The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance Read online

  The Mammoth Book of

  SCOTTISH

  ROMANCE

  Edited and with an Introduction by

  TRISHA TELEP

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  HIGHLAND HEART

  Heather McCollum

  THE PAGAN BRIDE

  Patricia Grasso

  WOLFISH IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

  Marta Acosta

  FOREVER KNIGHT

  Jackie Ivie

  CURSE ME WICKED

  Elle Jasper

  AT LAST

  Jacquie D’Alessandro

  MAGICK IN THE MIST

  Debbie Mazzuca

  THE REBEL

  Julianne MacLean

  THE CURSE OF WOLF CRAG

  Susan Sizemore

  BELOVED BEAST

  Lois Greiman

  HIS MAGICK TOUCH

  Kimberly Killion

  THE LAIRD’S VOW

  Anne Gracie

  AFTER THE GLOAMING

  Leah Marie Brown

  NEXT TIME

  Donna Kauffman

  KIDNAPPING THE LAIRD

  Terri Brisbin

  KISSINGATE MAGIC

  Annette Blair

  HER MACKINNON

  Sandy Blair

  THE REIVER

  Jackie Barbosa

  FOREVER MINE

  Donna Grant

  THE LAIRD’S FRENCH BRIDE

  Connie Brockway

  Author Biographies

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  “Highland Heart” © by Heather McCollum. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “The Pagan Bride” © by Patricia Grasso. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Wolfish in Sheep’s Clothing” © by Marta Acosta. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Forever Knight” © by Jackie Ivie. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Curse Me Wicked” © by Elle Jasper. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “At Last” © by Jacquie D’Alessandro. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Magick in the Mist” © by Debbie Mazzuca. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “The Rebel” © by Julianne MacLean. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “The Curse of Wolf Crag” © by Susan Sizemore. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Beloved Beast” © by Lois Greiman. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “His Magick Touch” © by Kimberly Killion. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “The Laird’s Vow” © by Anne Gracie. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “After the Gloaming” © by Leah Marie Brown. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Next Time” © by Donna Kauffman. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Kidnapping the Laird” © by Terri Brisbin. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Kissingate Magic” © by Annette Blair. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Her MacKinnon” © by Sandy Blair. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “The Reiver” © by Jackie Barbosa. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “Forever Mine” © by Donna Grant. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  “The Laird’s French Bride” © by Connie Brockway. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

  Introduction

  William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, Rob Roy (not to mention the Loch Ness Monster): Sir Walter Scott certainly knew a country that bred brave, bigger-than-life heroes when he saw it. It’s no wonder that the lush mountain scenery of the Scottish Highlands, and the majestic sweep of 790 islands (!), is the perfect backdrop for epic romance. And although the highlands are no longer peopled by the fabled, chivalrous, unruly Highlander clans of old – those fierce Scottish outlaws, martyrs, traitors and deadly warriors who seemed to get under the skin of the bloodless English with increasing regularity – their fame lives on in the accounts of their deeds (and even in the discredited, but no less brilliant, Ossian poems of James MacPherson).

  Any self-respecting Scot knows that a good tartan is the solution to everything: it tells you what you are, where you belong, who your friends and family are. Forget the Vikings: those guys just can’t hold a candle to a delicious battle-weary warrior whose fighting skills and wicked sex appeal have spawned a thousand Scottish heartthrobs. From the gothic castles and over the windswept moors, with the broadsword, the claymore, the dirk, the flai, and the Lochaber axe, one of the most time-tested, evocative and romantic superheroes known the world over in video games, comic books and romance novels hails from nowhere other than Scotland.

  And from the fierce battle-torn highlands we move to the magic steeped lowlands, where the ley lines meet and the most powerful witches lie in wait, mystical energy flowing as swiftly as the River Tweed. Where glaistigs snatch unfortunate souls straight from their beds, and carry them into the night on headless horses, and bean shìth moan and wail in dark woods. Make sure to leave an empty place at the dinner table for the dead on Samhain for you just might find yourself breaking bread with a ghostly lady in white, or a horseman with no head, or a demon, a dark fairy, a bristling loch monster, or a haunting phantom from the other side of the grave. The Scottish hills are alive with the sound of supernatural slithering.

  So, although the ell, the stone, the boll and the firlot are no more, and I have been many times a witness to the sorry sight of café owners in London refusing Scottish pound notes as if they were monopoly money, do not despair. The stories in this collection are rowdy, wild, irresistible examples of the kind of history, magic and sex you’re sure to encounter if you ever find yourself on a dark, lonely road in the middle of the Scottish wilderness, face to face with a half-naked man in a tartan. It’s always best to be prepared.

