Vonda Sinclair

Welcome!

2011-08-26T21:30:00.000-07:00

Step back through the mists of time into a different world...
Scotland of centuries ago.

My first two Scottish historical romance novels are out now!
My Wild Highlander

Lady Angelique Drummagan, a half-Scottish, half-French countess, has suffered much pain and betrayal in her past. She wants nothing to do with the sensual Scottish warrior that the king has ordered her to marry because the rogue could never be a faithful husband, but she has little choice in the matter. Dangerous, greedy enemies threaten her from all sides and she’s in dire need of his protection.

Sir Lachlan MacGrath, known as Seducer of the Highlands, possesses a charming wickedness and canny wit which has earned him much popularity. After the king decrees that he wed the fiery hellion, Lachlan discovers there is one woman who can resist him—Angelique. Can he break through her icy façade and melt her heart, or will the dark secrets lurking in her past not only cost them their future together, but their very lives?

"The Seducer of the Highlands, Sir Lachlan MacGrath, can seduce me anytime! And did! Danger, romance, and Highlanders make this tale a must read! Loved it!" ~Terry Spear, Heart of the Highland Wolf

1st place winner in the FTHRW Wallflower Contest, Rose Division
1st place winner Laurie Award

Reviews

Chapter one Excerpt!

Longer Excerpt!

Available at Amazon, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble. Also available at other online bookstores such as Apple, All Romance eBooks, Diesel, Kobo, and more.

My Fierce Highlander

2011-07-20T08:31:00.001-07:00

My Scottish historical romance novel is out now and available at Amazon, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble.

Gwyneth Carswell, an English lady banished by her father to the harsh Scottish Highlands, wants nothing more than to take her young son away from the violence of two fighting clans--her own distant kin, the MacIrwins, and their enemies, the MacGraths. She risks everything to rescue the fierce MacGrath warrior from the battlefield where he’s left for dead by her clan. She only knows she is inexplicably drawn to him and he wants peace as she does. When her clan learns of her betrayal, they seek vengeance. Dare she trust the enemy more than her own family?

Laird Alasdair MacGrath is driven to end two-hundred years of feuding with the MacIrwins. But by taking in and protecting Lady Gwyneth and her son, he provokes more attacks from his mortal enemy. As the danger and conflict surrounding them escalate, Alasdair and Gwyneth discover an explosive passion neither of them expected. With the arrival of a powerful man from her past, a horrible decision confronts her--give up her son or the man she loves.

Chapter One Excerpt!

Longer Excerpt!

"Wow! I LOVE Highlanders and when I read My Fierce Highlander by Vonda Sinclair, I fell in love with Laird Alasdair MacGrath at once, and wanted to be the one rescuing him instead. Adventure, fighting, romance, the Highlands--what more can anyone ask for! Loved it!" Terry Spear, author of Heart of the Highland Wolf

"I loved the description of the Highlands. This compelling story of two wounded people who each heal the other is spellbinding and simply lovely. I WANT MORE!" Cate Parke

"I love this story . . . it’s wonderful!! You handle the complex mix of characters, dialogue, and action in a very readable, highly exciting manner. Great conflict . . . heroic characters, true emotion, fast-paced action plot."

Barbara Dawson Smith, New York Times bestselling author and winner of the prestigious RITA Award; author of Countess Confidential and The Rogue Report.

Read more REVIEWS

Available at Amazon, Smashwords and Barnes & Noble. Also available at other online bookstores such as Apple, All Romance eBooks, Diesel, Kobo, and more.

Why I Write Scottish Historical Romance

2011-07-20T08:11:00.001-07:00

I have been in love with romance as long as I can remember... from those first fairy tales that held me enthralled, to daydreams, to putting the first words on paper. Stories affect me profoundly which is why I write the ones with happy endings. Cultivating characters and their journeys and allowing them to spring to life on a page where others can experience them is one of the great joys in life. Characters are magical. Do I create them or do they use me as a portal to life?

"Scotland, above all, is a land of romance and of poetry" ~Sir David Wilkie, painter.

Scotland is such a magical place, it is easy to see how so many myths and legends were born here. It is also my favorite place to visit. When I write stories set in Scotland, I return there in my mind and endeavor to bring the beauty to life through words. Scotland is a brooding and moody place, but always breathtaking and awe-inspiring. The history is filled with conflict, passion and the yearning for freedom. The landscape of the Highlands is harsh, filled with rocks, mountains, lochs, peat bogs and lovely cold beaches. The sky is dramatic and very much a part of the wild landscape, especially when the clouds drift down and caress the mountains. In the morning, the mist rises and floats, ghost-like as rays of sunlight knife through. I hope you will visit my Scotland page to learn more.

Contact

My Wild Highlander Excerpt

2011-07-02T13:39:00.000-07:00

My Wild Highlander

By Vonda Sinclair

Chapter One

London, England, 1618

"Lady Angelique! Come back, sweeting!" ancient Lord Chatsworth called.

Sacrebleu! Angelique Drummagan rushed down the corridor, eased open a door and slipped inside a dark drawing room, one of many within the maze of Whitehall Palace. She prayed Chatsworth would pass by. He fancied himself her suitor and did naught but drool on her hand every time he was near.

Heavy breathing and moans sounded from across the room. She turned and froze, her eyes searching the near darkness. Who was here? Only the shifting moonlight glinting off the Thames provided any illumination, revealing chair backs and settees.

A high-pitched giggle pierced the air from several yards away, in the vicinity of a sitting area near the cold hearth.

"Shh."A long moment of silence stretched out, broken by sounds of kissing.

"King James wishes her brought before him forthwith," a muffled male voice said outside the closed door.

"She vanished in this passage," Chatsworth said.

A pox upon the old lecher! And the king, too. Angelique crept across the Turkish carpet and slid behind the brocade window drapery.

"Ooh, I'm impressed with your swordplay skills, my laird." Lady Eleanor's voice, breathy and excited, shattered the quiet of the room. She was the one moaning and giggling?

The harlot.

"I'm not a laird, but I do thank you for the compliment."

A Highlander? Angelique would recognize that tongue-rolling speech anywhere.

She had never known Eleanor, countess of Wexbury, to dally with anyone below a viscount. What was she doing with a barbarian? That's what her mother—God rest her soul—would've called him, or any Scot. And Maman should know; she'd been married to one.

Eleanor cried out with carnal pleasure. Angelique's face burned hot. She couldn't comprehend how a woman found pleasure in the act. Never again would she entrust her body and heart to any man. Since men were naught but faithless pigs, she knew she only had duty before her, not happiness. Not love. That had been a foolish child's dream.

Eleanor gasped for breath and the Scot made a growling noise. The height of pleasure, some said. Surely the French term le petit mort—the little death—was more accurate. Nausea gripped Angelique even as shocking excitement quickened her heart beat. A dark, hidden part of her wondered… No, never again. I cannot marry and be subjected to a man's lust. She pressed trembling fingers against her throat and found it damp with perspiration.

The door opened and lamplight reflected off the white walls.

"Lady Angelique?" Dryden's nasal voice echoed through the room. He was the most vexing of the king's courtiers.

The two lovers became silent.

"I know you're in here. I heard a noise."

From her position behind the draperies, she noticed the light moving across the floor.

A thump sounded, then rustling.

"Sir Lachlan? What in Hades are you…?"

"I was but…resting," the Scot said.

"Have you seen Lady Angelique?"

"Nay."

"Dryden, the lamp, if you please," Chatsworth said.

"What is it?"

In the silence, the light shifted again, growing brighter as it moved in her direction.

Mon Dieu, do not let them find me, s'il vous plaît. Angelique's pulse roared in her ears. She detested Chatsworth, and now, to be discovered lurking about in a dark room while a Scot coupled with a lady harlot would be exceedingly mortifying. They might even accuse her of spying on them.

Dryden yanked the drapery aside.

