Spotlight & Giveaway: A Highland Rogue to Ruin by E. Elizabeth Watson

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author E. Elizabeth Watson to HJ!

Hi E. Elizabeth and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, A Highland Rogue to Ruin!

 
Thanks so much! It’s a pleasure to be here. Thank you for hosting me!
 

Please summarize the book a la Twitter style for the readers here:

Known as the “Demon of the Seas,” Tormund MacLeod wants vengeance for his brother’s murder. But when a bonny masked angel at the summer’s Lughnasadh festival disarms Tormund, body and soul, like the cursed MacLeod he is, he wants what he shouldn’t have.

Lady Brighde MacDonald understands her brother’s overprotectiveness—but she doesn’t like it. Instead, she craves the reckless freedom she finds in the imposing, yet sweet-talking Tormund’s arms. Only too late, they realize they’re enemies. Tormund wants her brother dead. Except he’s not quite the blackguard she always thought he was.

But their tryst could mean war. Not only that, but Tormund hides a long-buried secret that could destroy both clans. And although Brighde wants a truce between her brother and the man she loves, for Tormund, protecting her means giving her up. The only problem is…he doesn’t want to lose her.
 

Please share the opening lines of this book:

“I’ll be right down!” Lady Brighde MacDonald called. “And then I can best ye at Tafl like I did last night! What are the winnings up to? Five coins? Or six?”

“Gambling is unbecoming, sister!”

“Losing sorely to yer sister is unbecoming, brother!”

“We’ll play chess when we get to the faire!” the afeared Devil MacDonald and laird of her clan taunted as brothers did their sisters, still dripping sweat from the training he’d suffered upon his guardsmen that day. “I’ll wipe the board with yer rosy smile!”

“No he’ll no’,” she laughed to Maudie, the wee serving girl, who giggled in reply. Deep laughter echoed from James’s throat, receding as he jingled away in his haubergeon. “He hasna’ beaten me at chess in years.”

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• This book is set during the Lughnasadh Festival, a summer harvest day with ancient pagan roots! The festivities during the faire, such as a bonfire dance, horse racing–an important scene in the book–crop harvesting, offerings, handfasts, and so much more, made this such a joyous occasion and balanced out the brooding intensity of my hero.
• This is definitely a grumpy-sunshine, as well as an enemies-to-lovers book! Two of my favorites
• Real clan feuds inspired this story! A sequel to Twelfth Knight’s Bride, I played around with history a bit, so don’t be surprised that I took a lot of liberties, but make sure to check out the author’s note in the back of the book!
• Fans of Twelfth Knight’s Bride will be glad to see a wee update on the couple from that book, that hero being the overprotective brother of Lady Brighde MacDonald in this book.
• I always find inspiration in music for my characters and stories. It helps me capture their energy, personalities, or key plot points. I even made a Spotify playlist for this book!

What first attracts your main characters to each other?

Their initial meet is insta-lust. Brighde is this gorgeous goddess wearing an angel mask dancing around the fire, and Tormund is drawn to the lavender scent she wears, which rouses long-buried memories in him of a youth in France he’s blocked out. She’s not intimidated by his gruff, silent demeanor. He’s not used to people wanting his company, which throws him off his guard. And Brighde is fascinated that he’s not frightened away from her like other men are, thanks to her brother running off all her suitors. Plus, they’re both masked, him wearing a demon mask, so they’re anonymous. There’s a daring involved because of the masks, as well as an illusion of safety that allows them to open up to each other without fear of being recognized. Brighde is curious about this gruff man wearing an arsenal of blades around his body, and Tormund can’t tell her no when she taunts him into both dancing and playing a game of chess–of course, since she’s an accomplished player, she’s setting him up to be trounced, ha!
 

Using just 5 words, how would you describe your main characters”love affair?

Whirlwind. Adventurous. Dangerous. Yearning. Hot.
 

