Her Highland Master (The Dungeon Fantasy Club Book 1)

by Anya Summers

  Her Highland Master

  The Dungeon Fantasy Club, Book One

  By

  Anya Summers

  ©2016 by Blushing Books® and Anya Summers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

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  Summers, Anya

  Her Highland Master: The Dungeon Fantasy Club, Book One

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-548-0

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the Author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Ebook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  About Blushing Books

  Chapter One

  Nothing like taking a wrong turn to ruin a perfectly good vacation.

  It seemed to sum up the story of her life. Everything was moving along, full steam ahead, and then—whammy—plowed straight into an iceberg, only to sink faster than the Titanic. Who was she kidding? Zoey didn't even know who she was anymore. She had believed at one point that she had her life all figured out and, if she stuck with her grand master plan, then it would all work out.

  Apparently, the rest of her life hadn't received the memo.

  Go on a solo trip to Scotland, they had said. It will clear your mind and help you figure out your next step, they had said. Forget all about the backstabbing little braggart and take a much needed vacation from your life. Have fun in the one place you have always wanted to visit, they had said.

  Her best friend, Lucy, and sister, Ophelia, had convinced Zoey that what she needed more than submitting her resume to every agency in LA was to get out of Dodge until the dust from her imploded life had settled. Travel to the Highlands of Scotland in October and stay a week. Use her life savings to have that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to experience another culture. That bright, sparking idea, which had appeared after three bottles of wine and enough chocolate to feed a small country, had careened her off the edge of civilization; of that she was certain. One little wrong turn and now she was so twisted around, she could be driving into the sea and not know it. Her hands were fixed on the wheel and they had started to spasm from holding it in a death grip as she attempted to keep the tiny, compact car on the narrow Highland road.

  Snow billowed in great plumes of white as the wind rattled the rental car. The heater sputtered, barely keeping the windows ice-free. The sky was angry as it pounded snow, sleet, and wind down upon her. She could barely see ten feet beyond the hood in the near white-out conditions. Not only was Zoey driving on the left side of the road, which her mind screamed was incorrect, but she was in a foreign country, alone, and in one of the worst blizzards she had ever encountered. A Los Angeles native, Zoey was more familiar with smog, traffic, and triple digit heat waves than snow and ice. The road, if one could call the small, rutted pavement slick with half a foot of white stuff a road, was treacherous. Granted, in LA they did have rain, and mudslides, and earthquakes upon occasion—the thought of which instantly made her homesick.

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  When Ophelia and Lucy had helped her purchase her she-didn't-know-who-she-was-anymore, my-life-just-imploded, all-expenses-paid trip to Scotland, it had never once occurred to Zoey, who navigated the shark-infested waters of business with a skill few ever achieved—at least until the smarmy Mark had gotten her fired—that she would have any difficulty finding her way around the small country.

  The correct turn would have taken her to the Thistle Bed & Breakfast, a five star bed and breakfast nestled near the banks of Loch Mullardoch, in the hills adjacent to Glen Affric. Her plan had been to spend a week walking the glens and meadows, taking small day trips to some of the nearby historical sites. Simple. Easy. A time to allow her brain and body to relax and recover from all the toxic stress. Except the blasted road had split in three different directions, all with the same name, of course, because we wouldn't want to make life easier
for the tourists. So with a whispered prayer, Zoey had taken the street on the left, determined to make her life different. That had been two hours ago. The storm had struck thirty minutes after she'd made that fateful turn. It had moved in so fast and furiously that she had no idea whether she was headed in the right direction or not as she plowed ahead.

  The path climbed. The little blue car fishtailed up the side of the mountain. Zoey prayed she would make it out of this one. How had her life come to this? No job, or potential of any type of employment in her chosen field, no relationship to speak of—she hadn't even had sex with anything that wasn't battery-powered in at least two years—and now she found herself driving in Scotland during a freak blizzard over slick roads, with nowhere to go but up. She couldn't see enough to even attempt to turn the car around. The lane narrowed even further as she drove over a crest as it seemed to be carved into the mountain. Giant, dark gray monoliths crowded the terrain.