"Parbleu!" Angelique blurted and pressed a hand to her mouth.

Dryden sent her a vile grin. In the background, Chatsworth scowled, then shot a murderous glance at the man they'd called Sir Lachlan, who stood in a darkened corner.

Where had Eleanor crawled away to? Angelique couldn't see her beneath the carved furniture in the dimness.

"You and Sir Lachlan?" Dryden snickered. "His Majesty will likely find this interesting."

"Non! I was not—Lady Eleanor was—where did she go?" Embarrassment flamed over her. Now, they thought she'd been with the Scot? Never.

"No need to lie, mademoiselle. Come. The king wishes to see you." He ushered her toward the door. "You, too, Sir Lachlan."

"Me?"

"Indeed." Dryden waved him forward.

The Highlander stepped into the light. The giant was more than a foot taller than she, broad shouldered and wearing a belted plaid, leaving the bottom portion of his muscular legs bare. She'd seen few of these barbaric articles of clothing since she was nine years old and her mother had taken her from Scotland.

His face was ruggedly masculine with a square jaw and hard chin, enticing to a woman's baser instincts, but not refined. This was the same man she'd seen leaving Lady Catherine's bedchamber the night before. Then, he'd been wearing trews. Dallying with two women at court? Or perhaps more? Lecher.

Amusement sparkled in his eyes before he bowed. "M'lady."

"Sir." She curtsied.

The Scot's darkened eyes fixed upon her in a too-knowing way. To cover the heat rushing over her face, she strode from the room.

Feeling like a prisoner headed for the block, Angelique walked beside the Highlander through several rooms and dark-paneled corridors, taking two steps for his every one. Dryden and Chatsworth followed. She would not be surprised to feel the prick of a sword at her back. Glancing around, she found the men empty-handed.

They passed through four doors, guarded by numerous courtiers and royal servants before reaching the antechamber with its gleaming ebony furniture upholstered in the finest red velvets. Numerous candles lit the room and glimmered off the gold leaf.

What did the king want? He'd sent for her two days before at Hampton Court Palace, though he hadn't been ready to meet with her until now. She disliked leaving the comfort of the queen's household, but King James was her guardian and she must do as he bid. Chatsworth and Dryden had been searching for her before they found her in the room with this Highlander, so the summons could have naught to do with him. Why had they asked him to accompany them?

They neared the king's private rooms and an usher opened the carved door. "Lady Angelique Drummagan and Sir Lachlan MacGrath," he announced.

The four entered. The men bowed, and she curtsied deeply before the king.

The scrawny, aging monarch, wearing overblown clothing in colorful silks, occupied an ornate chair on an elevated platform. Buckingham, his favorite courtier, a regally handsome dark-haired man in his early twenties, stood next to him, along with several other members of the aristocracy.

"You have found her." King James turned his rheumy, unsteady gaze toward the tall man beside her. "And Sir Lachlan, I'm so glad you have joined us once again."

"Your Majesty, 'tis a supreme honor." Lachlan bowed.

Dryden whispered something to another courtier, who whispered to Buckingham. And he proceeded to murmur into the king's ear.

The frail monarch's eyes widened. "The two of you have…met?"

Angelique's face heated. "Non. Not in truth."

The king frowned at his courtiers but his expression lightened when he looked at Lachlan. "It matters not. This is my ward, Lady Angelique Drummagan, the new countess of Draughon in her own right." He motioned toward her. "My dear, meet Sir Lachlan MacGrath, a hero to whom we owe much."

The cursed MacGrath took her hand and kissed it. "'Tis my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, m'lady." His rich baritone and the Scottish burr appealed more than it should have.

She stiffened.

In the bright candlelight, she saw he was a most visually interesting man. His tawny hair was too long by far and not of the current style. His eyes gleamed like a tiger's eye stone. It was not the color that arrested her, but the expression—assessing and sensual. She had come upon many a rogue like him in France, and barely escaped marrying one.

She jerked her hand away but remembered her manners just in time and curtsied. Not too deeply, because he didn't deserve even that. "An honor, Sir Lachlan."

A tiny grin lifted one corner of his full lips. Though she already loathed him because he was a Highlander and a debaucher, something about him defied her to look away.

"Through his cunning and sharp wits, Sir Lachlan has saved the life of our dear marquess of Buckingham and broken up the den of conspirators," King James said. "We knighted Sir Lachlan a fortnight ago but we believe he deserves an even greater reward. Do we not, Steenie?"

Buckingham nodded.

"He will also receive a title." King James gave her a toothless grin. "Earl of Draughon."

What? Her late father's title?

The shock and silence threatened to render her senseless on the floor. What had the king meant?

"Yes, my dear, I have finally found you the perfect husband. He is Scottish, as you are. He is pleasing to look upon and…"

"Pray pardon…Majesty." Fearing she would faint, she quickly curtsied and fled the stateroom as if Lucifer himself chased her. She would die before she'd marry a Highlander whose favorite pastime was lifting skirts.

***

Lachlan watched the lovely red-haired lass dash from the room. What the devil had just happened? Had the king said something about a husband? And the earl of something? He shouldn't have drunk so much sack earlier.

He shook his head, attempting to clear it. Facing the king, Lachlan could hardly believe he stood once again in His Majesty's opulent private chambers—Lachlan, a Highlander and a second son with no title, nothing but a canny wit and a sword. During the past several weeks, while he'd been at court, enjoying every moment of the drinking, feasting, hunting and other, more carnal, pursuits, he had not been caught in such a compromising situation. And now His Majesty wished to leg-shackle him to a prickly lass? It made no sense. Clearly, Lachlan had overstayed his welcome and should've already departed for his clan's Kintalon Castle in the Highlands.

"Well, then," King James said. "Has there ever been a bride unafraid of the holy state of matrimony?" He grinned. "A toast!" He motioned to his courtiers and servants, who scrambled about for drinks.

Future bride? Lachlan shook his head. Nay, he could never marry. He loved women too much to settle with only one.

"Your Majesty, pray pardon… what are you saying? You wish me to marry Lady Angelique?"

"Yes, yes. I understand you two already know each other, in a sense." James winked.

"Upon my honor, I did not touch her. She happened upon me in the room where I was napping." Had she already been in there when he and Eleanor had arrived, or had she slipped in later? And who had she been hiding from?

"Very well." The king glared at Dryden. "He did not touch her."

Lachlan accepted a crystal glass of the king's prized Greek wine.

Marriage? God's teeth! 'Twill be a disaster.

"So, what say you, lad?"

Damnation, he should say naught. He should keep his tongue trapped firmly betwixt his teeth, but given the dozens of aristocratic gazes burning into him, including the king's, he could not play a mute this late in the day. Marriage? He could not entirely grasp the concept, except that it might be torture. But he could not offend the king by refusing. Besides, he had mentioned an earldom, had he not?

"I…I don't rightly ken what to say, Your Majesty, except I thank you. I'm overcome by your generosity." Lachlan bowed. Saints! What did I utter? He was afraid he'd just agreed to get married.

"I'm glad you are pleased." King James raised his glass and the other men followed suit. "To the next earl of Draughon and chief of Clan Drummagan."

Lachlan took a sip of wine, though in truth he did not want it. He must think clearly.

"Lady Angelique is much in need of a husband," the king said. "Her father, a good friend of mine, died without having a son, therefore Angelique is his heir. He wished that she marry a good Scotsman to guide her and help her run the estate. She will agree of course and, after the marriage, give you Draughon Castle, the earldom and all the lands she possesses. I will confirm it by charter. The men of the clan are headstrong and need an even stronger man to lead them. You, lad, are strong in mind and in body."

"I thank you, Majesty." Something twisted in Lachlan's gut. Though he recalled no past dealings or feuds between his own clan and the Drummagans—what if they refused to accept him?

