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This is a work of fiction. Any references to events or people, historical or otherwise are used fictitiously. Names, characters, places and incidences are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Published by Oliver-Heber Books, LLC
Copyright © Tanya Anne Crosby
PRAISE FOR TANYA
“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…” –Publisher’s Weekly
“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.” –Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author
“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.” –The Oakland Press
“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue…” – Affaire de Coeur
“A first class author.” –RT Book Reviews
“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic and Tantalizing!” –Rendezvous
PRAISE FOR
THE MACKINNON’S BRIDE
4 1/2 STARS! K.I.S.S. AWARD AND TOP PICK!
“Ms. Crosby once again gives readers an enthralling glimpse into the human heart … The MacKinnon’s Bride will remain in your heart long after the last page is turned.” –RT Book Reviews
“A fun tale of intrigue … in Medieval Scotland.” –The Atlanta Constitution
LYON’S GIFT
AN RT BOOK REVIEWS HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF THE YEAR NOMINEE
4 ½ STARS
“A gift from the gifted pen of Tanya Anne Crosby to fans of the Medieval romance sub-genre... . This is a must read.” –Affaire de Coeur
4 ½ STARS AND K.I.S.S. AWARD
“… Brilliantly evoking the majestic beauty and passion of the Highlands and brimming with characters who leap off the pages and into your heart.” –RT Book Reviews
ON BENDED KNEE
4 ½ STARS AND K.I.S.S. AWARD
“Another keeper from the talented Ms. Crosby.” –RT Book Reviews
“A wonderful love story full of passion, humor and bittersweet tenderness.” –New York Times Bestselling Author Jill Barnett
LION HEART
“Passionate and beautiful! Couldn’t put it down.” –Amazon Reader
Dedication
For you, my readers, who have embraced this series with open hearts.
Other books in this series by
Tanya Anne Crosby
THE MACKINNON’S BRIDE
LYON’S GIFT
ON BENDED KNEE
LION HEART
CHAPTER 1
The Highlands of Scotia, 1125
Gavin Mac Brodie was certain there was something amiss with Seana’s whiskie.
Somehow, the woman had managed to snare the very last man in the Highlands Gavin would have thought might ever wed. During his brother’s seven and twenty years, he had bedded more women than the entire Brodie clan had fingers to count on. But even more amazing was the simple fact that Colin was drunk with joy over the end of his promiscuity. His eyes followed his new wife wherever she went, mooning over her in a way that Gavin found quite embarrassing.
Good thing Gavin wasn’t a drinker, because he sure as hell didn’t need a woman to lead him about by his nose. Everywhere he looked there was yet a new bride—the MacKinnon laird with his new English missus, Gavin’s brother Leith and Alison MacLean, his sister Meghan and Piers de Montgomerie. And now Montgomerie’s cousin Elizabet and Broc Ceannfhionn—another bloke Gavin would never have imagined susceptible to the wiles of women.
Having reached his limit over so much mooning, he was compelled to seek solace in the woodlands where Seana had once made her home with her father. Her potstill was still there, but a stone’s throw away, for she had refused to move it, despite Colin’s persistence. Seana claimed it was a verra special place that held faerie magik necessary to a good brew. So she came every day to check her whiskie, but Gavin could handle Seana well enough—even if he thought her bent toward the mystical was a bunch of malarkey.
He’d had enough of fair folk stories to last a lifetime. Like Seana, his Grandminny Fia had been keen to the old ways. She too had lived close to nature, loving the forest and dragging his sister Meggie out with her every opportunity. Together they had brewed concoctions of meadowsweet, bloodroot and heather and sometimes shoved them down his and his brothers’ throats when they were ill. That was all and good, but as far as Gavin was concerned things like the will-o'-the-wisps were naught more than bugs. The still folk were little more than legends and the banshee were simply tales auld women told to make wee ones behave.
All these women and their folklore… it was, indeed, enough to drive a man to drink, but dipping into Seana’s witch’s brew wouldn’t get his house built any faster and he was bound and determined to get out of the lovebirds’ ways, even if he broke his back with the labor.
Once the house was completed, he was certain no one would stop him from leaving, but he couldn’t take the chance that they might try. He didn’t want to continue living with his brothers, and certainly didn’t care to hear the sounds of their lovemaking echoing through the halls all the night long. Lying alone in his bed, there was nothing more disturbing.
No, it was past time to build his own home, one in which he was the master—and he was going to do it right here.
This was No Mon’s Land—craggy country in the shadow of Chreagach Mhor, the ancient seat of the MacKinnon laird. The land below the bluff was dotted with cairns—rugged stone mounds that stood like proud sentries. Gavin had placed his homestead carefully so as not to disturb the olden tombs, for no matter what a man believed, it never boded well to disturb the souls of the dead.
