Highland Heartbreakers: Highlander Series Starters, Volume One

by Paula Quinn

  That was the end for Pearl. The knowledge this man, this good man, had given control to her, and cared about her pleasure, sent her over the edge. She stilled, gasping, as her muscles clenched around him, and she reached for him.

  With a curse, Gregor flipped them both in one motion, and as the waves of bliss began to crash over her, he flattened her on the bed and began his own thrusts, hard and desperate once more. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she buried her face in his neck and screamed his name as her orgasm swept her away.

  He lasted a few heartbeats longer, enough to plunge a few more times before he stilled, threw his head back in a soundless roar, and thrust deep as he held her hips in place.

  The feeling of warmth filled her as she came back to herself, and she was smiling breathlessly when he collapsed against her. Wrapping her legs around his thighs, she held him inside her.

  “I love ye,” she whispered against his skin. “I love ye.”

  It was a long moment before he exhaled and lifted himself over her, his auburn hair hanging around his stoic features as he stared down at her.

  “Thank ye.”

  She smiled softly and ran her palms over his chest, her body still humming from the pleasure he’d given her.

  “For what?”

  “For that gift.”

  Did he mean her virginity, or what she’d said? She moved her hands up past the scars at his throat, the scars that represented who he used to be, until she was cupping his cheeks.

  “I love ye,” she repeated.

  Saints be praised, his lips curled upward. “An’ I love, ye,” he whispered, just before he slipped out of her and rolled to one side.

  With his arms around her, she followed, until she was pressed against him. It was so much like that night at the inn, except this time, he was naked, and they seemed to mold together. And the pleasure she’d felt then was nothing to the joy in her heart now.

  A feeling of perfection, contentment, stole over her. “Ye ken,” she said eventually, “in all the years my sisters an’ I jested about being married, I never once thought of babies. But I guess that’s the natural order of things, aye? And Da said he was ready to bounce his grandbabies on his knee.”

  In the fading light, Gregor said naught.

  “Well?” she prompted.

  “Well, what?” he whispered.

  “Well, what do ye think?”

  He was silent a long moment. “I think ye like to hear yerself talk.”

  She giggled and poked him in the side. “One of us has to talk, husband. Do ye mind it so much?”

  “Nay.” He squirmed just slightly under her touch as she moved to circle one of his nipples. “I love ye the way ye are,” he rasped.

  “So, what do ye think about babies?”

  His breath whooshed out of him as his large hand came up and flattened hers against his chest. “I think ye’re goin’ to get another chance, if ye keep that up.”

  In surprise, she lifted her head from his shoulder to stare down at his member, lying heavy and soft against his thigh. She turned to him. “We can do that again? Really?”

  “Nay, wife,” he hissed. “I’m no’ a bull, ye ken.”

  That’s when the laughter broke free from her, and she rolled on top of him. Her hair formed a curtain around them as she smiled down at him.

  One of his hands found her hip, and the other reached up to brush across her cheek.

  “My jewel,” he whispered. “My Pearl.”

  And just as her sisters had said, the sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver through her the laughter couldn’t hide.

  “I love ye,” she said.

  He was her husband, her Gregor. He didn’t have to speak for her to know what was in his heart. And the way his eyes sparkled told her they were going to have a very happy forever together.

  Epilogue

  Summer

  Pearl moaned in pleasure as Gregor massaged her scalp and worked the soap into her long hair. She sat between his knees, the water lifting her up as she tilted her head back so he could reach everything. As far as he could tell, her hair was the cleanest damn hair in the whole clan, but if his wife enjoyed his ministrations, he was going to continue.

  “I dreamed o’ this,” Gregor confessed.

  And Pearl, being Pearl, didn’t even wince at the sound of his rough voice. In fact, since their marriage, he found himself speaking more and more; not just to her, but occasionally to others. And the Sinclairs didn’t seem to mind his voice, either. None asked him about the injury to his throat, none asked him to repeat himself. They followed the example Pearl set, and just accepted him.

