by Lily Baldwin
When he awakens, he cannot rid his mind of her startling beauty, her valor, or the secret fear he glimpsed in her steel eyes. He vows to find her, but as the mysteries of her identity unfold, his courage and heart are tested as never before.
An excerpt from To Bewitch a Highlander, Isle of Mull Series, Book 1
Chapter 1
Isle of Mull, Scotland
1263
Ronan motioned for the small band of warriors behind him to halt.
“We are on a fool’s hunt, Ronan,” Aidan whispered.
Ronan cast Aidan a scowl that would have sent most men to their knees. Aidan stood his ground, but nodded to let Ronan know he understood the warning. On the battlefield, Aidan was one of Ronan’s fiercest warriors, but away from the fray, he was easily bored and distracted. More often than not, it was women who distracted and later bored him, but, evidently, their latest mission lacked enough dangerous enticements to hold his interest. Tedium, however, was no excuse for carelessness. Aidan was beginning to try Ronan’s limited patience. If his complaints continued, Ronan would personally tie him to a tree and use him as bait to ensnare the trespassers.
Ronan signaled for the men to split up, but motioned for Aidan to follow him. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to endure any more of Aidan’s nagging, but the only way to ensure he stayed out of trouble was to keep him close.
“Ronan, ‘tis barely spring”, Aidan whispered. “The MacLean is an idiot to be sure, but he’s not daft enough to think he might conceal his warriors in the forest this time of year.”
“Enough”, Ronan growled. He had to think, a simple task made harder owing to Aidan’s incessant prattling in his ear.
Despite hours of searching they had uncovered no sign of the enemy. He hated to admit it, but Aidan was right. Springtime arrived on the wings of migrating birds, but despite the warm breeze, the trees had yet to fill with leaves. Madness alone would have informed a command to lead the MacLeans into the wood with nothing better than bramble and bare limbs behind which to seek cover, and although they were no account thieves, their chieftain was not entirely deprived of sense. Surely, the brigand, Angus MacLean, knew better. Then again, Angus was aware the MacKinnon clan had twice the warriors and stores, but he was still foolhardy enough to order the occasional raid. No, danger was not imminent, but this in no way excused Aidan's reckless behavior.
“The cottars saw a flash of the MacLean tartan through the trees. Our laird ordered us to flush them out. Instead of griping over being pulled away from Anna’s skirts, why don’t you keep alert and find me a few MacLeans. Then we can go home.”
“Get down”, Aidan hissed as he dove to the ground.
Ronan did not hesitate. He lunged behind a tree, but as he peered around the trunk he saw nothing to warrant an alarm. He raised a quizzical brow at Aidan.
“’Tis the Witch”, he whispered, pointing toward a copse of trees.
Amid a slender cluster of birch trees adjacent the forest road stood the Witch of Dervaig. The folds of her tattered and filth covered robes, draped over her bent and crooked form, sent shivers up his spine. The hood of her cloak, always pulled low over her face, surely concealed hideous deformities and festering boils. Ronan exhaled with relief as she hobbled out onto the road.
“I dreamt as a lad that she captured me here in the wood”, Aidan said. “I struggled to break away from her hold as her hood fell back, revealing a wart covered, twisted nose and an evil toothless grin,” he grimaced with disgust.
“We’ve naught to fear. She is gone now”, Ronan said as he stood, but he shivered as a chill swept through him, no doubt caused by the icy current of her black heart.
“God’s blood”, Aidan swore, “why does she not die already? Is she to haunt our island for another three hundred years?”
“The devil owns her soul. She may plague Mull for all eternity”, Ronan replied. “Forget the Witch. We’ve work to do.”
“What now?” Aidan asked.
Ronan expelled a long breath. “I’m beginning to agree with you, Aidan. This is a great waste of time. But the laird is not interested in our opinions. Judgments do not safeguard our stores. ‘Tis done with the lives of men. We cannot return to Gribun until every patch of forest is searched.”
“You’re beginning to sound like your father”, Aidan said, “which of course means my future is grim. When you become chieftain one day all my fun ends.”
“Why?” Ronan asked, “You won’t be laird.”
“No, but I will be your second.”
“Saints preserve us, Aidan, if you are ever my second”, Ronan scoffed.
“Jest if you wish, but you trust no one as well as me.”
“Aye, I trust you all right. I trust you will be the first to complain.”
Ronan made light of Aidan’s claim, but it struck truth. He had many fine warriors under his command, but Aidan was his oldest friend. His loyalty never wavered, and he understood better than anyone how to calm Ronan’s ire once it raged out of control. Although during times of peace, Aidan drove him to temper more than anyone else.
“What say you to splitting up? We’ll cover more ground”, Aidan suggested.
Ronan hesitated at first but then agreed. He was as anxious to return home as his friend but for different reasons. There was no maid waiting for him back at Gribun but rather a mountain of duties, which promised to keep him busy until he arrived in the hereafter. He looked to Aidan who was awaiting his command.
