horse and trying her patience.
Daniel was in love with her. It was a well-kept secret that everyone in the world knew, except Rebecca. They had known her since she was a child, and her father had trained their horses. When he retired, Rebecca continued the family business and trained their warriors. To the MacKenna’s she was the sister they never had, and they all loved her.
She had a crush on Alexander since she was fourteen years old; but Alex was well aware of her affection and Daniel’s secret obsession for her, so Alex kept his distance. Daniel adored her from afar, hoping some day she might look his way. His younger brothers just snickered and suggested he get her into bed.
The warriors all forgot about her striking, crystal blue eyes as she taught them about English saddles, bits, and bridles. They couldn’t remember her perfect alabaster skin as they rode until their backsides ached and their hands were blistered from the reins. They griped about her methods, but when Rebecca was done training them, they could direct the horse with their legs so their hands were free to hold a shield and sword and not fall on their bum.
If the warriors fell from their horse, she worked them harder. If they complained, they got a fifty-mile jaunt on horseback. She had no mercy for whiners, no tolerance for insubordination, and never let Alex down. It was pass-fail, and if Rebel failed a rider, Alex respected her decision and wouldn’t allow the warrior into the game.
As one exhausted, bruised, limping warrior put it, “If Rebel wasn’t so beautiful, I’d throw her off a cliff.”
Of all the riders she had trained, Daniel remained her biggest challenge. He preferred his horse power in the size of automobile engines and even though she tried her best to teach him how to ride, he was obstinate and seemed to forget everything she taught him.
Alex sighed again. Daniel wanted her attention and knew very well how to ride a horse. He was a fool in love, and Alex admired his determination.
Where have all the years gone to? His thoughts drifted in sentimental daydreams.
The first battle of the season was at hand. Over a thousand warriors had applied for the month long reality game but only five hundred could be selected to participate. The Laird and the Prince each had 250 men and a year to plan their battles before they would meet in the Highlands. The warriors were chosen on their physical abilities, loyalty, and dedication.
Alex demanded perfection from the men who were from every walk of life worldwide. They would be rewarded handsomely. The winners would take home ₤10,000 for the month and the losers would get ₤1,000. There was a vast fortune at stake – thousands of pounds were bet with the Bookies in London, and Alex was certain this year he would win.
His gaze roamed the horizon, but his mind was filled with the ramifications of his decisions. He knew in his heart if he didn’t make the necessary changes now, he’d never get the life he wanted. Part of his soul didn’t want anything to change.
Alex longed for a cup of Starbuck’s coffee and a copy of the London Times. It was difficult to give up their fast-paced, 21st century lifestyle for a month. Other than an emergency helicopter that would take an injured man to hospital, they rode on horseback and didn’t have electricity at the cottage. Most of his warriors slept on the ground covered with a tartan just as their ancestors did centuries ago. He didn’t mind not having his comfortable feather bed, but he sorely missed his favorite coffee shop.
The warriors were restless, shifting in their saddles. They had trained hard under the tutelage of a Master Swordswoman, Agotha, for a year to earn the right to sit in a saddle beside their champion, Laird MacKenna. Her world was rigid as steel, and her insults could cut a man down as easily as she could slice off his leg. Lethal, non-lethal, and killing zones were drilled into their heads until they could execute the moves in their sleep. The warriors were given scimitar swords for Florentine style fighting. Since this was a game, serious injury to their opponent meant immediate forfeiture. They fought for points, not a body count. Agotha made certain the warriors knew the limits. Injuries were not uncommon, but it took strong leadership to keep the warriors from skipping over that edge to inflict mortal blows.
She explained the rules while they challenged each other inside the lists. They watched in rapt fascination as she demonstrated how to swing a blade and block an incoming blow. Their swords were deadly and could cut right through the gorget around their throats.
The warriors worshiped the gorgeous brunette and never dared to call her by Agotha, her legal name. She was nicknamed VixenBlade, reincarnation of Scathach, the Warrioress from the Isle of Skye who trained the Gods how to fight.
They were half-crazy in lov
e with her but it was Robert, Alex’s third brother, who stole her heart. If any warrior extended his admiration past her litany of rules and regulations, they faced an angry Robert MacKenna.
Robert had heard a warrior commenting on her luscious bum, and Robert had sent him flying into a thicket of thorns.
“She’s mine, ye ken?”
The warrior had spent the next day in Gideon’s hospital tent picking thorns out of his bum.
They all ken’d, quickly.
When Robert entered the lists to fight, he bowed to Alex and then dropped on one knee in front of Agotha, kissed her hand, and asked her permission to strike her in battle.
The warriors were equipped with armor for the game with both knee and elbow cops; however, most of the warriors chose not to wear the bulky gear to enable maneuverability while on horseback. Their Laird and Prince George both carried ancient Claymores, which were swords carried by their ancestors and much heavier. The curved design of the scimitars was reminiscent of the days when Attila the Hun ruled over a vast region of the known world.
The Prince had arrived that morning and formally issued the challenge that was accepted by Alexander. The warriors stepped back into a time gone by and became legends from the past. They were expected to speak Gaelic and live as warriors lived.
There were no modern conveniences during the game, and they were not allowed to leave once the challenge had been accepted, unless it was a dire medical or a personal emergency. Contact with their modern day world was strictly forbidden. Breaking the rules meant forfeiture to the Prince. Once the game began, they were honor bound to remain inside the perimeter during the entire month of July. Any man absent from the game for more than a day had to be disqualified. Only one man was allowed to bring the points to be tallied.
Alex discouraged the warriors from speaking to the curious tourists who lined the roads surrounding the Balquhidder. The press hounded them for quotes, and Alex remained silent during the game. He warned his men to keep their opinions about the outcome to themselves. To disobey meant possible humiliation for the entire Clan if they were misquoted.
Send me an Angel, Alex silently pleaded with the Celtic Gods, and then frowned, unnerved that his most secret desire had suddenly surfaced in his daydreams.