"A distant male cousin of the fifth degree could be next in line but her father, John Drummagan, did not wish him to be chief, nor does the clan. Besides, there is some question as to his lineage. The only way I would approve of him is if Angelique wishes to marry him. Doubtful, I daresay." The king drank from his glass and a bit of the wine dribbled from the corner of his mouth. A courtier quickly blotted the liquid.

Lachlan remained silent. Me, married? He tried to visualize that without success.

"She is a spirited lass, but I'm sure you will tame her in no time," the king continued. "The estate is near Perth. I think you will find it most pleasant."

Lachlan's older brother was an earl and a chief, but he had never thought to rise to such a level himself. "I'm at a loss for words, Majesty. I'm sure I'm undeserving of such a grand reward."

One of the courtiers coughed and another cleared his throat—titled aristocrats, all, with more wealth and power than they knew what to do with. Everything in Lachlan rebelled at the disdain he witnessed in their eyes.

"Ah, but you do," King James proclaimed. "Does he not, Steenie?"

The extravagantly dressed man beside the king nodded. "Indeed. The brave Scot saved my life." Buckingham's gaze held sincerity.

"By the by," James went on. "I ken you have a smidgen of Stuart blood in your veins, laddie, from a hundred or so years ago. Anyone who's a descendant of kings is surely good enough to be earl of Draughon."

Buckingham nodded again.

God's bones! Could he become more than he'd ever imagined? More than anyone had expected of him?

You will amount to naught, his father had yelled at him more than once. You cannot make a living swiving every wench from here to Paris and back. Not to mention the drinking and gaming. Why can you not be more like Alasdair?

Nay, he would never be as good as his brother.

"Ah, I know what worries you, lad," the king said. "The estate is not in debt and comes with a generous income. The lands thereabout are rich and produce an abundance of crops. The sheep and cattle are too numerous to count."

"What of the Drummagan clan? Will they accept me as their chief?"

"They must. Angelique is the legal heir, and her husband, by right of the marriage contract, stands beside her and leads the clan with her. I command them to accept you. Any who do not will be dealt with as traitors to the crown."

But he would have to marry the flame-haired lass who had glared at him and fled. Had there ever been a woman, whether wench or lady, he couldn't seduce into his good graces? Well, maybe one or two, but they were few and far between.

"This is such an honor, Your Highness. My most sincere thanks to you." Lachlan gave his deepest bow.

"Are you in agreement, then?"

"Aye," he said before he could talk himself out of it. "But I would like to speak with the lady first."

The king nodded. "Be prepared for her resistance. She wishes to marry Philippe Descartes but he is unacceptable—some French nobleman's bastard, and a weak lad to boot. I will never allow it."

***

Angelique raced to her chamber, slammed and barred the door.

Camille shot from her chair, still holding her needlework. "What is happening?" she asked in French.

Breathing hard, Angelique turned to face her companion. "King James has found me a vile husband."

Camille's blue eyes grew round. "In truth? Who?"

"A wild Scot, a Highlander who does nothing but seduce women. A debaucher worse than Girard."

"No one is worse than Girard."

"Of course. But I cannot marry this MacGrath. You must take a message to Philippe." Angelique hurried to the desk and withdrew a piece of paper, her hands shaking. She almost overset the inkhorn as she dipped in the quill."Take a deep breath, mademoiselle. You will do nothing but waste paper in your haste."

"You are right." She paused a moment, sucked in two deep breaths, then continued at a more controlled pace.

"Would this be the Highlander who wears a belted plaid about, sinfully long hair, tall strapping man?"

"Oui. How can you know of him already?"

Camille gave a dramatic shiver. "The ladies and servants talk. Are you sure you do not want to marry that one?"

"No! Do not tell me he has bedded you as well."

"No. Heavens, no. I wish." She smiled. "If you do not want him…"

"You can have him, believe me. Traitor!"

"It was only a jest."

Angelique put pen to paper. She almost wrote Philippe's name. No, what if someone intercepted the message and took it to the king?

My Love, she wrote. We must run away together. Make arrangements tonight, then come to my room before dawn and I will be ready.

Camille read over her shoulder. "Must you lie and expect the impossible?"

Angelique frowned up at her. "What?"

"You do not love him, and he is not cunning enough to sneak you out of Whitehall. If you elope, you may jeopardize your inheritance. Anger the king, and he is likely to give the estate and title to Kormad."

Angelique thought for a moment. "Yes, you are right." She wadded the paper and took out a clean sheet. "Philippe must beg the king for my hand. That's the only way."

"Why do you want to marry the milksop anyway?"

"Because—"

"The truth." Only because her companion was also her illegitimate French cousin and best friend did she get away with such impertinence.

"Because he is a milksop," Angelique said. "He will not order me around. He will not force me to couple with him if I do not wish it. He will be the earl, but I will run my estate myself without an overbearing, demeaning swine of a man controlling every aspect of my life. I cannot abide it, Camille. I will smother and die." Her throat constricted and tears burned her eyes.

"Shh, it's all right, Ange." Camille rubbed her arm. "Do not overset yourself. Damn Girard for ruining your life."

Angelique shoved the emotion away and wrote the second note, telling Philippe to meet with the king and ask for her hand immediately if he wished to be an earl. She folded the note, dropped red melted wax on it and stamped it with an obscure seal only Philippe knew she used. One she had pilfered from her mother's last benefactor.

"Take it to him." She placed the missive in Camille's hands. "Quickly, please."

"Oui, mademoiselle."

***

A curvaceous, flaxen-haired woman scurried past Lachlan in the passage, moving at such a brisk pace he but caught a glimpse of her. What was amiss? No one chased her. "Mmph."

Lachlan continued his search for Lady Angelique's suite along the dim, wood-paneled corridor. Though visiting her chamber was inappropriate, he had to speak with her immediately. Besides, when had he ever cared what was inappropriate? His gut clenched, making him wonder if he'd made a mistake accepting the king's offer.

Damnation. Nothing was easy to find in the confusion of Whitehall Palace, and the directions he'd gotten from a servant were unclear. Believing he'd found the correct door, he knocked.

"Qui est-ce? Who is it?" a woman called. Her sensual French accent and husky voice awoke his carnal urges. He held a keen fondness for the French ladies.

He knocked again.

She muttered a French curse and he smiled.

Angelique yanked open the door and her gaze cut into him. "Why are you here?"

"I wish to talk to you, m'lady." He bowed.

"I have naught to say to you, Highlander. I have already agreed to marry someone else."

"Indeed? Are you speaking of Philippe Descartes?"

"How do you know of him?"

"His Majesty told me he found the man unacceptable as a husband for you."

Her green eyes widened. While she was distracted by his comment, he pushed his way inside her door and closed it behind him.

"Que vous êtes bête!" She backed away. "Leave at once, monsieur. We have nothing to say to each other."

Having never before been called a beast, he almost laughed. But he didn't want her to know he spoke fluent French, as well as Italian, Spanish and German. In the past, pretending ignorance had sometimes given him the advantage.

"I would ask you kindly to please speak English or Gaelic."

"I will never lower myself to speak your barbaric Erse."

Though her disdain of his native tongue pricked at him like thorns, her closed-mouth, purring accent stirred arousal within him.

"Because you don't ken the language? I shall teach you, if you wish."

She drew her lips into a firm line. Clearly, she had never known the pleasure of a good kiss, something he would enjoy tutoring her in. 'Haps she'd never experienced a kiss at all, good or bad.

Her rich voice and wise, guarded eyes were those of a woman, but her girlish face and slender, waif-like body made her appear she had not enough to eat. In contrast, her clothing of finest gold silk told him she could not be starving.

"How many years have you?" he asked.

"Twenty."

He nodded, pleased she was not as young as she appeared…if she was telling the truth. He would ask one of the courtiers on the morrow. Nevertheless, the king wanted him to marry her and he was not one to forgo grand royal gifts, even if he didn't know what the devil to do with them yet.

"Et vous?" she asked.

