I'm thrilled to announce the release of the 3rd book my Stolen Bride series, THE HIGHLANDER'S LADY!
ABOUT THE BOOK...
A Highlander tamed…
Laird Daniel Murray seeks adventure,
battle and freedom for his countrymen. Putting off his duties as laird—with a
promise to his clan he’ll return come spring—Daniel sets off with his men to
fight alongside William Wallace and the Bruce. But soon he stumbles across an
enchanting lady in need. She tantalizes him with an offer he simply can’t
refuse and a desire he attempts to dismiss.
A lady’s passion ignited…
Escaping near death at the treacherous
hands of a nearby clan, Lady Myra must find the Bruce and relay the news of an
enemy within his own camp. Alone in a world full of danger and the future of
her clan at stake, she must trust the handsome, charismatic Highland laird who
promises to keep her safe on her journey—and sets her heart to pounding.
Together, Daniel and Myra will risk not
only their lives, but their hearts while discovering the true meaning of hope
and love in a world fraught with unrest.
EXCERPT--ALL of Chapter One!
Chapter One
Early December
Highlands, 1297
A loud crash sounded from below stairs,
startling Lady Myra from her prayers. What in all of heaven was that?
She’d
been sequestered in the chapel for most of the morning—penance for her latest
bout of eavesdropping.
The
chapel was dark, lit only by a few candles upon the altar. A fierce winter gust
blew open the shudders, causing the candle flames to waver. Myra rushed to the
windows, securing the shudders once more, feeling the wood rattle against her
fingertips.
Her
stomach muscles tightened with unease. There were not often sounds like this at
Foulis. In fact, she’d never heard such before.
The
very floors seemed to shake. Imagination going wild, she pictured the boards
beneath her feet splintering and falling through to the great hall below.
Myra
kept a keen ear,
waiting for a sign that would reassure her that nothing was amiss. For once she
hoped to hear her older brother, Laird Munro, railing at the clumsy servant
who’d dropped something, but there was nothing save an eerie silence. The
hair along her neck rose and with it, her skin prickled as an acute sense of dread
enveloped her.
The
castle was never this silent.
“Astrid?”
she called out to her maid—but there was no reply. Not even the scurrying of
her servant’s feet across the floor. Where had the maid gone? She was supposed
to wait for Myra outside the chapel door. “Astrid!” she called a little louder
this time, but still there was no reply.
’Twas as if she were alone, but that
made no sense. Foulis Castle was always bustling with people. Unable
to stand the silence, Myra scrambled to her feet. She lit a tallow candle by
the hearth to light her way in the darkened corridor and slowly crept toward
the door of the family chapel. Nothing but a whisper of a breeze from her gown
disturbed the areas where she passed—’twas how she was able to eavesdrop so
often. Locked away, supposedly for her own good, since she was a girl, she learned an important lesson. If
she were to find out anything of import, she had to be secretive and slick, so
she learned to creep.
She
did so now with practiced ease, sidestepping boards known to creak and pausing
every few moments to listen for sounds. She
strained to hear a whisper, someone’s breathing, anything that would assure her
that she had in fact let her imagination get the best of her. But there was
nothing.
Fighting hard to keep the fear from
suffocating her, she reached the door, and with tortured
slowness gripped the cool iron handle. She
wanted to throw it open, and ignore the dread that held her hand still. But she
had to trust her instincts. Something was terribly wrong. She could feel it.
Myra leaned in close, pressing her ear to the frozen wood. She remained
motionless, listening. Again
silence. Satisfied there was no imminent threat, she began to open the door. An
earth shattering shriek and another loud crash broke the silence. Myra slammed
the door. Was that…? She shook her head. It couldn’t be. Scrambling away from
the door, she dropped her candle which snuffed itself out. God’s teeth! Was
that a battle cry? Granted, she’d never heard one before, but ’twas
not just any shout. Nay, this sound was terrifying. A cry that sent her knees
to shaking and her lip to bleeding from biting it so hard.
She could barely see, the candles at
the altar weren’t putting off enough light.
What in blazes was she supposed to do? How would she protect herself?
Damn those guards. Why hadn’t there been any warning? Shouts of caution. Why
hadn’t the gates been closed?
Was
it possible that she’d just not heard the warnings? She had been deep in
prayer, worrying about her sore knees, and to add insult to injury she’d needed
to use the privy for hours. Had she been that preoccupied? Angered? So
distracted that if someone had shouted in her ear she probably wouldn’t have
heard it? She took a deep breath to figure out her next course of action.