Nay, but the area had stones aplenty, so Gavin was simply careful not to snatch a single one from the surrounding mounds. After weeks of working on the house when he could, the walls were nearly finished, and soon they would be high enough to raise the roof. He sat down upon a fallen log, a little breathless, and contemplated the potential of his new life. He didn’t know what he was seeking, but somehow he knew he would find it right here.
He sat there, resting a bit, examining the walls, inspecting his week-old mortar for cracks.
Aye, this would make a fine home indeed—not far from any clan should he decide he needed company. And in the distance, the loch sparkled like a brilliant blue gem under the sunlight. He lifted up the flagon at his feet, drinking deeply of the well water he’d brought.
That would be his next step, to dig his well, but for that he would enlist the help of his brothers, and his sister’s husband if Piers was so inclined.
He had visions of a garden in his mind, where he would plant cabbage and peas and kale as well as whatever grains his new sister-in-law needed for her brew. He’d made a deal with Seana and she’d given him this land where’d she’d lived with her father. It wasn’t precisely hers to give. Still, Gavin believed it was good karma to deal honestly with every living soul and in Seana’s heart, this was her home. In return, Gavin would grow the grains she needed and together they would supply the neighboring clans with her whiskie.
Aye, it was a very good plan.
A verra good plan, indeed.
He took another swig from the flagon.
The scent of heather filled his nostrils.
The afternoon was balmy as far as Highland summers went, the air still and sweet, but with the wa
ning of summer, the night would bring a bitter chill. When the time came, he would need blankets aplenty… and he had his dog Brownie for company—if only he could keep the bluidy cats away.
He spotted yet another pair of yellow eyes at the edge of the forest—the fourth feline to grace his presence today. The woods were teeming with them.
His grandminny would have had him believe they were the fair folk incarnate, changeable as they were. But all he saw was a bunch of bluidy cats crouched in the shade of the trees.
Sweat poured down the side of his face as he gauged the sun’s position in the sky. There was no more than an hour or so left before the sweltering heat gave way to a cooling breeze. He would miss the evening meal again tonight, but he would rather use the twilight to work. The sooner he completed the dwelling, the sooner he could enjoy blissful silence.
An orange calico caught his eye—gave him a grin—or so it seemed—and then darted away. Gavin stood, swiping his forearm across his temple, screwing his face at the animal, when suddenly a gust of wind cast dust into his eyes and he yelped in surprise.
“Gaddamn bluidy hell!” he cursed, dropping the flagon and rubbing his fingers into his closed lids.
“Ye’ll not earn any favors with that foul tongue!” a female voice declared, not far away.
Gavin hurriedly wiped the dirt from his eyes and reopened them.
He spotted the woman standing where the calico had been and he blinked at the sight of her.
His tongue tied.
He had never seen the lass before in all his days, and he knew damned well near everybody in these parts. Where she had come from was anybody’s guess, but she sure as hell didn’t look like anyone he had ever encountered. She was petite, stood no taller than his chest and her hair was red as fire, her eyes as green as the purest emeralds.
And she was painted.
And naked.
It was the naked part that got his tongue.
Seeming as though she had nary a care in the world, she came forward, unfazed by her lack of dress. Her hands went to those luscious hips. “What are ye doing?” she demanded, as though she had a right to know.
Gavin narrowed his eyes at her, his hands going to his own hips, unaccustomed to being held to task by strange naked women. “And what right have you to ask?”
She gave him a look that was full of indignation, never cowering from his gaze. “By the right of MacAlpin!”
Crazy wench.
Who went about minding the affairs of others invoking the name of dead kings?
Gavin averted his gaze, unable to keep his eyes above her shoulders. Though painted with beautiful blue markings, her breasts were bare nevertheless. “Are ye lost, perchance?”
“Nay,” she countered, “Though seems to me you are!”
“Nay, lass, I know these lands like I know the back of my hands.”
“Not so well as that, I think!” She stomped her foot gently, causing her breasts to jiggle a little and Gavin realized that he was staring yet again.
She pointed to her painted breasts—the very place he was trying so hard to keep his eyes away from. “Even I know hallowed land when I see it! Are ye not afeared of invoking spirits?”
Och, but Gavin couldn’t think straight while she stood there looking like that, and her nearness was making him woozy. She continued to scowl at him, and Gavin had no idea how bloody long he held his breath until he found himself suddenly with a gob full of dirt.
CHAPTER 2
He’d fainted.
Like a pasty-faced milksop.
What would his brothers say?
With a groan of surprise, Gavin blinked at the pair of willowy legs in front of his face. Dazed, he followed the lithe line of her limbs up to the vee in her torso, and then groaned again and quickly looked past the fiery curls to the face that stared down at him with unrepressed curiosity. Her arms were folded across her breasts, concealing them for the moment. “I ha’e never seen a mon do that,” she remarked.
“Och, me either,” Gavin confessed. “You must’ve hexed me, woman!” Muttering an oath, he lifted himself to a seated position, afraid to look up again for fear of seeing her bits.