"Pray pardon?"

"And you? You must be very old."

He chuckled. "You don't see any gray hairs, do you? I am twenty-six."

Her brows lifted, intensifying her haughty look, but this only increased her allure. He couldn't resist a challenge.

"We have much to discuss before we are wed."

"I will not marry you. King James cannot force me."

"'Tis dangerous to defy your king."

Her militant expression and rigid stance, hands on hips, told him she might be one of the few women in the world he couldn't sweet talk into liking him. A sinking feeling settled into the pit of his stomach.

"God's bones, I don't ken how you are a reward," Lachlan muttered. "'Haps His Majesty is wanting to punish me for saving the life of Buckingham."

Angelique murmured something in French that sounded like insolent lecher, though he couldn't be sure.

"I thank you for that compliment, m'lady." He winked.

The pink from her face spread down her neck toward her bodice and small breasts. How he loved a woman's creamy curves flushed with the glow of passion.

If she could've made dirks of ice shoot from her eyes, she would've slain him on the spot. She turned away. "Leave me at once."

Her prickliness didn't fool him. 'Twas all a front. Her blush told him she found him appealing, whether she wanted to admit it or not. But maybe she was a virgin and didn't know the pleasures that awaited her in his bed. He would attempt a kiss now, but she might bite off his tongue.

"As you wish, m'lady." He bowed. "I shall see you on the morrow."

"Bonne nuit, monsieur," she said in a condescending tone before he closed the door on his way out.

As he strode down the passage, his heart raced. She excited him more than any woman in a long while. Surely he did not enjoy her sharp tongue or chilly glares. Nay, but he loved a chase. Most women were too easy to catch—he winked, he smiled, and they came.

With determination, Lachlan continued toward the king's private chambers. He sent a message by one of the ushers and five minutes later, Buckingham emerged.

"I wish to inform His Majesty that I would be honored to marry Lady Angelique," Lachlan said.

Buckingham grinned. "I shall tell His Majesty. He will be most pleased."

"I thank you." Lachlan bowed and made his way toward his own bedchamber, trying not to think of the future or what he'd committed himself to. Could be hell itself.

From the passageway, he carried a lit candle into the darkened room. A breathy female voice called out his name in a sing-song fashion and a giggle floated from the draped bed. A second of excitement ignited within him when he thought of Lady Angelique, perhaps come for a surprise visit, but it could not be her. Unless she'd come to murder him. He parted the curtains.

Eleanor lay naked upon the velvet coverlet, gazing at him with heavy darkened eyes. "I am ready for you," she breathed.

He surveyed her ivory skin, her rosy, hard nipples highlighting full breasts, the dark patch of hair at the apex of her shapely thighs, but he felt nothing. No heat of arousal curled through him as it had the first time he'd seen her.

What the devil was wrong with him? He didn't want a naked, willing woman?

"You must go. I'm not in the mood."

He let the curtain drape back into place and set the candle on the mantel.

"What?"

He poured himself some sherry and took a hefty swig. By the saints, was he changing his ways?

Nay, he was just…distracted. Preoccupied with the startling turn of events. Worried he'd stepped in a huge pile of horse dung.

Behind him, she struggled from the bed. "I heard about your reward from the king."

"Already?" He turned and watched her shove her arms into a silk smock.

"I knew before you did. She is not a virgin, you know."

Indeed? "Nor am I."

Eleanor smirked. "She's a French whore and you shall never see a moment's happiness with her. She will never please you in bed."

"From what I've heard, French whores are excellent in bed."

"You shall regret this!"

"Aye, likely I will," he muttered, but what else had he to do? Keep wandering about, looking for adventures and women? Now, he saw the futility of it. The pursuit of revelry was losing its appeal. What would his friend Rebbie say to that?

"A title and estate do not require your faithfulness," Eleanor snapped.

"Who said anything about faithfulness?"

"Then why are you throwing me out?"

Not wanting to insult her, he simply lifted a shoulder. In truth, he even surprised himself with how rapidly he'd tired of Eleanor. "As I said, I'm not in the mood."

"All the men want to marry her, but she will have none of them, save Philippe. What makes you think she'll have you?"

"She will obey the king, I suspect."

"I wouldn't place a wager upon it. You won't last long anyway. Kormad will grind you to sausage in no time."

"Who?"

"The baron of Kormad. Sorley MacGrotie."

"Ah." A Lowland Scotsman he'd met almost a fortnight ago. He had not been impressed with the man, medium of stature with a sizable gut. He would be clumsy on the battlefield. "Is he Angelique's distant cousin, next in line to inherit?"

"Yes. And the rumor is he will let nothing stand in the way of what he wants."

***

After Eleanor left, Lachlan slipped from his bedchamber and along the dark corridor. He'd traded his kilt for black trews and cowl. His basket-hilted broadsword thumped against his thigh.

Sorley MacGrotie. The longer Lachlan thought of the bastard, the more his sword hand ached to grip a hilt. How badly did the baron of Kormad want to be an earl? And what would he do to achieve his goal?

He will let nothing stand in the way of what he wants, Eleanor had said.

Mmph. He doubted the man had ever had a Highlander in his way. 'Twas the same as a rocky crag. He intended to gain the upper hand and ferret out Kormad's plans. Lachlan's instincts told him to expect a battle. This was his opportunity to finally be someone who mattered, to live up to a potential he never knew he had. And damned if anyone would snatch it away from him.

Lachlan lowered his cowl for a moment, allowing the guards to identify him at the gate. They let him pass. Outside on the dark muddy street, he listened to the sounds of the night—the fetid Thames flowing by, a dog barking—then proceeded along King Street to the nearest coaching inn, The Golden Cross, a likely haunt for Kormad. But the man was nowhere to be found.

Lachlan stepped into the third establishment along the Strand. The Black Spur was a din of English talk and laughter. Ale and beer scented the air of the low-ceilinged room, along with roasting boar and smoke from the fire.

He scanned the dozens of men seated at tables, then spotted his friend, Dirk MacLerie, near the back. Lachlan slipped over and sat in the empty chair.

Hand drifting to his sword hilt, Dirk turned dangerous pale blue eyes toward Lachlan in his cowl. "What do you want, friend?"

"'Tis me."

Dirk's auburn brows quirked. "Lachlan?"

"Shh. Has Sorley MacGrotie, baron of Kormad, been in here tonight?"

"I don't ken the man."

"Lowland Scot, dark hair, bushy beard. Ugly bastard."

"I've seen a lot of them like that."

The door opened and a boisterous group stumbled in. Among the six men, he found the whoreson he was looking for. "'Tis him, there."

"Why are you looking for him?"

"I'll tell you later," Lachlan said in a low voice.

The buxom alewife plunked a full tankard of ale onto the scarred wooden table, some of the brown liquid sloshing over the rim. Lachlan flipped her a silver coin. She thanked him with a wink and bustled away to see to the newcomers.

Kormad and his men took a large table on the other side of the room.

"We need to move," Lachlan whispered, picking up the tankard. "To that empty table behind them. You go first. He's seen me before."

"You better have a good reason for this," Dirk muttered and stood.

Squeezing by the chairs of other patrons, Lachlan followed Dirk to the closer table and sat with his back to the men in question. "Watch my back, will you?"

"When have I not?"

For a time, Kormad and his men talked of mundane matters. Dirk gave him a hard scowl. Lachlan shook his head and sipped the lukewarm ale.

"Any progress with the king?" one of the men at the other table asked.

Lachlan raised a finger at Dirk so he would pay attention.

"Nay," Kormad said in his gruff voice.

"If we take the lass and force her to marry you, the problem is solved."

"I don't want my head lopped off because of the hateful wench."

"You must woo her," one of his men said in a low, teasing voice.

"Aye, make her swoon with your lovely poetry."

The men guffawed.

"'Tis not a laughing matter. To be earl, I must marry her," Kormad grumbled.

