by Sky Winters
“He’s so handsome!” she cooed, softly touching his cheek. “What is his name?”
“We don’t know yet. Do you want to help name him?”
“Yes!” C.J. said proudly.
“What should we name him?” Buck asked.
“Christopher,” C.J. replied.
“You don’t think that’s a bit too much like Christina?”
“No,” she replied, folding her arms over one another stubbornly.
“How about Carter James? Then he’ll be a C.J. just like you.”
“Okay, Daddy!” she beamed, accepting the substitution.
It was only the beginning of a long journey together. Less than a week later, while Lorna was still recovering, they got word that the screenplay she and Buck had written together was already gaining speed in Hollywood. Not only was Dallas Dalton not involved, but he had been blacklisted from everything after Buck’s associates had called him out for his antics with female creatives and some of them had come forward in suits against him. Lorna had decided that she would not be joining them, but would give them her full support and testimony about her own experience.
Perhaps she should do more, but she had a new baby and a little girl to raise. She was unwilling to let Dallas Dalton cast any shadows over her now happy life and she certainly didn’t need his money. Per their agreement, Buck had placed her fee in her bank account so that she was somewhat wealthy in her own right and with the movie in motion, she might be even richer soon.
What more could a woman ask for? Nothing was her answer.
The End.
Highland Shifters Bonus
Book 1: Time of the Werebears
Chapter 1
“And to the left you'll see a portrait of Lord Lachlan, who ruled with an iron fist. He had a deep intolerance for Highland rebels and pushed for their total annihilation. In the display case to your right is his sword, which shed the blood of countless Highland men, women, and even children, though some were taken in to be re-cultured in the ways of the crown.”
Studying the blade sent a shiver down Sadie McNeil's spine. She was enjoying the tour of her family's castle, and although her heritage trip had just begun, she couldn't wait to see what might happen next. She hoped to learn about her distant family's history as much as possible. The guide spoke on about Lord Lachlan, painting a vivid image of the tyrant in her mind. She could imagine the man's stern face in battle, his eyes narrow and ready to spill the blood of anybody who dared defy him. A series of his portraits lined the walls, and by the time they reached the end of the hallway, she was sure she wouldn't have liked him.
Suddenly, she thought she heard somebody yelling her name. A faraway echo made her turn, her heart thudding rapidly. Where had it come from? Nobody here knew her; she had traveled alone. She looked around the group; nobody else seemed to have heard it.
“Sadie!” it called again. She heard it clearly this time, a man's voice; urgent and afraid. She broke away from the group, following the sound of her name. Everybody else was engrossed in Lord Lachlan's sword. She looked around for the man who seemed to know who she was. She walked slowly, staying close to the wall where the paintings hung proudly in a line. Suddenly, the man's voice seemed to be right in her ear, an intimate breathiness that brought a shiver down her spine. She turned to her right and, to her surprise, found herself gazing right into her own face. At first, she thought she had encountered a mirror, but quickly noted the frame, and the other people surrounding her. Somehow, her likeness had been captured in the middle of an ancient painting.
She backed away as if the portrait was on fire, clutching at her heart, and then stared again. That was her all right, right down to the mole on her left cheek, and the fiery red curls that she pulled back into a braid. But how could it be? Surely it was just some ancient ancestor. Still, the resemblance was uncanny. She wondered if her mother had ever noticed.
Sadie studied the painting more closely, holding back the urge to touch it. The woman, who looked identical to Sadie, was standing next to the fierce Lord Lachlan. The tour guide caught up with her and began telling of the painting's history.
“Here we see Lord Lachlan with his wife, just before the execution of a particularly meddlesome Highland rebel. You see, he is holding the sword from the display case. Lord Lachlan liked to dispose of the rebels himself, told his troops to keep them alive until he dealt with them personally.”
The group moved away from the painting, but Sadie stayed rooted in one spot. She was suddenly overpowered by an intense nausea, and she ran out of the room, desperate to get away from the image of the terrible man and her doppelganger, standing mournfully beside him.
She raced down the hallway, turning a corner and pausing to catch her breath. She had been seized by a momentary panic, but if she could just distract herself, maybe she would feel better. Her eyes wandered to the painting in front of her – a group of muscular men scowling and attacking three large bears head-on. The absurdity of the image made her burst out in laughter. The sound of her own voice comforted her, and she took a deep breath. It was reasonable to be uncomfortable; the painting in the other room probably didn't look like her. She had just been under a lot of stress with the divorce looming over her head. Most people wouldn't be holding up anywhere near as well as she was under the same circumstances. Her entire life had just been turned upside down.
She was filled with anger as memories of her soon-to-be ex-husband's infidelity penetrated her. She had trusted him more than she had trusted anybody. Maybe that was because he was a solid, reliable type, whose wandering eye had been carefully concealed behind his thick glasses and gentle smile. He hadn't been particularly exciting. In fact, the most her heart had raced for him was in the anger after discovering that he had been cheating on her with any woman who pitied him enough to sleep with him. He had made her out to be some sort of insufferable hag, never having time for him because she was so busy with her own career.
