Alec: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 4)

by Lily Baldwin

  She had never felt the strength of a man’s hands on her skin. Nor had she ever known the tenderness of a kiss. Her breathing quickened. Her body felt like it was swelling, preparing to burst, and she liked it. She pressed herself closer and felt the crushing strength of his muscles as her fingers explored his form. Her hands swept down his powerful arms, sliding over muscled ridges. And then they traveled down past his lean waist to stroke the length of his hard thigh, but instead of smooth, wet skin, her fingers touched something cold and sharp.

  Her eyes snapped open, and her senses returned with a strength that would have knocked her over had it not been for the water and the support of his caressing hands.

  Mother of all, what spell was this?

  He was even more dangerous than she first imagined, for he could control her thoughts and her body. She had to break away from his embrace. Her hand returned to his thigh, only this time she had no intention of stroking his skin. She seized his dirk from its sheath and with a practiced hand she thrust the pointed end of the blade beneath his chin. She smiled ruefully at the small droplet of blood that appeared beneath the dagger’s point.

  “You keep your blade sharp. I thank you for this kindness.”

  Highland Thunder (Book 2)

  Isle of Mull, Scotland 1296

  A STORM IS COMING...

  Although she faces tragic loss, Brenna will never succumb to grief or fear, nor will she surrender to the one man she despises--the very man who now has the power to control her destiny. Like the storms that rage unchecked over the moors, her fury is about to be unleashed.

  A HIDDEN LOVE...

  He does not look at her or speak to her, and most importantly, he does not touch her. These are the rules Duncan set for himself long ago to ensure his affection for his best friend's wife remained undetected. But under the weight of a land besieged by war, the walls he erected to shield his heart crumble.

  If he can earn her trust, the one woman he has always loved may at last be his. But first he must save what he cherishes most from a nightmare of dark secrets.

  To Love a Warrior (Book 3)

  Destinies unfold. Secrets are revealed. The Isle of Mull will be forever changed.

  Half Highlander, half Viking, Garik MacKinnon was not born on the Scottish Isle of Mull, but fostered there in his youth. Now, he leaves behind his home, once more bound for Mull, to join the MacKinnon warriors as they answer Robert the Bruce’s call to arms. He is ready for battle, eager to fight for Scotland’s freedom. What he is not prepared for is his encounter with Nellore, a shield maiden from Mull, whose allure defies all reason.

  Nellore has the strength and skill of a warrior but the heart of a woman. When the men are called away to war Nellore must aid those left behind to safeguard their village against attacks from the MacLeans — a feuding clan to the south. She understands her duty to her clan. She is ready to take up arms against the enemy if need be. What she is not ready for is the ache that fills her heart when war pulls Garik from her side.

  Desire ignites and battles are waged as both Nellore and Garik learn what it means to love a warrior.

  Audio Books:

  To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull Series, Book 1)

  Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series, Book 2)

  To Love a Warrior (Isle of Mull Series, Book 3)

  Flights of Love Series

  A Jewel in the Vaults (Flights of Love Series, Book 1)

  She has never met a man like him before. Then again, he has never met a lad like her.

  In 1802, Edinburgh’s poverty-ridden Old Town is rife with danger, but it is the only home Robbie MacKenzie has ever known. To safeguard herself against the worst villains of the street, Robbie conceals her femininity behind her shorn hair, dirt-smeared face, and tattered breeches. To all the world she is a lad, but beneath the ruse is a woman aching to break free.

  Leaving his beloved Highlands behind in pursuit of his prodigal brother, Conall MacKay journeys to Edinburgh. There, he solicits the aid of a young street lad named Robbie. But Conall soon realizes that there is more to both Robbie and Edinburgh’s Old Town than meets the eye.

  In a world where wickedness governs and darkness reigns, a savage struggle for dignity, survival, and love begins.

  Excerpt:

  “Hell is empty and all the devils are here.” ~ William Shakespeare, The Tempest

  Prologue

  Paris, France

  June 1782

  “Au revoir, salut,” Claudine Doucet said to her fellow actors as she exited the stage and made her way to the back entrance of the Théâtre du Marcais. Her farewell was met with disapproval as the revelers on stage pleaded with her to stay.