The
secret stairways! Lucky for her, the
chapel was located in a tiny corridor off the gallery above the great hall. A
hidden stair, inside the chapel, led up to the master’s chamber. Embarrassed
after her penances—which were often, Myra chose not to venture into the great
hall, instead she preferred to use the hidden stairs. She knew them well. All
of them. When she was just a girl, her
father had shown her where they were located, and when she’d once found them
fun, she now found comfort in their obscurity. Now they would not only help
hide her embarrassment but they might even save her life.
Myra did regret being sent to Father
Holden for having listened in on a very private and political conversation. Her
ears burned from hearing all the things he and his allies had said.
Worry consumed her.
But
this was no time to think back on that conversation. Or was it?
There’d
been a warning. Rumors of an impending attack. But who would attack Foulis? Any
why? Such an act was foolish. They had excellent fortifications. A stone gate
tower was built at the front of the castle walls, with at least a half dozen
guards on watch at a time. Her brother Byron made sure the gate was always
closed, and most often barred. Their walls were thick and she’d thought
impenetrable. If they were being attacked, there should have been fair warning.
The guards could see all around the castle. No hidden spots for an enemy to
hide. Her brother’s retainers kept guard upon the walls and the lands. This she
knew—so how?
Then
Myra remembered— from a neighboring clan, Laird Magnus Sutherland had told her
brother that they suspected an attack would come from a trusted ally. There
would be no warning. Anyone could be the enemy. Except Magnus had warned of
one.
Ross.
Upon
her father’s deathbed this past spring, he’d signed a betrothal contract between
Myra and Laird Ross—despite Ross being old enough to be her father. Myra and
Ross’ daughter, Ina—who made Myra want to pull her own hair out—were the same
age. Myra
crinkled her nose. Wasn’t it wrong to be the stepmother of a woman who shared
her birth year?
Myra’s
reaction to the news of her betrothal had garnered her a penance too—three days
in a hair shirt and her skin had been so irritated she’d not been comfortable
in even the softest linen chemise Astrid could find for her for nearly a
fortnight.
Could
it be him? Was that how the enemy had gained entrance without warning? If ’twas
Ross, the he probably tricked everyone into thinking he’d come to discuss the
impending alliance between their two clans. Byron wouldn’t have suspected an
attack—despite the warning—he was too trustworthy.
Myra
backed toward the center of the room. Faint cries of pain floated through the
floorboards. Fear snaked its way around her spine and threatened to take away
her mobility. She grabbed the wooden slat leaning against the wall to bar the
door. The candles flickered. Whoever was downstairs was not here for a friendly
visit. Heaven help her. They would leave no room unturned. Myra prayed her
brother and his wife, Rose who was heavy with child, were safe. That Astrid was
hunkered down somewhere with the other servants. She covered her ears from the
cries of pain and anger. There was little doubt the enemy was causing great destruction.
“Zounds!”
Myra tamped the candles on the altar, putting the chapel into shadows and
stalked toward the tapestry of a great wildcat on the hunt. She flipped back
the covering, not even a speck of dust to make her sneeze since she used it so
often. Pressing on the rock that opened the hidden door, she slipped into the
black, closing the door behind her. Silent, she welcomed the comfort of
nothingness as she slid her feet along the landing until she reached the first
step. Finally something positive had come from her many penances, after using
this particular staircase at least a thousand times, she knew the exact
measurements of each step. The depth, the height. They fit her feet perfectly
now.
Fingers
trailing over the dusty, crumbling stone walls, she made her way carefully but
briskly down the stairs until she reached the wall behind her brother’s study. She
peered through the imperceptible crack in the wall where she often stood to
listen—as she had just the day before. The room was lit by a few candles as
though her brother had been there, but he was not now. The room was empty and
undisturbed.
Where
was he? And Rose?
Myra’s
unease was slowly turning into an acute fear. She refused to let her nerves
take over. There had to be another explanation. They couldn’t be under attack. She refused to believe it. Her mind
skipped over every other possibility. Perhaps the men were involved in another
round of betting. Fighting each other to see who could best who. That made
sense. All the servants would be crowded in the minstrel’s gallery above to
watch, and the great hall would be a raucous room full of shouting, sweating,
swearing warriors.
That
had to be it. A mock battle of some sort.