“You know those types of women,” he would have said to his conquests. Independent. The kinds of women who said they didn't want kids and meant it, or who made sure they had their own bank accounts to rely on. Terrible wives and mothers, the lot of them, according to common knowledge. He had been distressed when she asked him to wait to start a family until she was more settled into her career and held it over her head any chance she got. The most unfair part about it was that, yes, she did want kids. She just wanted to wait to feel more settled and fulfilled first. But he had taken it and ran as a reason to resent her. He certainly felt justified in destroying her trust and their marriage. Stupid Alfred. Good riddance to him anyway.
But she was in Scotland to forget about all of that. She wandered absently into the first doorway she saw. She peered into the dim room, realizing that it probably wasn't scheduled to be on any part of the tour. In fact, she was surprised the door wasn't locked. Inside, the haggard green curtains were drawn, letting only small streams of sunlight in to illuminate the old antiques strewn recklessly about, as if somebody had been rummaging through it, discarding what they didn't deem useful. Broken glass cracked under her feet as she peered onto tables and shelves, fingering old relics of the past that were within arm's reach, and not partitioned away from her through a glass box.
She saw an intriguing glimmer of gold, glinting tantalizingly from beneath a fallen stack of old musty papers. She pushed the papers gently away and lifted a primitive-looking necklace from the rickety wooden table. Her eyes roamed the intricate but simple designs carved into the gold. She looked around the room, making sure she was alone before draping the long chain over her delicate neck.
As soon as the pendant touched her breast, she crumpled to the ground, and the world went black.
Chapter 2
She was falling, swirling. She felt her body being lifted and contorted in ways she never imagined it could move. Alfred, the divorce, jetlag, a lifetime's worth of difficulties. She seemed to re-live it all within the darkness of the portal. By the t
ime it was done, she was filled with peace, but she was so exhausted that she felt herself being pulled into the depths of a powerful, rejuvenating sleep.
But that didn't last long. A loud, muffled call from the hallway roused her from her slumber, and she looked up with a start. Her eyes narrowed in confusion. She was in the same room, but everything was different. The curtains were no longer tattered; they were crisp and beautiful, letting in a cheerful ray of golden sunlight. None of the old antiques were scattered about. She recognized some of them, sitting in perfect condition, like new, on a handsomely carved shelf. She sat up in confusion, and her eyes widened. Hanging in front of her was an elegant wedding dress.
Before she could register what was happening, the door burst open and a woman's rosy face beamed up at her. She was wearing a white apron around her plump body and carrying a tray with a glass of water and a spool of thread on it.
“Well, go on, dear, try the dress on. We have a couple of mends left to do but you're going to be fine. Lord Lachlan doesn't like to be kept waiting. We must hurry. He's getting anxious to have you as his bride.”
“Lord Lachlan? But...”
“Come along, dear, you look absolutely beautiful in this dress.”
“That's not my dress!” she exclaimed, suddenly panicked. She had no idea what was going on, and her face must have betrayed her confusion, because the servant approached her and gave her arm a reassuring pat.
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked.
No, she wasn't feeling all right. How did she get here? What was happening? How could she possibly marry such a tyrant? Even if this was a terrible dream, she refused to be shackled to the horrible monster.
“I can't marry him,” she said, gripping the table beside her, suddenly unsteady.
“But you must!” the servant said, her bubbly face now contorting in fear. “You don't know what he will do to you if you refuse.”
“I don't care what he does to me, I have to get out of here right away!”
“Listen to me. You cannot run from Lord Lachlan. He is capable of great terror – if you run he will find you and kill you, track you like a dog, he will! And not just you, lass. He'll wage war on your family for generations, find them and kill them, too. Just stay put, dear, you're far better off being his wife than his enemy.”
“I don't see the difference,” Sadie said somberly.
How had she gotten here? She closed her eyes and brought her hand to her forehead. There had to be an explanation. She was a smart and reasonable woman. Somebody was probably playing a trick on her. Maybe her playful cousins had followed her to Ireland and decided to give her a heart attack – it would be just like them to think it would be what she needed to get out of her slump. She waited for them to come in and tell her everything was going to be okay, or hear the familiar cackling of pleased jokesters, but nothing happened.
The servant fretfully left the room, begging her to put the dress on and promising not to tell Lord Lachlan what she had said. She felt guilty for upsetting the woman so deeply, but there was nothing much to be done about it. Especially not if she was just an actor in her cousin's prank. She was left alone in the room, and she began rummaging around, looking for any explanation for what was happening to her. She opened a drawer, digging through it quickly. She hissed and pulled her slender hand out. A jewel-encased blade had sliced her finger, leaving a thin red line of blood.