  It was humbling.

  She smiled softly. “Ye dreamed of washing my hair?”

  “Aye.” He remembered that long-ago morning at the loch, when he’d imagined her bathing behind him, only to turn and find her wearing his shirt. “I wanted to bathe with ye.”

  She slid forward, out of his hold, and turned over. He was momentarily disappointed that his view of her breasts was covered, until she smiled impishly up at him, her honey hair still covered in suds and dangling around her shoulders.

  “I used to watch ye, and wonder what yer shoulders would feel like, ye ken,” she said.

  She rested her forearms on his knees, driving his arse further into the loch’s pebbly bottom, but he didn’t mind, because her rear end bobbed to the surface behind her.

  “An’ now?” He lifted a brow.

  She shrugged. “They’re all right, but no’ my favorite part of ye.”

  He smiled. He was doing that a lot more often these days, too. “Ye’re feeling aright? Truly?”

  She just hummed and slid up against him, so he could reach her head once more. He tilted it back, and helped her run water through the strands, although he was sure she could manage it on her own.

  Last night she’d told him her suspicions. Although her stomach was still flat, her breasts had changed slightly in the past weeks, and the smell of mutton now turned her stomach.

  Gregor—the Sinclair Hound—was going to be a father.

  As he watched his fingers thread through her hair, he tried to imagine himself holding a wee infant. A son or daughter.

  “A daughter,” he whispered, knowing he’d treasure her the way he treasured her mother.

  “Nay,” she was quick to contradict him, her eyes still closed as the water cascaded around her. “A son. With his father’s beautiful eyes and strength.”

  His lips twitched again. No matter how much she said she admired his body, he knew the truth: if their child was lucky, he or she would look and act like Pearl. She was beautiful, kind, and loving, and their child would be blessed to have her for a mother.

  Their child.

  He shook his head ruefully. It was still hard to believe, and he’d spent the day in a daze. Dougal had knocked him down twice before Gregor shook himself out of it. With William home recovering, the commander had turned the training of the younger men over to Gregor, who took his responsibility seriously.

  Except when thoughts of Pearl intruded.

  Sighing now, she sat up and pressed herself back against his chest. His forearms rested on his knees as he gladly took her weight. He wondered what she was thinking about.

  But because Pearl wouldn’t be Pearl if she stayed silent more than a few moments at a time, she didn’t leave him wondering long.

  “Do ye think it’s true? Will Agata find the Sinclair jewels for our children?”

  He shrugged, careful not to dislodge her from her perch. “They’ve been lost for generations.”

  “Aye, and if what my sisters suspect is true, they were hidden away on purpose. But they belong to the Sinclairs.”

  Gregor cupped her breasts in each hand, and sighed in unison with her, pondering his oldest sister-in-law’s plan.

  The day before Pearl had left Sinclair land for Elcho Priory, she’d visited her old nurse. Elspeth was ailing now, and had given Pearl a piece of ancient tapestry, which
she’d ignored in her anger at her father. It was her sisters—Agata, Saffy, and Citrine—who examined it and decided it was a sort of map to the location of the lost Sinclair jewels.

  It was the reason Agata had returned to the Mackenzies, although the rest of the clan believed it had to do with the young step-son she’d left with his father’s people. The foolish quest was probably also the reason Saffy had disappeared a few weeks later. Gregor had been the first to volunteer to lead a search party, but the laird had just chuckled and dismissed the concern.

  “She’s right where she needs to be,” was all the crafty old bastard had said.

  And Gregor had accepted his laird’s decision, knowing if his wife wasn’t concerned about Saffy’s whereabouts, he shouldn’t be either.

  “We grew up hearing stories of the jewels. It’s impossible for us no’ to be curious what happened to them, and why.”

