My new series, HIGHLAND WARS, has begun!
The first book, HIGHLAND HUNGER, is being released in "Games" each week. Game One and Game Two are both out now! Or, if you prefer to wait, you can pre-order the entire series, which will release September 22nd.
After
her brother’s death Ceana is named laird. The only way for her clan to survive
the ravages of the Highlands is to join in the war games. Bastard son of a
powerful earl, Macrath is placed in the games by his vengeful stepmother. He
must survive for the ultimate retribution.
Ceana
can’t afford to like the formidable, captivating Highlander who seems to be following
her, and yet she can’t seem to walk away. Macrath wants nothing more than
protect the warrior lass, but doing so may get in the way of his need for
revenge. What starts out as a race to survive turns into passion to endure
together.
May the gods be forever in their favor…
The Legend...
A land lays unclaimed on the windswept north shore of the
western isles.
Once, on these isles, Sìtheil Castle flourished under the rule
of Olaf the Black. King Olaf was powerful, his army strong and his
determination to keep what was his, fervent. Under his rule the clan was
revered as one of the most powerful within all the realm. Unsurpassed in its wild
and enchanting beauty, surrounding clans wanted desperately to enjoy the fruits
of Olaf’s land, the comforts and protection of the castle stronghold. But the
thick stone walls could not defend against the vicious plague that killed
nearly everyone who resided there. Those who survived were at the mercy of
their neighbors. Men who’d once watched from afar with envious eyes took up
arms against the weakened holding—killing King Olaf. The ruling Scottish
council could not help the few survivors, and soon neighboring clans—and even
those as far as the northern isles—began laying siege to Sìtheil.
Olaf’s widow fought fiercely to keep her son Gillemorre’s
inheritance, but was eventually defeated.
With constant bloodshed, the land fell into disarray. Crops
dried up and disappeared. Animals died. Children starved. Some survivors fled
into the woods, only to be devoured by the beasts within the dark and vast
recesses. Many succumbed to the swords brought down upon them by their enemies,
but one survivor escaped—Gillemorre. Facing danger and death, he stole a small
boat in the night and braved the rough waters to the mainland, where he made
the journey to Scone. He pleaded with the king on behalf of his holding. The
king tasked his council with making a decision on the fate of Sìtheil.
The council members decreed that only the fiercest of rulers
would be able to keep the people of Sìtheil safe. Better yet—two fierce
warriors. Only those who hungered for victory, would be able to restore order.
And so there would be war games.
Every five years a series of games would commence between the
warring clans—and each clan would sacrifice two warriors—a male and female.
There could be only two winners. One male. One female.
To be married and named Chief and Lady of the land. To live in
the grand castle, rule the vast holding, and protect the people by divine right.
May the gods be forever in their favor…
Game on.
An Excerpt
Blood stained the leaf strewn cave in swirling patterns.
Slashes of crimson lined Dougal’s white shirt. His mouth hung
slack, eyes stared lifeless at the dimly lit sky. Hair, still damp with sweat,
lay in unruly clumps against his forehead.
This was the worst and most terrifying morning of Ceana MacRae’s
life to date. She dropped to her knees, her hand falling to her brother’s
motionless arm. How had this happened? And so quickly. They’d only left the
castle a few hours past in search of game to feed their starving clan. And now
he was… She pressed her fingers against his neck, feeling for the steady bump
against her fingertips that would prove life still remained.
Nothing.
She searched again on the other side of his neck. Pressed her
ear close to his nose and mouth hoping for even just a tiny tickle of breath.
Again, nothing.
Ceana shook her head, mouth going dry, her vision blurring. Her
brother could not be dead. He could not!
She checked him once more, a hard, cold lump settling in her
stomach.
Dougal was no more.
Her father had been ripped apart by wolves, now her brother was
killed by marauders. It seemed to be the fate of the men in her family to die
badly. Fear circled her heart. An icy chill snaked along her arms and legs. She
hissed a breath and bit her lip. Their laird was dead. The chief of their
clan—gone.
But who would have dared to harm him?