  “Ma chérie, tonight was your night. All of Paris drinks to you. Why must you leave? It is not yet morning,” Luc said, peering around the curtain. She hated to disappoint everyone, especially Luc who was the first friend she had made upon her arrival alone in Paris three years before.

  “I am tired, Luc. I wish to stay, but I must rest,” Claudine said as she pressed a kiss to his cheek and bid him goodnight once more.

  She flung open the door and felt the rush of night air on her neck as she stepped onto the Rue de Tourigny. An irrepressible noise akin to a squeal escaped her lips as she flung her neck back and stretched her arms toward the diamond-studded sky. Decorum and the bone stays compressing her torso restricted her display of excitement, but despite outer appearances, waves of exhilaration coursed through her, chasing away her fatigue.

  She had been born the daughter of a clerk in a small provincial town. Three years ago, on the eve of her fifteenth birthday, her father had knelt on the ground near her mattress and brushed a wayward lock of golden hair from her face. He had said God did not make such a beauty as she to remain cloistered among the trees and fields.

  “Mon enfant,” he had said, his eyes wet with tears. “You must go and make your way in this world, for there is nothing here for you. Let Paris witness your beauty. Fall in love. You are fated for happiness — this I do not doubt, mon bijou.” My jewel.

  How she wished her papa could have been in the audience that night. She closed her eyes against the ache which pushed to the fore of her emotions. She had been in Paris not even a month when she received word of his death.

  “Merci, Papa,” she whispered as silent tears coursed down her cheeks. The glory of the evening returned to her, and she relived her debut performance in her mind. When the curtain fell after the final call, she had sunk to her knees and sobbed while applause still thundered from the audience. She had swum in a sea of flowers cast by admirers upon the stage. The dreams of youth had become her reality, and this realization made her heart quake.

  She scanned the narrow cobbled streets rife with pedestrians and carriages. It was the strange hour where night and morning collide. Some of the passersby were dragging their tired bodies home after a long night of work. Others, more fortunate souls, were clad as she in fine silks, and were returning home after an evening spent enjoying the pleasures and excesses permitted their station in life. For many, their day had just begun as they tarried with wagons and baskets of goods or were rushing to take up their places in one of the factories. She glimpsed some rag pickers going through the streets looking for scraps of metal, glass, fabric — anything that might fetch a price. Greasy bags hung from their shoulders. They were frail, and hunger flooded their eyes with desperate yearning. She grimaced as she turned away, muttering a prayer of gratitude for her blessings. Her hands smoothed her sapphire blue silk gown over her ruffled petticoat before she stepped toward the coach that waited to bring her to her apartment.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”

  Claudine whirled around to see a tall man step from the shadows into the soft light of the street lamp. His dark eyes, filled with soft warmth, instantly entreated her trust. She felt at ease despite his being a stranger.

  “Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle, but do you speak English?” he asked. His deep voice surrounded her.
She puzzled over his accent.

  “Oui, Monsieur. A little. But you do not sound English.”

  “And for a very good reason. I am Scottish, lass, and you are lovely,” he said before taking her hand. Then he pulled her yellow glove down, sliding the silk off her fingers. His lips grazed her palm, sending currents of warmth drifting through her body.

  Bowing over her hand, he said, “My name is Lord Nicholas MacKenzie.” He glanced up at her. “You were magnificent tonight,” he whispered.

  Lord Nicholas MacKenzie was tall and grand, dressed impeccably in a rich velvet coat fitted to his broad shoulders, but it was not his fine attire or obvious wealth that led Claudine to accept his offered arm. His eyes laid his soul bare to her, and she lost herself to the possibility of love she glimpsed in their sterling depths.

  Night began its slow retreat while Claudine and Nicholas walked along the river Seine. From Pont Neuf they welcomed the new dawn. The cobbles glimmered as the dusky shades of light caught the fine mist, which bathed the roads and bridges.