“Cut across the road, but first make sure the hag is not lingering nearby. Follow the river. Stay low and alert. If you find nothing by the time the sun is low in the sky, meet me near the forest edge on the north side.”
Aidan started to walk toward the road, but Ronan grabbed hold of his arm and said, “I know you think this mission is a heap of dung, but do not be careless.”
Aidan nodded his consent. Ronan’s eyes narrowed as his stare penetrated his friend’s perpetually jaunty gaze.
“Aidan, you are a MacKinnon warrior, and your people depend on you.”
“I will be thorough and cautious. I assure you, Ronan.”
“Go, my friend, and fear not, war with the Norse is at hand. You will be back on the battlefield soon enough.”
“I’m counting on it. ‘Tis the only way I am going to escape Anna’s skirts without marriage”, Aidan said with a wink and dashed through the trees.
Ronan watched him peer beyond a tall oak to first check for the Witch. He signaled the road was clear, and then he was gone.
He wondered what it would be like to have his biggest concern be whether to marry his latest conquest. He shook his head as he turned and headed deeper into the thicket. The brambles, although bereft of leaves, possessed sharp spines, but he paid little heed to the pricks that snagged his exposed calves and tugged at the plaid hanging just below his knees as he scouted his surroundings.
A branch snapped behind him. Someone or something was approaching. He dropped to one knee and reached behind his shoulder to grasp the hilt of his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. The nearby trees and bramble were still, and he heard naught but his own breathing.
He waited, poised and listening. His patience was rewarded as the rustle of twig and branch renewed and drew closer. Then a red deer became visible through the bramble. It was tall with proud antlers. And although lean from the winter months, its meat would be a welcome addition to their stores. Wet leaves newly released from their snowy grave clung to its hooves as it moved cautiously through the forest. Ronan grinned at his luck. He was hunched downwind from his prey, and, as yet, he had not been detected. At least something would come of their trek into the wood.
He cursed the absence of his bow, and his sword would be useless against the speed of a deer, but the sizable dirk tied to his thigh beneath his plaid might prove sufficient. If he could just get close enough, the stag would be his with one throw. Ronan looked around at the bare trees and cursed under his breath. He was the largest of t
he MacKinnons but for Dugald. Someone else should have been given this opportunity, someone smaller. Even Dugald, who somehow managed to maneuver his bulk like a man half his size, was better suited for the job.
Ronan stole between the trees, keeping the deer in sight as he did his best to stay low and sidle through the bushes for extra coverage.
“God’s blood”, he swore as he squeezed through a particularly tight cluster.
Ordinarily, he found his great height and breadth to be an advantage. On the battlefield, his size instilled immediate fear. As the future laird of the MacKinnon, it encouraged the cooperation of his men as did his rather infamous temper, but seldom were they unruly. The MacKinnons were indeed a loving and loyal clan, to each other and to Nathair, Ronan’s father. He was a fair and competent laird but formidable when necessary.
Following at a distance, he watched the deer walk toward the shallow ravine at the forest’s center. It must have been drawn to the sweet grass, which grew in the space between where the tree line ended and the abyss began. He grinned. The buck was unknowingly walking into the perfect trap. Once at the edge, it would have no place to run but down giving him a clean shot. The deer advanced further. It was almost to the ravine. He silently cut to the edge and tucked himself behind one of the larger trees. Down he peered, observing the depth to be shallower than he remembered. It was nigh the length of three men to the bottom. The fall would not kill someone, but the jagged rocks littering the ravine floor might.
The buck cleared the tree line and began nibbling the tender grasses. Its nose and eyes showed the feast complete deference, but its ears bristled, ever alert for danger’s approach. He was a prize to be sure. Reaching his hand beneath the pleats of his kilt, he eased his dirk from its narrow scabbard. Already the sun dipped behind the trees. He needed to hurry. It was almost time to meet his men. He shifted his grip so the point of the blade was pressed between his thumb and forefinger. He eased his arm back, took aim, and started to launch the dirk, but the steel never left his fingertips. A movement to his left captured his attention. In an instant, his gaze shifted and he redirected his deadly aim toward the unknown distraction. But when he saw what snaked his concentration away from the stag he froze not believing his own eyes.
Not ten strides away stood a slip of a girl with radiant golden hair, which shone even in the dim forest light. The string of a narrow and intricately carved bow was pulled taught against her cheek, arrow at the ready, aimed at his prize. And as far as he could tell, she did not realize he was there.
She had to be one of the fair folk, but he didn’t know whether she was a threat. As though she sensed his gaze, her head turned, and their eyes met. Then with lightning speed, the girl shifted her weapon, and he stared at the lethal tip of her arrow and into wide eyes, which glinted like steel swords. He jerked back, his footing lost. Twisting to the side, he tried to regain his balance, but the ground at the edge crumbled beneath his weight, pulling him over the brink. As he fell, his eyes connected once more with the now terror-filled gaze of the girl who screamed as he plunged downward. He landed with a thud, and a sharp pain cut through his skull as the world turned black. ~ Click to continue reading To Bewitch a Highlander (Book 1)
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.
“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.