  He flicked one thumb over her nipple, liking the way she squirmed and pressed her arse closer to him. “Impossible, aye?”

  “Well,” she admitted in a near-breathless voice. “I guess I’ve other things to be concerned about. I’m a wife, ye ken. An’ I have responsibilities.”

  “To yer clan. An’ to me.”

  “And to our baby,” she reminded him, a smile in her voice.

  “Aye,” he whispered, brushing her nipple again.

  She moaned. “Gregor.”

  His lips curled upward once more. She was the first person in a decade to call him by his real name, and as far as he was concerned, everyone else could continue to call him Hound if she called him Gregor. Especially if she said it in that pleading tone.

  He dropped his hands to her hips and flipped her around to face him, not caring at the way the movement splashed water all over them. They were alone in the private stretch of beach, and he had her all to himself.

  “Wife,” he rasped, “ye’re the most important jewel in the world.”

  She was smiling when her lips closed over his, and he knew the truth, he’d love this woman until the end of his days, and beyond. She was his Sinclair Jewel.

  The Sinclair Jewels Series

  The Sinclair Hound

  The Mackenzie Regent

  The Sutherland Devil

  The MacLeod Pirate

  Caroline Lee

  Author’s Note on Historical Costuming

  Listen, I know men didn’t wear kilts in medieval Scotland. You know men didn’t wear kilts in medieval Scotland. The first record of the Great Kilt isn’t until the 16th Century, but tartans (the plaid made with specific colors) are much, much older.

  So, my medieval Highlanders wear kilts, because…come on. You just can’t beat a hot Scottish guy in a kilt with a sword!

  Hopefully you’ll forgive this little bit of historical inaccuracy for the delicious dude on the cover.

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Caroline Lee has been reading romance for so long that her fourth-grade teacher used to make her cover her books with paper jackets. But it wasn’t until she (mostly) grew up that she realized she could WRITE it too. So she did.

  Caroline is living her own little Happily Ever After in NC with her husband, sons, and brand-new daughter, Princess Wiggles. And while she doesn’t so much “suffer” from Pittakionophobia as think all you people who enjoy touching Band-Aids and stickers are the real weirdos, she does adore rodents, and never met a wine she didn’t like. Caroline was named Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in 2006 (along with the rest of you) and is really quite funny in person. Promise.

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  Unbreakable

  Highlands Forever, Book One

  Violetta Rand

  To Kathryn Le Veque for providing the inspiration to go back to the Highlands.

  And to DJ, you are like starlight, brightening my life and lighting my pathway to happiness.

  Chapter One

  Clan MacKay lands

  Northern shore of the Scottish Highlands, 1462

  The wind chilled Alex MacKay as he squinted through the morning mist to catch sight of the lush shoreline where his galley would soon anchor. Years had passed since he’d stood on MacKay lands. He was but twenty then, and convinced he was in love. Betrayal forced him to leave home, and he sold his allegiance, and maybe a bit of his soul, to the princes of Constantinople as a mercenary.

  There were no golden palaces decorating the Highland coastline. No bathhouses and perfumed women waiting to welcome him back from battle. No bustling marketplaces where anything a man imagined could be bought. No sand and hot sun. Only gray outcrops and hills, fields of heather and mountains—the very things that breathed life into his battered heart. Things he’d purposely forgotten.

  He gripped the missive from his only brother in his left hand, having committed the desperate plea to memory—begging Alex to return home and help defend clan lands from Sutherland raiders.

  Did nothing change? Why were Scots so determined to kill each other when the real threats lie south of the border? Squabbling over holdings and sheep couldna compare to the devastation of English swords.

  Alex had learned the hard way what real wars were fought over. He’d seen princes dragged into the public square and tortured, hands and feet chopped off, the crowd as bloodthirsty as the executioner. What did MacKays or Sutherlands know of such evil? And deep inside, Alex regretted that he’d ever witnessed such brutality, that he’d ever left the place he once called home. No one would be privy to his regrets, though. Everything that connected him to Scotland, whether family or bitter memories, were locked away in the depths of his soul, along with any feelings he had left.