  Trisha Telep

  Highland Heart

  Heather McCollum

  One

  Edge of Loch Tuinn, Highlands of Scotland, August 1512

  Rachel Brindle sat her mare with ease, just like any well-bred Englishwoman. She twisted an escaped curl of dark brown hair and poked it under her velvet cap. The wagons of provisions rambled behind Rachel and her sister, Isabelle, as they skirted the large lake that glittered with a million diamond-like bits of sunlight. The water looked so cool, but their father hadn’t allowed them to wade in it. She and Isabelle had been commanded to sip water and pray while everyone else refreshed.

  Rachel huffed at the rebellious curl. She looked askance to her sister. “Do you think we’re almost there?”

  Isabelle shielded her eyes against the sun. “Father said it would be after noon. I’d say we’re close.”

  They travelled to Munro Keep to meet with the elderly Hamish Munro,
great Highland chieftain and her father’s business partner. William Brindle brought shillings and provisions in exchange for the fine wool that the Munros grew on their herds.

  “I’m melting.” A trail of perspiration tickled between Rachel’s breasts under her gown. Perhaps she shouldn’t have begged their father to bring them along to escape the boredom of country life. Even with the summer heat, her father had insisted she wear long sleeves to hide her strange dragonfly-shaped birthmark. She dabbed at her forehead and chest with a lacy handkerchief.

  “If I succumb to the vapours will you revive me?” Rachel teased. As usual, Isabelle frowned at any mention of their special healing abilities.

  “I’ll pour water on your face,” her sister threatened.

  Rachel laughed, the sound cutting off as her glance strayed through the copse of thick pines on their left. Her lips dropped open on an unuttered gasp as her gaze locked with the intense stare of a man. He sat statue-like on his horse, a hundred yards back in the thick growth. His massive chest was bare like that of a barbarian. Red-brown hair nearly reached his broad, tanned shoulders, giving him a wild look. Though the forest shadows dappled along his skin, Rachel could see sculpted muscles protecting his ribs. He held a sword in one arm, and his biceps looked accustomed to holding its weight for long periods of time.

  Narrowed eyes assessed her, judging, waiting perhaps for her outcry. But Rachel kept silent, her thudding heart the only warning. Her chin rose as she met his defiance.

  “Did you see that plant?” Isabelle pointed into the high grass of the small meadow they crossed. “I think it’s shepherd’s purse.”

  Rachel forced her eyes from the man, even though the effort seemed ridiculously difficult. “Nay, Isabelle, I missed it,” she murmured. Should she alert her father? Who was the barbarian? Rachel didn’t even know whose land they rode across. She knew that the Munros warred with a neighbouring clan, but surely her father would have kept their route along friendly territory.

  “Isabelle,” Rachel asked casually. “Do you have your bow near you?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think father wants me hunting this close to the Munros.”

  “Keep it close,” Rachel looked at her sister, her eyes severe. “Just in case.”

  Rachel pulled her dagger out and set it amongst the folds of her green muslin. Granted it was only one small weapon, but with a single flick of her wrist she could lodge it into a man’s skull. Theoretically, of course, since she only practised on turnips at home.

  Isabelle nocked an arrow into the bow lying across her lap. She glanced around. “You saw something,” she whispered.

  Rachel tipped a brief nod. “Just keep alert.”

  “You should tell––”

  “Munros! Batail!” The roar sliced through her sister’s words. It echoed off the trees and boulders flanking them. Rachel whirled around in her saddle, dagger poised. Men ran and jumped through the trees, not towards them but back the way they had come.

  “Ride girls!” their father yelled from up ahead.

  Rachel kicked her mount’s flanks and leaned low as it lurched forward. Isabelle raced next to her. The meadow ended and they fled into the dappled light of the thick woods. Their father waved his arm overhead to urge them to follow as he wove through the trees.

  The guttural sounds and clang of steel mixed with Gaelic curses. Did the barbarian pursue them? Rachel glanced at Isabelle, her sweet, dutiful younger sister. Would she be murdered by marauders because Rachel had failed to warn everyone? She swallowed against the dry panic in her throat as she thought of the man, his piercing eyes, his proud stare. What if he was in jeopardy? Or what if he was to be their killer?

  “Watch out!” Isabelle shouted as they galloped towards a thick uprooted tree. Rachel veered and yanked the reins to the right, steering the horse in a tight circle. Her gaze wove through the dense trees as she tried to discern the sound of the battle over her thumping heart. She continued to circle, hoping to find a clear-cut path through the thickets.

  “Blast!” she cursed low and looked up at the giant trees. She had absolutely no sense of direction. She shifted in her seat, breathing the moist earthy air while the halted horse quivered beneath her. “Which way?”