  The wind blew snow in gusting winds, clearing just enough so she could discern the faint outline of a manor house, golden light from a window which was quickly blotted out. She drove toward the tiny beacon, a lifeline in the insanity that her life had become. The closer she got to the house, the more emerged from the snowy outlines. A stone wall encircled the premises, with a black gate made of what she assumed was iron. Since most of these places had been built well before there was a mega-hardware store in every town, a place like the manor up ahead had been built to last.

  Fifty feet from the iron gate, the tiny blue rental car's tires hit a patch of ice. Zoey lost control of the vehicle as it slid sideways. It slammed into a cluster of boulders on the hillside, and slid into a ditch. The car landed lopsided, nose-down. Her head thwacked against the door as it jolted to a halt.

  Owww.

  She gingerly touched her left temple, felt a robin's egg beginning to bloom. She tested the rest of her limbs and, other than a few sore muscles, everything moved like it should.

  It was as if Zoey had some type of celestial bullseye strapped to her chest. She would have liked to know what deity she had pissed off so she could apologize. Rubbing her head, she was thankful that the seatbelt hadn't broken or she would be in an even worse state. She unclasped the buckle.

  Shit.

  Grabbing her phone, she attempted to dial for help. What the hell was the emergency code in Scotland, anyway? The useless piece of equipment beeped. No signal. Figures.

  Okay, she needed a new plan. If she couldn't call for aid, she'd have to leave the security the car provided and hope that the light she'd spied at the manor would be her salvation.

  First task, leave the car. Second, find help. Third, fix her life. Fourth, get laid.

  Zoey always did better with action plans and lists. It was what had made her excel in her now-defunct career.

  She gripped the handle and pushed. The car door didn't budge. Fighting the rising panic, she shoved against the car door with all her might. Stuck in a car in the Scottish Highlands, while a blizzard raged about, and with no way to call for help, she'd die of hypothermia. Anxiety speared her system, she fought the rising tide as it ebbed and flowed, her breath coming in short, sharp pants, like daggers in her chest. She hadn't had a full blown attack in years.

  Think; what was the next step?

  The only way around her panic attacks was action. She had worked out a system with a therapist a few years back. She needed to find a way out of the car. If her driver side door wouldn't open, she had to try the passenger side door. Her heart practically beat its own tune outside her chest. Zoey squeezed herself over the center console and tested the passenger side door, breathing a sigh of relief as it opened. The door's momentum stopped after she'd cracked it open about an inch. One of those giant rocks was nudged against the exterior passenger side, keeping her prisoner.

  Her blood pressure spiked, her heart hammered against her ribcage.

  It seemed, as she surveyed the car, working to quell her unease as it settled like a lump in her belly, that her only way out was through the hatchback trunk. So be it. She couldn't stay here and wait for help. She'd die if she did that, and she couldn't leave Ophelia. Her sister needed her to get her act together too badly. She could only imagine the scene, Ophelia receiving news of her demise, far too similar to their parents.

  Resolved to ignore the fear as it gnawed at her chest, Zoey moved into action. Grabbing her purse, she slid her phone in her back jeans pocket, and studied the best way to shimmy up and out of the car. Turning off the ignition, she stored the keys in her purse, and began climbing. The car was angled forty-five degrees or so at an incline, so she used the seats to help position her body and used them as a foothold as she scrambled up and over first the front seats, then the smaller back seat until she was squished up against the trunk window, grappling for space with her suitcase. She levered herself up with the skill of a contortionist as she gripped the back latch and forced it open.

  Zoey sucked in a breath as a blast of frigid, snow-filled air billowed into the car. Pulling herself up and out of the car, she huffed. She pulled on the handle of her suitcase, and almost tumbled from her precarious perch. Dammit, she'd have to come back for her luggage. At this angle, her forty-five pound mega suitcase, filled with all of her travel essentials, would have to stay here. She could only hope that it survived the snowstorm, because there was no way she could heft it up and not do herself some serious damage. What good would it do her if she yanked it out of the trunk only to slip, fall, and get a concussion or worse? And once she jumped, there would be no way for her to close the hatchback.