Yet,
this felt different. Every nerve in her body strained and her teeth chattered
with fear. Why was she reacting so physically when it might possibly be nothing
more than a bit of rowdy warrior fun? Her overactive imagination? Probably.
But, she would have to see for herself. Myra continued along her path, winding
down and nearly to the great hall when she heard a distant whimpering. Nothing
more than a whisper of a sound, but in the complete and silent dark, it was
telling. Recalling the number of steps she’d taken, she calculated that she
must be just outside Rose’s solar. She ran her hand along the wall searching
for the small metal handle, then nudged the door an inch ajar. It was indeed Rose’s
solar, and the whimpering was coming from inside, but she couldn’t see who it
was, since the doorway was hidden behind a bureau that was pushed against it.
Myra
listened for a few moments longer to discern if there was only one person in
the room. It had to be Bryon’s wife. “Rose?” she whispered.
The
whimpering stopped.
“Hello?”
came the tentative voice of her sister-by-marriage.
She
called to her softly, “Rose, ’tis Myra.”
A
scuffling, like shoes scooting across the floor sounded within the room. Within
moments Rose’s tear-stained face peered through the crack. Her brown eyes were
red rimmed and her fiery curls jutted in frantic wisps from her head.
“Myra!”
she whispered frantically. “Ye must help me. They’ve come. I think they killed
Byron. Everyone.”
“Who?
Wait, help me push this door open, ye must come in here.”
Rose
shook her head. “They are tearing the castle apart as we speak. If I come in
there, then they will too.”
Myra’s
sister-by-marriage was right. It would be impossible for them to put the bureau
back in place. They had to escape unnoticed. The secret passages were the only
way—and they had to remain concealed. “Can ye get to Byron’s library? There’s a
passage through the hearth.”
Rose
looked about frantically, as if expecting the door to her solar to bang open at
any moment. She nodded, fear filling her eyes.
“I
will meet ye there. Go. Quickly.” Myra reached her fingers through the door and
gripped Rose’s, hoping to give her some measure of comfort. “I will be there
waiting.”
Rose
nodded again, squeezing Myra’s hand with trembling fingers.
“I’m
going now, Myra.”
There
was silence and then a creak as Rose opened the door. For several agonizing
heartbeats, Myra waited. Waited for Rose to be struck down. Waited for the
sound of shouts as she made her escape. Waited for something horrifying to
happen. But there was nothing.
Myra
counted to thirty, slowly, with even breaths, and then she ran back up the dark
winding stair until she reached Byron’s library. Peeking through the crack, she
determined the room was still empty. With trembling fingers she found the hook
in the wall, and slid her finger through it yanking and twisting until the lock
unlatched and the wall opened behind the hearth. The library’s hidden door was
heavy, but not as heavy as it could be. Made from plaster to look like stone,
it was a perfect disguise within the wall. Ashes from the grate stirred and
made her cough. She hid her face in her cloak to stifle the sound, and muttered
a prayer of thanks for no fire being in the hearth.
Her
heart felt as though it would explode, racing like sheep hunted by wolves. Myra
crouched low to wait for Rose, hoping that should the enemy enter she’d have
time to shut the hidden door without their notice.
Dear God, let Rose make it here safely.
Now
she knew for certain, the castle was under attack. None of it seemed real. Fear
prickled her skin. Why would anyone want to attack her home? And Byron couldn’t
possibly be… “Nay,” Myra whispered with a shake of her head. Byron couldn’t be
dead. Just couldn’t.
Her
breath hitched and panic threatened to take over, but she willed herself to
calm. Willed herself to stay strong for Rose and her unborn niece or nephew’s
sake.
What
felt like hours later, but in reality was probably only minutes, the door to
the library crept open. Myra bit her lip hard, expecting to hear the scrape of
booted heels on the wooden planks, but there was only a whisper of slippers.
Rose.
“Myra?”
her sister-by-marriage called softly.
“I’m
here.” Myra scrambled out of the hidden door in the hearth, bumping her head on
the oak mantel. “Come, we must hurry.”
Rose
didn’t hesitate. They were through the secret door, the last inch closing when
the main door to the library crashed open. Rose jumped beside her, letting out
a strangled squeak. Myra reached up, finding Rose’s lips in the dark and
pinched them, indicating silence.
Rose
nodded, and gripped Myra’s hand with deathlike force.
Myra
did not want to wait and see if those who’d entered happened to notice the wall
shift when she’d closed it the remainder of the way, and so squeezing Rose’s
hand, she urged her down the steps.