"Or you could kill her," another man suggested.

Lachlan clutched the tankard of ale tightly when all he wanted to do was draw his sword and do the lopping off of Kormad's head himself. By the saints, I will protect her. Though he did not know why he should want to protect the thorny, insulting ice queen. Something inside her seemed vulnerable and alone. She reminded him of the wee injured wildcat he had found on his clan's lands when he was a lad. When he'd tried to help, the feline had scratched him, but she was simply protecting herself the only way she knew how.

Dirk frowned, scrutinizing Lachlan's face.

"Shh," Kormad hissed.

The men's voices lowered. "We could steal her away and hie back to Scotland. You can marry her there, legal."

"And have the king string me up like a bleeding boar? Nay, indeed."

"The lass will tell the king she wishes it. I can make certain of it."

"You're too daft to make certain of anything," Kormad snapped. "The Drummagans have been friends of the Stuarts for hundreds of years. I won't jeopardize that."

"Queen Jamie doesn't seem like a friend to you," a slimy voiced man muttered.

"Who is he going to marry her off to, then?" another man asked. "That damned Frenchman bastard?"

"Nay. The clan would never accept him as chief," Kormad said.

"Chatsworth?"

"Too old. And too English."

"The clan will settle for naught but a full-blooded Scotsman," Kormad said with finality.

"You're the best candidate. I say you should meet with the king again."

"He might be thinking of that Lachlan MacGrath what saved Steenie's life," a different man said.

Dirk's frown grew fierce and his glare deadly.

Lachlan was glad his friend finally understood.

"He's a Scot, but a damned Highlander," one of the men said.

"The king detests Highlanders," Kormad growled.

"He knighted MacGrath and took him hunting at Theobalds. He likes that one."

"Might be his bonny face."

"Maybe Steenie should watch his back," slime voice said.

Loud laughter erupted. Bastards. Lachlan wished he could shock them all by making his presence known, but that would not serve his purpose. Pretending to be naught but a skirt-chasing gallant would lull them into thinking he was no threat.

Moments later, the group quieted. "The lass is the only thing in your path, my lord."

"Aye."

"So let's remove the obstacle. 'Accidentally' of course."

"Not yet. Let's see who the king chooses for her first."

Available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords and other online retailers.

A longer excerpt is available at Smashwords.

My Fierce Highlander excerpt

2011-07-01T08:20:00.000-07:00

My Fierce Highlander

By Vonda Sinclair

Chapter One

Scottish Highlands, 1618

A stiff breeze carried the scent of bruised grass and blood on its icy breath.

Death.

Gwyneth Carswell dropped into a crouch and peered through brambles at the tartan-clad bodies, a dozen or more, lying in the dusky gloaming. While gathering herbs earlier, she’d heard the sounds of battle—men shouting, steel clanging, horses screaming.

A chill shook her. The men of the MacIrwin clan, her distant kin, lived and died only for a skirmish. Her sheltered upbringing in England had molded her into the person she was, a lover of peace, but she’d been in the Highlands long enough to expect brutality at every turn. Thank God her son had stayed in the cottage with Mora.

“More senseless death,” she whispered, yearning to run and hide in the cottage, curl up beneath the blankets, and forget she was a healer. Forget all the drained blood and horrifying wounds that would never heal.

But she must not. She must again face death all around her. Dread and nausea rising within her, she covered her nose with a handkerchief. After peering about to make sure she was alone, she crept onto the soggy moor and forced herself to look at the butchered bodies of her cousins…and their enemies. Who had they been fighting?

Pressing her eyes closed to block out the slit throats and other mutilation, she murmured a prayer, both for their departed souls and for strength that she might keep going.

Please, allow me to save the life of at least one.

A haunting groan floated on the breeze. A sign? Her prayer answered? Gwyneth froze, listening. The groan sounded again, straight ahead.

She rushed to the far edge of the clearing.

Daylight dwindled, but she knew she’d never before seen the injured man, a large warrior with long dark hair, obviously from the enemy clan. She could not tear her gaze from his clean-shaven face, smeared and spattered with blood. Never had she seen such a striking man. But something more captivated her, something she could only sense with her woman’s intuition. She yearned for him to open his eyes, but he didn’t.

Blood soaked through his white shirt and fine, pale-blue doublet.

Kneeling on the damp ground, she attempted to press her hand against his chest to feel his heartbeat, but a rolled-up parchment lay in her way within his doublet. She removed it and checked his heart. The thump was slow but strong and steady.

Her eyes locked to his face again. Enticing, yes, but still an enemy.

Wary of him and what message he carried, she stripped the ribbon from the missive and flattened the thick paper. In the dim light, she could barely decipher a few of the Gaelic words inscribed in bold letters across the top.

A peace agreement? Had the MacIrwins ambushed them? She stared down at the man again, lifted his hand and found a seal ring on his finger. A chief?

For a second, it seemed the very ground had a pulse. The vibrating sensation disoriented her.

Horses!

Distant hoof-beats grew louder and thundered in her direction—the MacIrwin reinforcements coming to finish off their enemies. Her pulse roared in her ears.

If they discovered this man hanging onto life, they’d cut his throat. Especially if he was a chief who wanted peace. Gwyneth crammed the parchment back inside his doublet and stood.

She grasped the thick leather belt that held the man’s plaide in place at his waist and struggled to drag him a few feet into the yellow blooming gorse and weeds. Good lord, he was heavy, comprised of honed warrior muscle. Another tug, then she rolled him down a short incline and behind the bushes, praying all this shifting wouldn’t worsen his injuries. She spread her dull-colored skirts and plaid arisaid over him to conceal the visibility of his light-colored doublet in the dusk.

Her body trembling, she gently bit her knuckle to quiet her chattering teeth. Please, do not let them find us. She hardly dared to breathe.

The horses’ hooves thumped over the grass, and the riders yelled in Gaelic—mostly vows of revenge against the cursed MacGraths.

Through the bushes and gorse, she watched as they loaded the dead bodies onto horses.

Warmongers!

Several minutes later, the MacIrwin men rode away. After a while, silence descended and naught could be heard but the nearby stream and a faraway owl. Gwyneth calmed by slow degrees.

Taking a deep breath, she rose on shaking legs. The man lying at her feet was so large she couldn’t move him again, not alone, uphill, for the strength that had come with fear had ebbed.

She ran up to the stone cottage, her feet tangling in the rocks and low-growing plants.

Breathing hard, Gwyneth burst through the door, the bitter scent of peat smoke and tangy drying herbs replacing that of fresh air. “Mora, did you hear the battle?”

“Aye, I reckon they were fighting the MacGrath. ’Tis always a blood feud betwixt them.” Her friend and fellow healer bent over her knitting, her gray head wrapped in a white kerch. The fire smoldering in the center of the room provided little light.

“One man still lives. He’s been knocked out, but his breathing is strong. We must bring him here and see to his injuries.”

“Who is he?” Suspicion laced through Mora’s thick brogue.

“I know not.”

“One of the enemy?”

“Likely.”

“Mmph. I won’t be helping the MacGraths.”

“A dozen men are dead. For what purpose? All this fighting is madness!”

“Easy for you to say, English. Lived here nigh on six years, you have, and still you ken naught of our Highland ways.”

She knew enough about their violent way of life and hated it. Gwyneth glanced at her five-year-old son sleeping in the box bed on the other side of the room and lowered her voice. “I would die before I’d let Rory become one of them, giving up his precious life over a senseless dispute.” She had to find a way to take him out of the Highlands before Laird Donald MacIrwin forced him into the ranks of his fighting men. “And you’re right, I cannot understand so much bloodshed over nothing.”

“’Tis not for naught. The MacGraths killed Donald’s brother ten years past. Then there was the time the MacGraths claimed a goodly portion of MacIrwin land. We don’t take the stealing of land lightly.”