She tapped her foot. “It’d serve ye right to call up the wrath of the dead.” Her voice was full of ire. “Are ye accusing me of witchery?”
“Aye!” he said petulantly as he was certain she was, indeed, a witch, even though he didn’t believe in magik. Nay, but her brand of witchery was purely feminine, and he found himself as hard as the stones he had used to erect his house. Shifting, he hid his erection from her prying eyes, taking another circumspect look at her.
For all that she stood in the flesh—literally—she looked like the ghost of their ancestors. Had he somehow summoned her? But nay. His brain was addled still. He did not believe in the supernatural.
She stooped to inspect him, and he leapt up and away, taken aback by the unexpected intimacy—not to mention her seeming disregard for her continued nudity. If he needed proof that warm blood coursed through her veins, he got it then for he’d felt the heat of her body acutely.
“Och, dinna ye have any shame, lass?”
She looked nonplussed. Her brows collided. “Shame?”
He waved at her, indicating her nude body. “You’re no’ wearing any clothes!” he said, pointing out what anybody with two good eyes could plainly see.
“So I’m not,” she allowed and sounded entirely bemused by his observation. Her delicate brows arched. “Does it disturb you?”
Without stopping to think about it, Gavin removed his tunic, desperate to see her clothed. “Aye! It does!” he confessed and tossed the garment at her feet. “Please, for the love of Christ, put that on!”
As a courtesy—not that he hadn’t already seen nearly every lovely inch of her—he looked away to give her privacy while she dressed, and in his peripheral, while he fixed his gaze upon his own feet, he saw that she shrugged and bent to pick up the green tunic. “Very well,” she relented.
“Where are your clothes?”
“Why do ye care?” she countered, lifting her arms and the tunic over her head.
Gavin’s gaze returned helplessly to the swell of her bosom as she shimmied into the English styled tunic that likely still held his warmth. Her slim hips wiggled as she pulled it down over that shapely body... that perfectly slender waist... those hips meant to birth a man’s bairns.
He swallowed, hard, growing dizzy yet again.
Och, God, but what was wrong with him?
Was he no better than his lecherous Da?
Now that Colin was duly wed, it seemed their father’s curse had infected Gavin. He suddenly craved her body like a drogue.
Gavin reminded himself to breathe.
“I’m dressed,” she said.
Like he didn’t know. In spite of his best intentions, he was aware of every move she made.
“Where d’ ye hail from, lass?” he asked her.
She smiled a wily smile, and her green eyes seemed a little greener in contrast with the green of his tunic. His eyes were green as well, but not so bright as hers. “Aboot,” she said. “My folk ha’e been aboot.”
Gavin frowned at her cryptic response.
Maybe she was poor and ashamed of her circumstances. Seana had survived out here in these woodlands, practically alone, for most of her life, without ever asking for help. She had cared for her ailing Da with no one the wiser. “What about your Da?” he asked, as she smoothed his tunic down over her hips, and lifted the hem to admire the embroidery his sister had stitched into it. A little bit higher and he would glimpse those fiery curls again.
“I don’t know my Da,” she admitted, still inspecting the needlework.
“And your minny?”
She shook her head as she looked at him, hardly seeming disturbed by the revelation.
Gavin inspected her more closely. God’s breath, but everybody had a mother and father! What would she have him believe? That she had simply materialized out
here? “What about brothers? Sisters? Cousins?”
She nodded then. “Oh, yes! Quite a few of those,” she revealed, grinning winsomely. “But in a way, aren’t we are all brothers and sisters?”
Gavin shook his head, rejecting the notion to the core of his soul. Christ, but the thoughts that were cavorting through his brain right now weren’t the least bit familial—at least not at all the sort of thoughts a brother entertained about a sister—certainly nothing he’d ever contemplated about dearest Meggie.
The shadows in the forest lengthened with the growing twilight, and with them so did the number of blinking yellow cat eyes. Above them, the sky was the color of a ripe peach and the meadow painted lavender with blooming heather. A flock of blackbirds scattered from the trees and the wind blew softly, tousling her hair.
Gavin resisted the urge to cross himself as he stared at her face. With the gloaming her skin was so pure it appeared almost translucent. Her green eyes seemed alight with an inner brilliance. Her hair seemed to flow with the grace of a flame—all his imagination, he realized, because clearly she was flesh and blood standing right before him.
He sighed. “I canna help ye if ye willna allow it,” he reasoned.
A canny smile crept into her eyes, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking, and that in truth it had nothing to do with helping her find her way home. “Not every woman is a damsel in distress,” she enlightened him. “I can take care of myself quite well enough, but thank you.”
Apparently, not well enough to keep track of her clothes, Gavin thought, but he held his tongue. In truth, nothing about this woman bespoke distress—if anything, she was distressing him!
Highland Song Page 1