  In the weeks that followed, it became their practice. Nicholas would wait for Claudine every night by the theater’s back entrance, and they would stroll the cobbled streets of Paris until the sun rose and the need for sleep could no longer be denied. With words of love on his lips, it was not long before Claudine welcomed Nicholas into her bed, and from that moment on, she belonged to him.

  ~ * ~

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  February 1784

  “Please, I need a bed. S'il vous plaît, Madame. I am with child, and my time draws near. Please, take pity on us,” Claudine said, cradling her round belly. “I do not ask for charity. I can pay.” The owner of the common lodging-house, Molly, who was a handsome woman with red hair piled on top of her head, seemed to consider the coin in Claudine’s outstretched palm.

  “Please, Madame,” Claudine said. A knot comprised of dread and hope filled her throat as she looked up at the woman who with a simple aye or nay could decide the future of Claudine and her unborn child.

  “Nay, lass. I cannae let ye in and ye ken why. The lady whose husband gave ye that babe has forbidden it. Lady MacKenzie is a right bitch. I will not invite her vengeance. Not even for a sweet lass like yourself. Find your way home, Claudine Doucet. Ye will not find a bed in Edinburgh, nor will ye find any honest work,” Molly said. “In a few years, when the haughty cow has forgotten all about ye, then I will give ye a bed.”

  Despair drained the last hope from her soul as Molly slowly eased the door shut. The wind picked up, whistling down the alley. Her arms encircled her swollen stomach, shielding her baby from the fierce cold. Black soot covered the stone buildings that lined the narrow street on both sides, making the night appear even darker. Only a strip of starless sky could she see above the rooftops that were six and seven stories high. If she could climb to stand above the filth of the surrounding slums, could she reach her arms toward heaven? And if she could, would the good Lord above save her, or would he, too, fear the wrath of Lady Eleanor MacKenzie?

  Snow appeared in the air, drifting through the light of the one lamp that set aglow the far end of the street. She pulled her tattered shawl tighter about her shoulders and scrambled around the side of a nearby stairwell, seeking shelter from the snow, but as she peered beneath the stoop, a huddled mass of ragged children growled up at her, bearing their teeth like feral creatures.

  She turned and ran, fleeing the alley, wishing she could flee from the world. Tears choked her breath as she sobbed her misery to the sky. There was no more hope; she had sinned too grievously. She had been foolish to try to possess that which could never be hers. Upon their arrival in Edinburgh, Nicholas had confessed that he was, indeed, a married man. She should have turned away from him then and there. She should have cursed his lies, his promises, but love had bidden her stay by his side.

  Now, she raced down the street, slipping and stumbling upon the snowy cobbles. She turned onto Cowgate, a street that three months ago she would not have dared to walk down, even in the light of day. The crowded street forced her to slow her pace. She eyed the women she passed with their torn, faded gowns, their dirt-smeared faces, and hungry eyes. And then she froze and looked down at her roughened fingers and the greasy sway of her own threadbare skirt in the icy breeze. She gaped at the surrounding despair and realized the slums mirrored her own pain, her own unhappy end.

  When the Lady MacKenzie had discovered her husband’s affair, she had forced Nicholas to cast her aside, but it had not ended there. His wife had not been satisfied until she had brought about the ruination of Claudine Doucet. Lady Eleanor had ensured Claudine was barred from every theater. She could not even find work as a seamstress. No inn or lodging house would take her. She was nothing now but one of countless souls who passed each night wondering if they would have to face the dawn or if hunger or cold would at last bring them peace.

  “Aren’t ye a pretty bit of skirt,” an old woman said as she shuffled toward Claudine. Claudine eyed the woman warily. Her stooped shoulders were covered with the remnants of a ragged jacket. Creases lined her face, but her eyes were sharp and unwavering.

  “Ye need a bed, love?” the woman asked.

  Claudine nodded and dropped the last of her coin in the woman’s outstretched hand. Then Claudine followed her inside a nearby door, which opened to a stairway that descended into darkness. The old woman clasped tightly to Claudine’s fingers, leading her through unknown spaces devoid of light.