Where
she’d been able to fly in the dark before, she now had to tread lightly. Rose
was already off balance with her huge belly, and not being used to the darkened
stairs was made all the more unstable.
Myra
prayed constantly, a litany in her mind, for the enemy to not follow, and luck
must have been on their side because they made it to the door leading into the
dungeon without one of the evil villains following.
She
stopped and gripped Rose’s shoulders. Although she couldn’t see her face, Myra
stared in that direction.
“Listen
now, sister. Ye must hide in here. They willna find ye. I promise.”
“Where?”
“The
dungeon.”
From
the shudder of Rose’s shoulders, Myra imagined her shaking her head hard.
“Ye
must. If they find these tunnels, all is lost. But within the dungeon, they’d
not find ye there.”
“Where
are ye going?”
“I
have to find Byron.”
“Nay!
Ye canna! He’s dead!” Panic seized Rose’s voice, and she appeared to be on the very
verge of hysterics.
“Shh…
Ye dinna want them to hear us. I willna tarry long. But I must see if he
lives.”
Rose
sobbed quietly and pulled Myra in for a hug. They stood for as long as Myra
would allow, which wasn’t nearly long enough, before she pushed the dungeon
door open and guided Rose inside.
“Hurry
back,” Rose said, her voice cracking.
“I
will.”
Myra
wasted no time rushing back up the stairs to the great hall. Peering through
the hole, she saw nothing but destruction.
Bodies
with blood flowing. Furniture turned and tossed. Food and wine mingled with the
blood upon the floors and tables. Even a few of the dogs had been slaughtered. The dogs. Why would anyone slaughter
an innocent animal? Tears pricked her eyes, but she willed them away. What did
the enemy have to gain? She kept asking herself that question over and over and
still didn’t have an answer.
The
enemy still lurked within the room. A few warriors she didn’t recognize boasted
of their heinous glory while another maniacally abused the body of a dead
servant.
Bile
rose, burning the back of her throat. There was no way she could get inside
without being seen.
“Myra.”
Someone grabbed her ankle, tugging.
A
scream bubbled up her throat, threatening to wrench free, when logic filled her
mind with the sound of her brother’s voice. Weak and pain-filled.
Myra
crouched before she collapsed to the ground, patting the stone stairs until she
felt the slightly cold flesh of her brother’s hand. She scooted close, her knees
pressing against his side, feeling his shuddering breaths keenly.
“Byron,
what’s happened? How did ye get in here?” she whispered.
His
breathing was labored and she was surprised she hadn’t heard him before.
“Ross
attacked…” He breathed deep, his lungs rattling. “Just as Sutherland said he would.
I crawled into the tunnels…hoped you’d taken Rose…was trying to find…her.”
Part
of the conversation she’d overheard… Myra squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to
cry, wishing this nightmare away. Her brother was badly injured. Her people
slaughtered. The enemy waiting with glee for her to show her face.
“Why
did he attack?” she asked.
Byron
squeezed her fingers, but even his grasp was feeble.
“They
are not our allies. They are allies of England.”
Myra’s
stomach turned. She swallowed hard as her worst fears came true. And she was
supposed to marry the bastard. Shaking her head, she gripped Byron’s hand hard.
There was no time for her to dwell on it now. She had to help him.
“Come,
let me help ye. We must patch up your wounds. Where are ye hurt?”
“There’s
no use for it, sister. I’m going to die…”
For
what seemed like a lifetime, there was silence. Her heart felt like it’d been
ripped from her chest, and the fear of her brother passing before she could say
goodbye collided with her senses.
“Nay.
Nay, we will bring ye down to the dungeon with Rose. She’ll help me.”
Byron
chuckled softly. “Ye’re a good woman, Myra. As much as ye’re a pain in the
arse. But ye must leave me here. I need ye to do something for me.”
Tears
stung her eyes, and if she could see, her vision would be blurred. “What?
Anything, tell me.”
“I
need ye to see Rose safely to the Sutherlands. And then I need ye to deliver a
message.”
The
Sutherlands were their allies, and to be trusted. The chief himself had been
involved with William Wallace at Stirling Bridge, a major reason for their
victory. He’d been the one to warn of the Ross treachery. Rose would be safe
within their walls.
“I
will.”