She gripped the dagger strapped to her hip and wished she’d
thought to bring her long,
thin sword, not that she would have been able to
ward off an attacker for long. Thank goodness she had her bow. She slipped off
the bow and nocked an arrow, turning in a circle. Whoever killed my brother, I will annihilate you.
Danger wasn’t something new. Death was an old pastime. The
MacRae’s were constantly being picked upon by neighboring clans—like vultures
they were, just waiting for them to die.
A hundred years had passed since the king decreed the warring
clans should fight against one another in the war games. The declaration made
to cease the constant bloodshed. And while the clans near the isles were safer,
those smaller clans with fewer men to guard them were still in constant danger.
Clans like hers.
Legends abounded regarding those first games. Heroes were made.
The opening game, a century ago, was a vicious, unrelenting fight. The first to
reign victorious was Gillemorre, son of the great King Olaf who’d been murdered
for his lands. Those descended from him now claimed the name Morrison—but only
if they won the game. The games had brought a semblance of order to the land, though
not to all. Not to the MacRae’s. But the ruling council would not waver from
its decision.
Even with the war games being designed to keep the peace, small
neighboring clans fought against each other. A drought had wiped out many of
the crops and killed many of the goats and pigs. Even the streams and lochs
seemed to carry less fish.
Aye, danger she was accustomed to. Starvation even, wasn’t that
why they’d left today to get food for their clan members?
But this—the vicious murder of her older brother, the chief of
their clan…
Tears burned her eyes and the hair on the back of her neck
stood on end.
The death of her brother.
The death of their laird.
What sounded like a branch being stepped on called her
attention to outside the cave. Without making a noise, Ceana moved to the back
of the cave, where she was steeped in dark shadows. She crouched down, shifting
the soft plaid of her gown to keep herself balanced. She pointed her arrow
toward the mouth of the cave and waited.
And waited.
All the while she continued to hear the crunch of leaves and
sticks. Distinctly a man’s steps falling—heavy and hard. And he was alone. Ceana
listened intently; her hearing had always been superior. The footsteps paused
outside of the cave opening. And then she heard the soft sound of his booted
feet stepping lightly onto the solid cave floor. The stranger was dressed in a
plaid she’d seen before—MacLeod she thought, but couldn’t be sure. Weekly, if
not daily, their lands were trespassed by those looking for spoils.
She stared at him, a smile curling her lip at knowing he
couldn’t see her, but it was wiped off as soon as he nudged the tip of his boot
into her brother’s ribs. Dougal’s prone body barely moved. Anger burned a path
to her heart. She’d forever remember the look of pleasure on this stranger’s
face as he kicked Dougal harder, and then laughed loudly as he kicked him as
hard as he could.
Without reservation, she let her arrow fly when the man took
out a knife and made a move to cut her deceased brother’s throat. Her arrow
found its mark in his chest, and the man looked toward the back of the cave,
eyes squinting in both surprise and pain.
“Who’s there?” he cried out, then stumbled to his knees as
crimson colored his dirty tunic.
Ceana stood and stepped away from the shadows, shoulders
squared, jaw tight, and she assessed the man.
“Who are you?” he asked again, brogue thick and filled with
pain. The stranger roved his gaze over her, surprised at what he saw, if she
could judge by the widening of his eyes and incredulous press of his lips.
No one expected much from little Ceana. She was slight in frame
and shorter than most women, but she was fierce, and that was all that
mattered. Her thick red hair was swept into a messy plait down her back and
dirt no doubt smudged her cheeks. The fabric of her plaid gown was worn and
torn in spots, mended in others. Dougal himself had teased her for looking like
an orphan. But she was no child. She was already nineteen summers.
“Who are you?” she asked him without answering the question
herself.
The man gripped the arrow, double fisted, and broke off the
end. His brow dripped sweat down the sides of his cheeks. “I’m a MacLeod.”
Just as she’d suspected. “What are you doing here?”
He managed a lecherous smile through his agony. Ceana drew
another arrow, nocked it and aimed it at his chest once more. The feathers tickled
her cheek, and she let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.