  Pulling herself up and over the door, she took a deep breath and let go.

  The snow coating the road turned the ground into a slick, slushy puddled mess that most sane individuals would never attempt to land on. The moment she touched down, her feet slid out from under her. Gravity took care of the rest and she landed on her rear with a thwump.

  Could this day really get any worse? She knew even thinking that was akin to the kiss of doom and practically begging the universe for more calamity. Snow blanketed her black pea coat. It soaked the pretty blue hat that she'd purchased at her favorite shop on the Magnolia strip in Burbank. White slush covered her jeans, wetness seeped in, freezing her lower extremities, and buried her black boots. She was a mess. Between the wind and the wet snow, every part of her body was chilled to the bone by the time she stood next to her rental car, rubbing her throbbing tailbone. The car was a disaster. The trunk door was propped open, waving in the wind, allowing all the snow inside. Her luggage would be ruined. Not to mention that she could kiss her deposit on the rental goodbye. Even the extra insurance she'd purchased might not cover all the damage she was sure there would be.

  She glanced at the furious sky, certain she would find some mythical fairy, or god who had made her a target for destruction. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

  After trying to get a signal on her phone again for a few of the longest and coldest minutes of her life, Zoey tossed the useless piece of equipment into an outside pocket in her purse. She strode further onto the winding road, looking up at the manor home. Surely someone would be there, and would let her use a phone to call a tow truck. Maybe let her wait by a warm fireplace with a hot cup of tea. The thought of anything hot and warm made her groan. She wanted that tea, dammit.

  Trudging through the snow, she hastened as fast as her feet would carry her. If it weren't for all the snow and ice on the slick roads, deepening by the minute, she would have run. As it was, her all-weather boots were not living up to their name as she wiped out for a third time in the snow. Snow had leaked under her coat, her hat and hair were a sopping mess, and she could no longer feel her thighs.

  Her teeth were chattering by the time she stumbled through the—thankfully—open black gate to the manor. Beyond the gate entrance, the small road opened to a circular drive with a stone fountain in the center. She strode around it, awed by the manor up close, which looked more like an estate re
ally. Ashen stone walls towered three stories up, with gilded windows and turrets. It was a place straight out of a storybook fantasy. Well, except for the hellish storm. That she could do without, she thought, as another gust of frigid air blasted her senses and her body went numb. She shuffled around the courtyard faster, hurrying for what had to be the front door. This place made her think of dashing lords, heroic men in kilts à la Robert the Bruce, and she could easily envision a celebrity or a titled lord emerging from the front door.

  The first traces of apprehension swept over her now that she stood near hopeful salvation. The door was a heavy scrolled oak number, with a huge brass knocker in the form of a crest with three stars on a shield, and above it a knight's helm with a stag's head, which her befuddled brain didn't recognize.

  Holding the image of that roaring fire and hot tea in her mind, she alighted the dark stone stairs. She seized the brass knocker, her fingers all but frozen inside her gloves, and knocked on the heavy door. After a few minutes with no response, Zoey started banging incessantly against the wood using both her fist and the knocker.

  "Hello," she cried, as the wind kicked up and swept the sound from her. Not that anyone heard her as the wind howled with a ferocity that made her wonder if it would pick her up and sweep her to Oz. When no one answered as she stood there shivering, searching for a doorbell, colder than she had ever been in her life, she grew impatient, frustrated that the dreamt about hospitality wasn't forthcoming. She finally spied a doorbell, coated with snow. Her body trembled so fiercely that her arm shook as she pressed the bell, and then she did something she normally would never do. She tried the door handle and when it turned with an audible groan, she opened the door to another person's home and stepped inside. Closing the door behind her, she whimpered.