How could her friend be so cold? “This man who yet lives is carrying a peace treaty. He wears a seal ring and appears to be the chief. Aside from that, he’s human and we’re healers. If I can save a life, I will, whether he is friend, foe or beast.”

“Aye, you with your gentle lady’s heart. You’ll get us killed. What if Donald finds out?”

A chill raced through her at that thought. “He rarely comes here.” Though the clan chief was her second cousin on her father’s side, no fondness existed between them.

“’Tis a bad feeling I have about this. You’ll regret it.”

“Do you not think the MacGraths will exact a severe revenge against us all if the MacIrwins kill their chief? He wants peace, as we do.”

“Well, this is not the way to go about it. I’ve been around a few years longer than you have, Sassenach.”

“I will drag the big brute up here myself, then.” She yanked a blanket off the bed, left the cottage and strode down the hill once again toward the glen. The stones slid and rolled beneath her slippers and bit into her feet. If Mora wouldn’t help her, she’d do what she could for the man.

Something all-consuming rose up from her soul and railed, refusing to allow him to lie there and die. Though his body looked powerful, he was helpless now. As helpless as a child, helpless as little Rory. All this man’s fearsomeness at her mercy, she was awed by the power she held over him, to help him reclaim his strength and his life…or let it drain away. That would be a sin far worse than any she’d ever committed, of which she had many. The peace treaty and something deep within her proclaimed his life was worth saving a hundred times over.

Gwyneth crouched behind a patch of thistles at the edge of the glen and listened for MacIrwins. The only sound was the wind hissing through the pine needles and the splash of the stream.

A rock clattered down the slope behind her. Startled, she turned to find Mora approaching with a wood and linen litter. “Verra weil, English. I reckon I cannot let you do all the healing by yourself. And we’ll be needing this to haul his big arse up the hill.”

Gwyneth arose, suppressing a smile. “I thank you for your kind heart, Mora.”

“Mmph. Where is the heathen?”

“I hid him in the weeds and bushes so they wouldn’t finish him off.” She led Mora across the small glen to the MacGrath.

Mora knelt over him. “Aye, his breathing is strong. He may yet survive.”

They rolled him onto the litter. Laboring under his considerable weight, they dragged him toward the cottage. Full night had fallen, making their arduous trek up the hillside even more difficult.

“Good heavens, he must weigh twenty stone.” Mora huffed and gasped.

“I’m in agreement.” Gwyneth’s arms and legs ached from her efforts.

“This one didn’t starve the winter.”

“No, indeed.”

Mora started toward the cottage.

“Let’s hide him in the cattle byre. ’Twill be safer should Donald come by,” Gwyneth said.

Mora narrowed her eyes. “You’re being mighty canny of a sudden.”

“Well, I know if he finds us hiding his enemy, he’ll likely fly into a violent rage.”

“Aye, and kill us all,” Mora grumbled.

Gwyneth shoved the dread away and ignored her friend’s pessimistic view. “We shall hide him well.”

They dragged the MacGrath into the stone byre, which stood several yards from the cottage, and rolled him onto a wool blanket on the hard-packed dirt floor.

After a trip to the cottage, Mora lit several fir roots in order to find his wounds.

“A bonny lad, he is,” Mora proclaimed.

Lad, indeed. Rory was a lad. This giant was a man full grown. But bonny, yes. In the soft flame-light, his midnight hair, his equally dark brows and thick lashes captured Gwyneth’s attention.

Open your eyes.

They would be dark too, would they not? Dark as tempting, dangerous sin in the blackest night. Beard stubble shadowed his authoritative jaw and framed his sensual mouth.

I am going daft, noticing such things at a time like this.

Forcing herself to ignore his face, she unfastened the brass brooch shaped like a falcon that held the upper part of his blue plaid in place over his shoulder, removed the brown leather pouch-like sporran from his waist and dropped the brooch inside.

“Do you not think he’s the laird?” Gwyneth raised his strong hand to show Mora the seal ring, the heat of him seeping beyond her skin.

“Aye, I’d wager he is the young laird. I’ve never laid eyes on the man afore now. Though I recollect hearing of the old laird’s passing sometime back, and he does favor him. ’Course all the MacGraths have a certain dark look about them.”

Gwyneth tugged the ring from his finger and placed it in the sporran.

“His clothes are of fine material.” Mora pushed the doublet open. “And would you look at this.” She pulled a gleaming brass-hilted dagger from inside the garment, near his armpit.

She used the sharp weapon to cut his bloody clothing away from his upper body.

Holding her breath, Gwyneth could but gape as each inch of skin and sculpted muscle was revealed. Among the multitude of scars on his chest, two long shallow sword cuts oozed blood. A lead ball from a pistol had grazed his shoulder, leaving a furrow of torn flesh.

She would stitch him up so he would heal, good as new.

A slice in his plaid alerted them to another wound. Mora unhooked his leather belt and eased his kilt down to reveal a cut to the right side of his lean waist close to his pelvic bone.

Wanton excitement stirred within Gwyneth at the sight of this enemy Scot’s near-naked body. I should close my eyes, look away. He is a patient. Heat seared her from the inside out.

Though she’d attended to many an unclothed man after a skirmish or during sickness, she had never seen a man so beautifully formed. God had certainly smiled upon him.

“’Tis shallow,” Mora said. “He’s lucky they didn’t strike his vitals.”

They cleaned his wounds with a wash of royal fern steeped in clean water, stitched up the deeper cuts, then smeared them with a paste of fern and comfrey.

“My, but a fine-looking man he is, aye?” Mora smiled and winked. “Reminds me of my own big Geordie afore he passed on.”

Indeed, fine-looking was too mild a term, in Gwyneth’s estimation but she ignored the question. She would not have Mora know of the embarrassing effect the man was having on her.

Most men of her acquaintance were the same—arrogant, cruel, and harsh. Whether fancy English gentlemen or braw Scottish warriors, they only thought of their own superiority and how they might wield power over others. Women were naught but chattel and thralls. By helping to save this one’s life, she was gambling, hoping to win peace.

“Och, here’s what ails him most.” Mora examined the Scot’s head. “He’s bashed his skull and good.”

“Let me see.” Gwyneth knelt on the dirt floor above him. His hair was sticky with blood, and a knot swelled on the back of his head. “It seems to have stopped bleeding.”

“Aye. Not much to be done for it, anyway.”

Nevertheless, Gwyneth cleaned the wound and applied the herbal paste as best she could in his thick hair. She concentrated on her task more intently while Mora covered him with a blanket and worked his plaid out from under him. Gwyneth tried not to think about his nakedness beneath it. Surely it was a sin to hold such thoughts.

“We’ve done all we can for him. He’s in God’s hands now. ’Tis off to bed, I am.”

Carrying his belongings, Gwyneth walked with Mora back to the cottage and hid his things in a rough wooden chest. She approached the bed where Rory lay. Relieved he’d slept through the commotion, she kissed his forehead and straightened. “I’ll go back out and sit with the MacGrath man for a short while.”

“Suit yourself. Best take your sgian dubh with you, just in case he wakes up none too happy about where he’s at.”

Gwyneth nodded and touched the dirk hidden in her bodice to be sure it was still there. She hoped she wouldn’t have to defend herself against a man she was trying to help. But, the truth was, she didn’t know him or what he might do.

Above the dark rounded peaks of the mountains, a quarter moon peeped through the clouds, providing the faintest of light for her to navigate the path to the byre. A whitish-gray mist crawled up from the glen, reminding her of the souls of the recently departed and giving her a chill. She inhaled the scent of rain before entering the tiny building and closing the door.

The handsome stranger lying insensible on the floor drew her gaze. The old plaid blanket did little to conceal his fine form, large and well-trained for battle, hard and heavy with muscle. She hoped she wouldn’t regret helping him. If he carried a peace treaty, surely he was a good man. A better man than Donald MacIrwin, at least.