“I asked you a question,” she said. One false move and she’d
shoot him again. “What are you doing here?”
“Killing your laird.” He gave a viscous laugh, and then a
cough, as he clutched at the stump of arrow shaft left in his chest.
“Then ’tis a good thing my laird taught me to protect myself.” She
let her second arrow fly, watching it once again hit its mark in his chest. The
sickening thud of it turned her stomach, but his agony still gave her a thrill
of vicious triumph.
The invading warrior clutched at the second arrow buried deep
in his chest, his face draining of all color. Perhaps before he’d thought he
may have a chance of escaping death, but now he had to know he would die.
Ceana had been hunting since she could figure out how to clutch
a knife, and shooting with her bow since before her first word. There was no
doubt that she was a skilled hunter. But to kill a man, and feel a thrill?
There were no words. I will burn forever
in the fires of hell for this.
But this man had killed her brother. Would have killed her. If
the stranger was willing to carve up a dead man, there was no telling what he
would have done with her.
I did it to survive.
As far as she knew, this was the first man she’d actually
killed. There had been moments when she was close, when enemy clans had invaded
their lands and threatened their livelihoods that she had in fact shot her bow
and had her arrow lodge in someone’s chest only to watch them gallop away on a
horse or be rescued by their men. Most of the time when their holding was being
laid siege to, she was in charge of taking the women and children to a safer
place. Protecting them should the enemy break the lines.
Dougal always told her that since he’d yet to have an heir and
she was his only sibling, that the family’s modest holding would soon be hers.
While it may have been rare for a female to inherit, it wasn’t unheard of. But
she knew not the first thing of taking care of their meager space of land, or
politics. How could she ever take his place? Dougal had been a good leader.
Emotion welled inside her, forming a lump in her throat.
I have to.
Blood trickled from her enemy’s lips, making a red line from
the corner of his mouth to his earlobe. He was dead, and she’d been the cause
of it.
But he’d wanted to slit Dougal’s throat. Her brother was
already dead; there was no need to mutilate his body further.
The man’s head lolled to the side, eyes glazing over, mouth
opening and closing in silent speech. She suppressed her surprise. She’d
thought him dead already but apparently he still had something to say. Ceana
walked briskly forward, ears keen for any noise outside. She bent down beside
him.
“You shall be buried,” she said. “Even if you don’t deserve it.
I shall see to it.”
“Who are you?” he asked, the same question he’d asked her
before and the same one she’d avoided answering.
She supposed she might as well practice, for as long as she
lived, she’d be repeating these words. “I am Laird MacRae.”
Ceana stood, the enormity of her new position bringing with it a
potent fear. She’d return to her castle and relay to her clan that there was
still no food, but even worse that Dougal was dead. They’d all be dead soon
unless she could figure out a way to save them.
An idea struck her as she slung her bow over her shoulder and
adjusted her knife so it wouldn’t get caught on the stave.
The war games. The very games that ensured her clan would never
amount to anything. But the coin she could earn if she won—the castle and lands
she’d receive—all of these would help her protect her people. The winning clans
agreed to live in peace and as allies—anyone who went against the law risked
execution. It would mean she’d have to marry, but at the end of their five year
rule, the chieftain and lady had the choice of re-entering the games to keep
their position within Sìtheil, or they could relinquish their position, retain
their prize coin and return to their own clans.
She swallowed hard. There
is no other way. If she did nothing her people would starve before the next
clan even had a chance to invade their paltry holding.
Stepping out of the cave, she stared up at the graying sky.
Joining the games meant she had to cross the stormy Minch to the western isles,
that she might die in battle. Meant she’d have to kill many more people in
order to win. But such a sacrifice was worth it in the end if she could save
her people.
The first thing she’d do as Laird MacRae was join the fight for
a throne—and she’d win.
READ IT!!!
PRE-ORDER ALL FIVE GAMES (9/22/14)
Look for...
Game Three: 8/25/14
Game Four: 9/1/14
Game Over: 9/8/14
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