  Soldiers fought with true purpose here, the one thing he appreciated about the men on this side of the world.

  After the boat landed, Alex walked up the beach toward a group of waiting horsemen. He immediately recognized the blue and green tartans they wore and the man at the front. Seeing his brother on a massive, black beast was nearly the same as staring at his own reflection in a looking glass. He stopped a few yards away, taking in everything. He’d never imagined being here again, feeling the fine Scottish breeze blowing through his hair or the bite of the salty air on his tongue.

  His brother dismounted and quickly closed the distance between them. “Alexander.”

  “John.”

  “Ye’re here.”

  In truth, nothing could have kept Alex away. He relished the idea of seeing his brother fail. A man couldna pray for better revenge. He ripped a leather coin purse from his weapon belt and tossed it on the ground at his brother’s feet.

  “This will pay for the extra swords ye need to protect our sire’s holdings.”

  John sucked in a ragged breath and shook his head. “My lands.”

  “Call it whatever ye will. I’ve done my duty. If ye canna manage to hire mercenaries to defeat yer enemy, then ye don’t deserve to be laird.”

  Alex turned back to the water, ready to return to his ship.

  “Wait,” his brother called. “Ye came all this way just to give me money?”

  “No.” Alex wheeled around. “I traveled halfway around the world to gaze upon ye a last time.”

  John’s lips drew together. “Why?”

  “To see if yer sins have finally caught up with ye.”

  “That isna an acceptable answer.”

  “It will have to suffice.” Alex was a respected warrior in the exotic lands where he’d carved an existence out with blood, sweat, and some bitter tears. Even the sultans dinna ask for explanations. So Alex would provide none here.

  “Ye’ve been gone five years.”

  Alex studied his brother’s features. The breeze lifted his sandy-colored hair, revealing a long scar along his right jaw. His eyes were creased in the corners and dull. He’d aged hard, which told Alex he’d suffered. “My curiosity is satisfied.”

  “Dinna speak in riddles.”

  “Rid
dles?” he repeated, sounding angrier than he’d intended. “Do I need to spell it out for ye?’

  “She’s not here.”

  Bloody bastard dared resurrect that old memory? “Who?” Alex pretended not to know.

  “Keely.”

  Time had dulled the pain, relegating her countenance to the occasional nightmare. But the mere mention of her name burned a new hole in his soul. “I doona care.” But he did—too much for a man who’d been away so long.

  John smirked, acting as if he’d seized the power in their conversation. “Ye’re a bad liar.”

  “Am I?” Alex surged closer, standing a head taller than John. The temptation to beat him senseless nearly won the day. “Ye are the worst sort of thief, brother.” There was no love in that designation, no loyalty for his own sibling. Only rage and hatred. Alex touched his sword. In the heat of battle in the desert, he’d often pictured his brother’s face as he cut down an enemy. It served a purpose—making him more lethal than most—able to kill a man without caring for who or what he was.

  John’s shoulders drooped. “She spoke her vows before God but ran away the same night. Before we consummated our marriage.”

  The news did little to ease the hostility swirling inside Alex. His time away had altered his view. The only man he trusted was himself. It kept him alive and made it easier to wake up every day. Men with deeply rooted feelings–a weak man of conscience like John–would have withered and blown away in the desert winds a long time ago. “Good luck,” Alex murmured as he turned his back.

  “Shame follows ye,” John yelled. “Father would roll over in his grave if he knew ye abandoned yer family again.”

  Though his brother’s words reached his ears, nothing touched the black depths of Alex’s soul. Numbness ruled him. He must never relinquish the tight control he exercised over his heart. And since he’d grown fond of the silver and gold the eastern princes paid him for protecting their fortresses, he had every intention of returning to foreign shores.