Now, if only this MacGrath would awaken and return to his own lands, she would rest much easier. If he could somehow bring peace, she would be doubly grateful. But she feared there would be no peace as long as Donald MacIrwin drew breath.

Through the door, the haunting, fluted call of a curlew reached her. Gwyneth shivered. Mora had told her more than once that a curlew heard at night was a bad omen.

***

Gwyneth startled awake at a low rumbling noise, then realized it was thunder. Stiff and cold from lying on the hard dirt floor of the byre, she pushed herself to a sitting position while pulling her woolen plaid arisaid closer around her shoulders. Though ’twas June, the temperature never warmed here in the Highlands as it did in England. Rain pattered on the thatch, and thunder sounded again. At times like this, she missed the featherbed and cozy counterpane of her youth. And she would prefer a roaring fireplace to the single lit fir root which served in place of a costly candle.

The injured Scot shifted and mumbled.

She moved closer, touched his forehead and found his skin hot and dry. The fever had started.

May God protect him.

His recovery would take several days, if he survived the fever at all. He had to. He simply had to survive. She could not see such a strong, well-favored man leaving this life at so young an age. Surely, he was no more than five years older than her own three and twenty.

She pulled the cloth from the bowl of cool water, squeezed it out, and stroked it gently over his face. She wished to brush her bare fingers over his skin instead but squelched the urge. How silly of me. The linen snagged against his beard stubble. His dark lashes fluttered above his high cheekbones.

“Leitha,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. Though slurred, the word was clear. He jerked his head abruptly. “Nay, I cannot believe it.” After turning his face away, he stilled, as if he’d dropped into a deep sleep.

Who was Leitha? His wife? A sliver of envy made her bow her head in shame. The woman was sure to wonder where he was, perhaps even think him dead. Was he a good husband to her, or a rotten one like Baigh Shaw had been to Gwyneth?

She had found it no easy task being demoted from a wealthy English earl’s daughter to the wife and thrall of a low-born, violent Highlander almost twice her age with two grown sons who despised her.

Her father couldn’t have punished her any more thoroughly for her one unforgivable sin had he tried. All had been stripped from her six years ago. She possessed nothing of material value, no property or inheritance, not even a wedding dowry. Therefore, she had little choice but to stay where she was. Trapped in the godforsaken Highlands.

Thunder cracked overhead, and the MacGrath jerked.

Gwyneth washed his face again, smoothing the cloth over his thick dark brows and stubborn but appealing mouth. What would his lips feel like…? I should not think of such. She hated her sinful sensual side; it had already ruined her life.

His next string of slurred words were Gaelic, and the only one she understood was “athair.” Father. If he was the chief, then his father was surely dead. Was he seeing specters in his fevered dreams?

Near dawn, he became too quiet and still. She checked his breathing. When it didn’t seem as strong as before, she froze, then clasped his muscled forearm in her hands and said a prayer.

***

Alasdair MacGrath was fair certain he’d never before awakened to such stabbing pain in his head. He loved good sherry and whisky but never overindulged, so it couldn’t be the drink banging on his head.

A voice sifted through his agony. A high-pitched, senseless prattle.

“I’ll get you, you worthless MacIrwin bastard.”

Those words didn’t go with that innocent voice.

Another voice, rougher yet still the same growled, “You’re a no-good MacGrath coward. I’ll run you through.”

What the devil is going on? Alasdair cracked one eye open. He lay on the hard-packed earth floor of some sort of dark room that spun around him. Straw and the smell of aged cow dung told him it was a byre. He squinted toward the open doorway, trying to steady his vision. A wee lad with fair hair sat in the patch of brilliant sunshine.

He continued to act out the battle scene between two man-shaped twigs. “Take that, you puny toad-spotted whoreson!”

If not for the piercing ache in his head—in his whole body—Alasdair would have laughed outright. As it was, he only managed a snort without doing himself in.

The lad sprung up, whirled around, and gaped at him with wide blue eyes. “You’ve awakened.”

“Aye,” Alasdair uttered, his throat dry and voice raspy.

“Ma! Ma!” The lad screamed and sprinted from the byre.

A skewer to the ear would’ve been more pleasant. Alasdair’s thoughtless attempt to shield his ears from the child’s hellish noise brought gripping pain to his upper body.

By the saints! What happened to me? He groaned and glanced down at himself. A woolen plaid blanket and a pile of straw covered him. He lifted the blanket and the scent of strong medicinal herbs reached his nostrils. A healer’d had hold of him? Various cloth bandages littered his torso. Other than that, he was naked.

Where are my clothes?

And where are my sword and dagger? Cold fear settled in his chest.

Someone appeared in the doorway, blocking out the light—the small frame of a woman. Though he couldn’t see her well, he felt her staring at him a long moment. “How do you feel?” she asked.

“As if I took a wee tumble from the peak of Ben Nevis. Where am I?”

“MacIrwin land.”

In that moment three things occurred to him—she was English, he was back from the dead, and he lay helpless on enemy land with no weapons. God’s bones.

A flash of returning memory distracted him—he’d thrust his sword at a grizzly, outraged red-haired man. Something, or someone, had hit him on the head. The powerful blow had knocked him from his mount and all went black.

“Does Donald MacIrwin ken I’m here?” His sore muscles tensed. Wincing at the pain, he forced himself to relax.

“No.” The dimness hid her expression, but wariness colored her tone.

“Where are my clansmen?” He prayed his cousin, Fergus, and all the others had survived. But he knew that was impossible. He’d seen some of them fall.

“About five or six died on the battlefield. The others must have returned home.”

He didn’t even know which ones had perished yet. Dear God, not Fergus or Angus. Fortunately, his brother Lachlan had not accompanied them that day.

“I don’t understand how I came to be here instead of with them.”

“After the skirmish, I went to see if I could save the lives of any of my kinsmen, but you were the only man I found alive.”

“You’re a MacIrwin, then?”

She crossed her arms. “The MacIrwin is my distant cousin. My grandmother and his grandfather were brother and sister.”

He’d best tread softly until he determined whether he could trust this relation of his enemy. “You’ve the speech of a Sassenach.”

“I grew up in England, yes.”

“Why would a MacIrwin, even an English one, save the life of a MacGrath? We’ve been enemies for nigh on two hundred years.” Alasdair tried to sit up, but a spasm of burning pain latched onto his lower belly. “Mo chreach!” He fell back.

“Do not get up.” The waif-like woman rushed forward and knelt beside him. The pleasant smell of fresh air and green herbs clung to her.

She placed a cool hand against his upper chest and pressed him back. After shoving aside the straw and lowering the blanket to just below his waist, she examined the stitched wound on his abdomen.

“You’ve started this bleeding again.” She flicked a glare of censure at him from her vivid blue eyes.

“Pray pardon,” he said, then wondered why he’d apologized.

She could not have much MacIrwin blood in her veins, else she would’ve left him to die on the battlefield. She was nothing like Donald MacIrwin. This was the second time the bastard had deceived them, under oath, into thinking he wanted to sign a peace treaty, when in truth he wanted to murder those bearing it. Alasdair craved peace for his people so badly he’d become too trusting.

While the healer examined his injuries, he studied her captivating face. Was her creamy skin as silky as it looked? She frowned as she worked, and some of her light-brown hair escaped the knot at the back of her head. He wanted to wrap the straight, wispy strands around his fingers. Why didn’t she wear the kerch head-covering favored by married Highland women? Perhaps she wasn’t married, though she had a child. A widow, then. No rings adorned her fingers, but that told him naught since Highland women only wore their wedding rings on special occasions.

One thing was sure, she’d undressed him and seen him naked. Wishing he could’ve been awake for that, he suppressed a grin.

She caught him watching her, and her skin turned pink. Ah, but she was a bonny Sassenach. He smiled. What was she doing here in the Highlands tending his wounds? Mayhap she was an angel or a fairy and not a human woman at all.