  “Where do you take me?” Claudine asked, though she feared the answer.

  “These are the vaults, dearie, tunnels and chambers built into the bridges. ‘Tis dark and foul, but the snow cannae reach ye down here.”

  Claudine felt the crushing weight of the city above. Thick, fetid air surrounded them, consuming what little joy she still possessed.

  “Here, lass,” the old woman said as she pulled Claudine into a cramped space. Claudine felt what her eyes could not see. It appeared to be a shelf with just enough room to lie down. “Ye shall rest here, and let ol’ Peggy care for ye.”

  Claudine surrendered to Peggy’s comfort and laid down upon her stone bed. Steeped in darkness, she fell asleep to the moans and wails of others who slept entombed beneath the city.

  That night, she dreamt of glittering light and lilting laughter, softness and perfumed breezes. She felt full and content, swathed in silk with the taste of champagne on her tongue. But then a stirring in her abdomen pulled her from the sweetness of her dreams.

  “Mon Dieu,” she cried as her womb cramped and pain shot through her back.

  Sweat dampened her brow. It seemed the walls were closing in on her, smothering her breath.

  “There, there, lass,” Peggy said, suddenly at her side. “Do not panic. ‘Twill be done soon.”

  “Non, non,” Claudine screamed. “Please, I cannot give birth to my child down here in this hell.”

  “Hush now, lass. Save your strength. It makes little difference whether your child draws its first breath here or up on the streets. Either way the air is foul.”

  Claudine gripped her abdomen as another pain twisted inside of her. “Either way my baby is damned,” she whispered. “Just as I am damned.”

  Hours of toil passed when at last her baby’s first cry echoed through the tunnels.

  “She is strong,” Peggy said. “Listen to her cry.”

  Claudine strained in the darkness to see the face of her newborn babe, but she could not. “Oui, he is a strong boy,” Claudine cooed as she pressed kisses to her baby’s cheeks.

  “Nay, Claudine. ‘Tis a lass. Feel for yourself. Ye have a daughter,” Peggy said.

  “Listen to me, Peggy. Had I a daughter I would show her the mercy God has refused me, and I would slit her throat right here and end her suffering. The slums would feast on her and make her a whore before her body even had time to ripen. This child is a boy. Do you understand, Peggy? His name is Robbie, Robbie MacKenzie. And he will rise from this hell.” Sh
e held her child to her bosom, and whispered, “Robbie, you must fight. Fight to breathe. Fight to live. You are fated for happiness — this I do not doubt, mon bijou.” My jewel.

  Beautiful Darkness Series

  Highland Shadows (Beautiful Darkness Series, Book 1)

  She is the beauty and the beast, and only he can soothe her...

  In Alexander MacKenzie’s youth, his clan prospered. Until one night fire and death descended, and all that was good and green fled the ensuing darkness, leaving the MacKenzie clan impoverished, and Alex's face severely scarred.

  Known as the Mad Maid of Clan Ross, Cora has been imprisoned within her father's keep for a decade, but not against her will — she is her own warden. Cora locked herself away to protect those she loves from what she has become. Within the shadows that blanket their land lurk vampires and wolves. They know Cora’s savage secret and have laid claim to her body. But the fight for her soul has only just begun, and only Alex’s love can save her.

  Excerpt:

  She closed her eyes and inhaled Alex’s scent. Eager to see him, she started to pull the fabric over her head, but then she stopped. A smile curved her lips.

  Dare she?

  Her body still burned with the power of the wolf and the thrill of the night.

  Grasping her kirtle in one hand, she mounted the stairs. Her hips took on a sultry swing. She would be true to herself with the one man she knew would accept her. When she reached the narrow door she pushed it open.

  Her eyes flitted to the warm fire that blazed in the hearth, then to the open window, and then to the man who was sitting up in bed, staring at her.

  “Please God, tell me I’m not dreaming,” Alex said, his voice low and husky.

  A wicked smile curved her lips as she tossed her kirtle aside.