  She scanned the woods looking for any familiar path. And stopped. The barbarian stood amongst the leaves. Blood streaked down the sword he held ready, his legs braced apart as if waiting for another target to strike. In a fluid motion he pivoted, sharp eyes connecting once again with Rachel’s as if they were magnets. He took a step towards her.

  The whoosh of an arrow made Rachel drop against her horse’s neck, but her wide eyes watched in horror as the arrow slammed into the man’s shoulder.

  “No!” Rachel screamed and pushed her horse through the undergrowth to him. She slid down into the ferns. Her little slippers found no purchase and she tripped and slipped towards him where he lay surrounded by green fronds. He wore a kilt draped loosely around narrow hips. His eyes were closed but he swallowed. The tip of the arrow protruded from his chest, its shaft buried in his back.

  Rachel ignored her shaking and placed her hands on his hot skin. She closed her eyes and released the bubble of power that churned behind her ribs, funnelling it through him. His blood surged with energy. His stomach and bladder were empty. His heart beat hard against the strain of the injury. The whisper of a leak caught Rachel’s breath – a nick in the artery, blood pooling in his chest cavity.

  “Holy Lord,” she whispered and opened her eyes. In the distance she could hear shouting, guttural and fierce. Rachel’s eyes dropped. “Yes,” she breathed, and dug a fist-sized rock from beside the wet ferns, hefting it into her hand. “Holy Lord help me.” She slammed it into his chest, against the protruding arrowhead. The man gasped but didn’t wake. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered and yanked his arm. Holy Lord, he was heavy! She braced her muddied feet against the side of a large pine and used her legs to turn him on to his side. When she’d first laid eyes on him, in the shadows, she hadn’t seen the criss-crossing of scars marring his smooth skin. This man had seen battle, a lot of battle. Guilt took hold of her, lending her strength. He’d survived all this time only to be shot when she stole his attention.

  The shouts crept closer. Were they looking for him? Rachel sunk lower into the ferns as she wedged her feet against his bloodied back. With a great yank the shaft slid free and the man gave a deep groan. She straddled him, kicking her skirts out of the way. He was so broad that her knees didn’t reach the ground and she balanced on his hip while slamming one hand on to each of his wounds, front and back.

  She breathed in the tang of blood, the sweat and mud, his masculine scent, as she released her magic, directing it through her splayed hands into his body. The nick first. She cringed as she felt the larger tear along the thin artery, a consequence of removing the splintery shaft. Her eyes flickered closed as she imagined the smooth lines of healthy tissue. Moving outwards, she pushed her power into the torn muscles, repairing, smoothing. She knitted the splintered edges of a rib and healed the broken and seeping capillaries feeding the muscles. Finally, the torn skin. Rachel breathed deep, feeling her energy feeding into the man. Would she have enough strength to escape? Her head swam and she slumped forwards, draping him in blood-stained green muslin.

  “Lass.” The whisper tickled at her ear and she felt her body lowered gently to the soft earth. Warm fingers brushed the hair from her cheeks and her eyes fluttered open. “What are ye?” Dark blue eyes stared down into her own, questioning, stunning her.

  “There! A horse! I know I shot him. Over there!” The barbarian glanced over his shoulder and then back at her. His sensuous lips thinned into a line of frustration.

  “I’ll come for ye.”

  Come for her? Where was she going? Rachel felt her consciousness slip over the edge into comfortable darkness.

  Two

  Rachel became aware of the sway of the horse under her and stirred. Where am I? As her memory crashed into plac
e, her eyes snapped open. The barbarian?

  Grey clouds pushed against blue overhead. Horses clipped along at a quick gait around her, the slight jostling of armaments and bridles indicating a large number. Cold fingers touched her cheek, drawing her to the eyes of a stranger. She struggled to pull away.

  “Whoa there, lass,” the young man said. “I’m not going to hurt ye.” He grasped her arms so she wouldn’t tumble from the horse. Rachel’s gaze circled the small army marching across the moor. Curious stares from rough dirty faces met her. “Ye’re English?” She nodded but didn’t say anything. “Now what was a bonny thing like ye doing all muddy and bloody amongst the ferns on the border of Munro land?”

  Her gaze returned to his. Genuine confusion wrinkled his dirty forehead, but a twinkle livened his kind eyes.

  “I …” What should she say? “I … was travelling with my father. He has business up in the Highlands. He’s a wool merchant.” She glanced past the man’s shoulder back towards the thick forest beyond. “I need to go back.” Had Isabelle escaped?

  The man didn’t say anything for a few long moments. “If yer da has dealings with the Munros, we aren’t likely to take ye back.”

  Rachel’s heart sped and she turned to study the landscape. The man leaned closer. “I’m Angus Riley, friend and warrior to The Macbain of Druim. And ye are?”

  Rachel kept her chin high and her lips tight.