“Ye
must find Robert the Bruce. He is…”
Byron’s voice trailed off again. Time was running short. She could only pray he
would last long enough to give her the full message. “He is at Eilean Donan… Not safe. He’ll
never be king if… Ye must tell him about Ross. Tell him that there is an enemy
within his camp…tell him Ross is in league with the English and plans to kill him.”
Myra
shuddered. King Edward, better known as Longshanks by her kin, was responsible
for this war. He wanted to scour the Scots from their own land, the greedy
bastard. She’d lived in fear nearly her entire life. The Sassenachs were
monsters that lived under her bed, crept in the shadows of her nursery as a
child, and even now when she felt as though she was being watched it was by one
of the demon English.
With
William Wallace fighting alongside the Bruce, they’d won the Battle of Stirling
Bridge—a major victory for the Scots—and it emerged that her country might
indeed gain their freedom from English oppressors. But not if they were being
undermined from within. Not if Ross gave away their secrets and whereabouts.
Damn him!
“Tell
Rose I love…” Byron’s voice trailed off and Myra felt him shudder against her
knees.
Myra
shoved her anger to the back of her mind, concentrating on her brother’s last
ragged breaths. A sob slipped from her throat and she collapsed onto his chest,
hugging him, trying to push her warmth into him, trying to bring him back from
death. All around her on the floor, his warm sticky blood flowed.
But
’twas no use. Byron was gone—and at the hands of a man she despised. An enemy
of her country. An enemy of her family. A man she vowed to never marry. Not in
this lifetime, nor in the next. She would see Rose to safety and then she would
see to the demise of Ross—tell the Bruce of the traitor’s existence.
Myra
slipped her brother’s ring from his finger, the one made of gold and onyx, a
symbol of the Munro clan chief and shoved the ring into her boot. With a start
she realized what Byron’s death meant.
Myra
was chief.
“Dear
Rose, please birth a son.”
She
didn’t want to be chief. Had no idea how to run a clan.
Cradling her brother’s head, she
laid him down gently, giving him one last kiss on the cheek. She swallowed her
fear, clear on what had to be done. Conviction straightened her spine as
she stood. As chief of Munro—for hopefully only a month or so longer—she would
see this deed done.
Myra
raced down the steps to the dungeon, finding Rose where she’d left her.
“We
must make haste.” Her voice came out harsher than she intended, but Rose made
no comment on it.
Pulling
Rose back into the darkened corridor, they made their way farther down the
stairs.
“We
will have to crawl through here. Think ye can manage?”
“Aye,”
Rose said. She didn’t ask what Myra had found and her voice too grew harder as
though she knew her husband was dead.
Myra
could not imagine how Rose felt. To be left so soon by her husband and a bairn
on the way.
They
crawled through the last tunnel, the weight of the castle above them. The
stones were slick and bits of debris littering the floor jabbed into her palms.
Ye can do this. Myra
repeated the words in her mind a thousand times, and with each recitation, she
felt a little stronger.
When
they neared the end of the tunnel, a bright light slipped through a crack of
stone, beckoning them forward. A breeze whistled through the crack sending
wintry chills up and down her limbs. ’Twas cold outside… Traveling would not be
easy.
“We’re
almost there,” she called to Rose who crawled behind her.
Rose
let out a little grunt.
“Keep
that bairn inside ye.” Myra had the sudden horrific thought that Rose might go
into labor from all the stress of the day on her mind and body.
“He’s
to stay put,” Rose panted from the exertion of crawling.
“Let
us pray ’tis a boy.”
They
at last reached the end where there was room to stand. Myra helped Rose up, her
legs wobbly.
“When
we leave this cave, we will have to keep close to the walls, and ye’ll need to
stay hidden while I fetch us a horse.”
“Nay!”
Rose shook her head vehemently. “The attackers are sure to be out there.”
“Aye.
But what choice do we have? We canna stay here and wait for them to find us.”
In
the sliver of light coming from the hidden entrance, Myra could make out Rose’s
eyes shifting about in thought.
“We
shall walk into the village and get a horse from there,” Rose offered.
Myra
shook her head. “Most likely they’ve burned the village, or at the very least
are looting it. I’ll not have us stuck there.” Myra pressed a steady hand to
Rose’s belly, feeling the child kick within. A surge of protectiveness filled
her. “Or be killed. We will see my brother’s heir to safety. Ye and I
together.”
“I
trust ye.” Rose nodded, her eyes wide. “I do.”
“All
right, then, ye stay here. If I’m not back within a quarter hour, run.”
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