She was staring thoughtfully at the dagger when the door to the room burst open, and in front of her stood the man from the paintings, in the flesh. Suddenly he was pressing into her from behind and cackling, his voice a lot coarser and his body a whole lot smellier than she imagined he would be. She pulled away from his embrace and he grinned. His dark eyes followed her, his pockmarked face sneering in satisfaction. He seemed to have her exactly where he wanted her.
“There's my lovely wife Sadie,” he said, moving uncomfortably close to her. “I see you haven't undressed yet. You must be needing some help with that.”
He put his meaty hand on her shoulder, letting his forearm brush against her breasts as he moved to unfasten her dress. If this was really one of her cousin's jokes, it had just stopped being funny.
“Best get to it, I won't be having my wife leave everybody waiting around while she drags her heels.”
He eyed her up and down, laughing as she pulled away. He was staring into her eyes now, the leer on his face nauseating and infuriating her.
“In fact, don't think I'd mind a sample taste right here and now. The priests won't know any different, will they? After all, you’re my own wife.”
He tried to push her down onto the bed, but Sadie broke free from his grasp and ducked into the drawer, pulling the dagger out. Lord Lachlan blanched and backed away from her. His beady eyes roamed from the serious expression on her face, down to the pendant resting on her breast, to the dagger in her trembling hand.
“What is this?” he asked, his face growing very red. “You're a traitor! Guards!”
Suddenly, there were two men gripping her by the wrists. The dagger fell from her hands and clattered to the stone floor of the castle, and she was pulled forcefully out of the room.
“See to it that she doesn't receive any food tonight!” Lord Lachlan raved from behind her. “She has made a mockery of me! And to think that I almost had her as a wife. A woman like that will never be wifely material! To the dungeon with her!”
He could have been quoting her ex-husband, and the blood boiled inside of her. She turned her fiery green eyes toward the man, craning her neck to get one last look at Lord Lachlan before the guards banished her down into the dungeon.
Chapter 3
The dungeon was dark and dank, like something Sadie had seen in a movie about medieval times. She was tossed onto the floor hard, with only a few threads of hay to cushion the blow. She sat up, rubbing her scraped elbows, suddenly realizing that there was no way this was a joke. Somehow, she would have to start believing that it was real. Whether she liked it or not, this was really happening to her, and she was just going to have to deal with that.
“Oh, company. Thanks, gentlemen,” a man's low, playful voice rang out from the opposite corner of the dungeon. “You all right, love?”
The man rose and walked slowly toward her, as if doing his best not to scare away a wild animal.
“I've gone through worse,” she said, though the words felt hollow. She wasn't sure if it was true, but she didn't want the stranger to think she was soft. He was still half hidden in the shadows, and it wasn't until he moved into the torchlight that she could make out his features.
Her first thought was that he was stunning – this was the kind of man you only saw on television or in calendars made for women with too much time on their hands. He was bare-chested, his rippling muscles marked with fading blue war paint, in a design that was familiar, but from where she couldn't recall. He was wearing a tartan kilt around his waist, revealing the muscular V-line leading to the forbidden area, barely concealed by the plaid cloth.
She let her eyes roam up to his face, which she couldn’t make out until he came much closer. He had long, curling sandy blond hair, sweeping down his broad back in wisps. His eyes were gentle and friendly, though she had the feeling that it wouldn't take much to reveal an animalistic instinct lying just beneath the surface. In the dark, it was hard to make out their color, but she had a feeling they were light, maybe blue, or an ocean green.
He offered his wide hand to her, engulfing her pale hand as he lifted her to her feet to face him.
“First time in a dungeon?” he asked casually. His voice lilted with a teasing Scottish accent. She had heard them all her life and never thought much of them, but the way this man formed his words brought the words to life with a lilt that nearly drove her off the edge. She hadn't known any man whose lips could make words sound so powerfully sexy.
“You could say that,” she replied, letting her hand drop from the warmth of his. She suddenly shivered. It was
cold in the dungeon.
“Here, take this,” the man said, turning away from her. He returned briefly to the corner where he had been lounging when she'd arrived and came back, holding a threadbare potato sack. “I’ve been using it to keep m'self warm, least I did when I first arrived. Used to the place now; the sorry old bugger is going to pay for this. Anyway, best you use it before you catch your death.”
He handed her the potato sack, cut at the seams into a makeshift blanket. She sat down in the corner of the room and shivered beneath it.
“Don't worry, lass. It'll be all right. My name's James. You look well smart; I'm sure we'll figure a way out of this together.”
His broad face brightened with a smile that made her heart thud in her chest. She'd never been paid any attention by a man of such impressive aesthetic beauty; there were none of that description in the small town where she grew up and lived out her life. She was sure he was an actor. A good one, but still, an actor nonetheless. Someone was joking with her, but it was someone a lot more sinister than her cousins. She would have to get herself out of this somehow. It was cruel to put her in such a small room with such an unbelievably attractive man. She sighed and leaned her head against the brick wall.