Her cool, efficient hands felt soothing on his skin, overheated from the wool blanket. Indeed, soothing, but her touch slowly coaxed a new heat to life within him, a different sort of tingling heat he had suppressed for some time and was surprised to feel now with such strength.

“Are you in much pain?” Her eyes were guarded when they met his, and he pushed his irrational interest in her away. His very life was in danger and he best focus on that.

“Nay.” He had endured far worse. Perhaps it was her gentle touch that eased his aches.

She covered him again with the blanket. “You must lie still.”

“Aye. Did I not arrive with any weapons?” He felt more naked without those than without his kilt.

“A dagger. I have it well-hidden.” She rose.

“I would have it back to defend myself, if you don’t mind. If the MacIrwin shows up, I’ll be helpless as a wee bairn.”

“How do I know you won’t use it on me?”

He scowled. “I wouldn’t harm you. Are you thinking I’m daft?”

She studied him with intelligent, watchful eyes. “I’ll consider it.”

He released an impatient breath. “How long have I been here?”

“Since last night.”

Not long, but likely his clan thought him dead because Donald MacIrwin didn’t take hostages. Lachlan wouldn’t relish taking over as chief. He was probably even now cursing Alasdair for being so careless.

“You hit your head on something,” the woman said.

Alasdair moved his head on the straw-filled pillow, and a pain shot through his skull. “Or something hit me on the head. I reckon ’twas the broad side of an ax…which I much prefer to the sharp side.” He stroked his fingers over the sore lump on the back of his head. “God’s bones, ’tis the size of a sheep’s hoof.” He laid his head back on the pillow and gazed up at her. Surely she was his guardian angel. “You saved my life.”

“Most likely.” She glanced away as if it were nothing.

“I thank you.” It seemed so little to say. How would he ever repay her? “But why would you care if I lived or died?”

Her gaze examined his eyes, dropped to his mouth, his bare shoulder, then lifted again. She shrugged. “I’m a healer. ’Twas the least I could do for a fellow human being.”

“What? You don’t think me a savage?” He was certain he looked greatly uncivilized to her English eyes…eyes which now gleamed with blue ire.

“No. The only thing savage is this senseless fighting over nothing!”

“Well, I would see it stopped but your clan will not let it be. When we’re provoked, we fight as any clan would. The MacIrwins have committed many a crime against us.”

“Two hundred years in the past.”

“Nay. More than I can recount during my own lifetime. Including murder.”

Her gaze locked to his. “What?”

“Aye, your fine cousin—oh, never mind. Why am I telling a woman? I must be on my way.” What a waste of time this all was. He must get back to his own clan.

“No!”

Such a forceful command from the wee lass? He couldn’t help but gape at her militant expression.

“You shall not get very far with a broken toe,” she added.

“Oh, is that all?” He moved his feet and a stabbing pain ricocheted up his left leg. “God’s bones!” With a grunt, he ground his teeth and stilled, praying the pain would go back into hiding.

“You see?” She placed her hands on her hips and glared down at him as if he were a wayward lad. “We didn’t even know your big toe was broken until it turned black and swelled.”

He released his held breath. “Mayhap ’tis but a sprain.”

“God willing, you will be so lucky. I cannot understand why men do this to themselves.” A spark of anger flashed in her eyes, and this distracted him from his own agony. Her fire had a definite appeal.

“Och, we’re lacking a wee bit in the tower.” He wanted to tap a finger against his head, but dared not move too much. Instead, he attempted to relax. “What of your husband? Does he ken I’m here?” He prayed no men of the clan knew of his presence, else it could prove his downfall.

“My husband was killed in a skirmish three years ago,” she said in a wooden voice.

Without doubt, she was not yet done grieving the loss. He well knew how mourning could linger. Even after two years, he still missed his wife.

“I’m sorry to hear it. And he was…?”

The healer’s gaze speared him. “I’m certain you didn’t know him. What is your name?”

“Angus MacGrath,” he lied, thinking she’d likely recognize his real first name.

She frowned, but curtsied nonetheless. “A pleasure. You are chief of the MacGrath clan, are you not?”

How had she figured that out? Mayhap his clothing had given him away. Or his ring—the weight of it was missing from his finger, but he dared not ask her about it. He studied her curious expression. For his own protection and that of his clan, he must seem like an unimportant person. She might deliver him to the MacIrwin if she knew his true identity.

“Nay, I’m the cousin of the chief.” Since he had a cousin named Angus MacGrath, he’d simply pretend to be him.

She surveyed him with narrowed eyes.

“Disappointed, are you, that I’m not the earl and chief?”

Gwyneth studied the smirking Scot, unsure whether to believe him. She’d been almost certain he was the chief. He’d had the seal ring, fine clothing and the treaty on expensive parchment. If he were trying to mislead her, she’d let him think he’d succeeded, while she figured out what he was up to. Maybe he feared she’d turn him over to Donald.

The longer Angus MacGrath talked to her, the more flustered she felt. He had a noble, pleasant way about him that should’ve put her at ease. But it didn’t.

His steady eyes were unreadable, penetrating and mysterious. Dark as she’d imagined. And at times amused and gleaming with sensuality. If she had to be in his presence much, such a man would be dangerous to her sanity and soul. Not wanting him to see into her thoughts, she erected that familiar defense wall about herself. The wall that had protected her from Baigh Shaw or any other man who thought to intimidate her.

“I ken you must fear your cousin will find out I’m here,” he said. “I owe you my life, so if anything happens, I’ll protect you.”

What was wrong with the big lout? He couldn’t even rise to his feet, much less defend her. “A lot of good that will do me now. If they show up, I’ll have to protect you.”

“You would do that for me, m’lady?” His dark brown eyes twinkled, teasing yet still suspicious. His strong accent turned lady into leddy, an address she’d only been called with a derogatory slur while in the Highlands.

“I’d prefer you not call me that.” Though still a lady in truth, she didn’t think of herself as such, nor had she for six years.

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, shadowed by a new growth of black whiskers. She couldn’t gaze at him overlong. His eyes had a look in them she didn’t trust, a look of mischief and interest she dared not think about.

He sobered and shifted his gaze away. “Our clan didn’t come here to fight. We were to meet with the MacIrwin and establish a peace agreement. He invited us to his home, and then attacked us. His word means naught.”

“Are you saying Laird MacGrath wants peace?” She suspected it was true, but she wanted confirmation.

“Aye, m’lady. Above all else, he wants peace for the clan.”

A hint of relief flowed through her. “I found the peace agreement in your doublet,” she confessed.

“’Tis not worth a wee pebble in the River Spey now. Burn it if you will. ’Haps it will provide fine heat to cook your porridge.”

How could he be so pessimistic and give up so easily? “Will you not try again for peace?”

He snorted. “’Tis useless. There is no peace to be had with Donald MacIrwin. They ambushed us—fired pistol shots at us from the cover of the brush, then came out with their swords. As you can see, ’tis the reason we fight. They understand no other language. We must protect what is ours—our clan, our land, and our cattle. We won’t let him run roughshod o’er us.”

“Of course not.” She well knew how ruthless her cousin was. He had always dealt with her in a wretched manner. Without a doubt, if she did something to displease him, he would have no qualms about killing her. That was why she now questioned her judgment in helping a MacGrath.

How many of those tales of the cold-blooded, murdering MacGraths were true? If what this man said was true, Donald and the MacIrwins were the ones who kept the blood feud going. Which meant she was more in danger from her own clan than this enemy.

“You must leave here as soon as you’re able.”

“Aye, I won’t argue about that.” He glanced aside. “Come on in, then. Don’t be bashful, lad.”

She followed his gaze to the door and found her son standing there, white-faced and wide-eyed.

“Rory, please stay in the cottage.”

“I heard horses—lots of horses coming.”

She froze. “Oh, dear God. ’Tis Donald!

My Fierce Highlander copyright 2011 Vonda Sinclair

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