The First Kiss…

Oh, I LOVE this scene. Right from the start, the heat between them crackles! Brighde is so skilled at playing chess. She’d already told him if she wins, she gets his necklace as her prize. But when she is set to checkmate him and realizes he hasn’t told her what he wants if he wins, he taunts her that he gets a kiss if he beats her. Both of them want a connection with the other so badly, things move quickly to that first kiss!

Without revealing too much, what is your favorite scene in the book?

Oh do I have to pick?! I have so many favorites! One of my favorites is definitely at the beginning when Tormund realizes his angel is his enemy’s sister–AFTER it’s too late.

Excerpt:
Tormund swallowed hard, a boulder lodged in his throat. He slipped his talon necklace over his head and over hers, depositing the trinket upon her bare bosom.

“But I didna’ win,” she protested. “’Tis yer brother’s, ’tis special…”

He laid a finger over her mouth to silence her. To remember him by. While they’d played their games, one by one he’d broken his rules: kissing her, swiving her. He toyed with his brother’s talon around her neck contemplatively, letting go of this piece of the man long dead, breaking this tiny bond with the past to bond him to another he’d never see again. Then he unsheathed a sgian achlais from beneath his arm. Lifted her long tresses, and sliced a tiny lock away.

He never bedded women. What the hell had he been thinking? He hadn’t been.

He brought the clipping to his nose. God, so sweet—

“Where is she?” a man said in the distance.

Battle sense spiked, he spun the dagger to the ready. James MacDonald. He’d know that voice anywhere. Their heads whipped toward the bonfire blinking from afar through the trees. What the hell was he doing here?

“Spread out. If anyone has touched her, he’ll answer to me,” James continued.

The lass scrambled from his lap as Tormund shoved to his boots, tucking himself back into his trews and checking his weapons under each arm, his body cold where moments ago, she’d warmed it. “God nay, my brother, I…have to go.”

Her what?

“Sakes, he’ll come looking.”

“Breathe, angel.”

She nodded frantically as he tried to sort out what was happening, detangling the lacing up her stomacher and cinching it tight for her while she shook out her leagues of hair. He picked up her mask and handed it back as she plucked pine needles from her locks, the aftershocks of rutting still ringing through his blood.

“Let’s begin a search,” James said in the distance, once more intruding on this moment.

She started to leave but he snagged her arm. What in the hell is going on? She looked back at his touch. Cupped his cheek fondly as his palm came up to envelop hers, brushing her mouth with his thumb one last time. Her lips felt so swollen from his devouring. She softened in his arms, kissed his thumb like a long-lost lover.

Male affirmatives echoed James. Knives unsheathed.

“My kin are coming,” she whispered, startled out of their trance. “I have to go. My brother’s nay someone to challenge.”

She darted away, and a sick feeling roiled in him when she whirled back, gripped both his cheeks, pushed up on her toes, and kissed him, shoving him away, dragging him back and kissing him again.

He chuckled at the sweetness of her antics, despite it all. She giggled and once more turned to leave—

“Over there. In the trees…” one of her brother’s men said, and hell, the search party began crunching their way.

“Sister!” boomed James.

They were getting closer. Thundering over the underbrush like a charging army.

“Go,” she whispered. “Please. Or my brother will kill ye.”

He snorted. James could try. God knew it wouldn’t be the first time, or the last.

“Now ye send me off,” he quipped, earning another laugh from her as he did what his blood warred within him not to do—for there were consequences for what they’d just done: let her go.

If your book was optioned for a movie, what scene would be absolutely crucial to include?

Oh my goodness. All of them?? How about this scene from the Lughnasadh horse race, when Tormund is beginning to realize just how much of a force Brighde MacDonald might be to contend with:

Be damned, he was looking for her again.

“Riders at the ready!”

Focus, man.

On a growl, he faced forward, straightening his shoulders and squinting into the stark morning sunshine slanting between the distant Cairngorms carpeted in green velvet and lavender heather. Lavender. He groaned. He couldn’t lose this purse. His enemies could say all they wanted about him, but he didn’t reave for no reason. He earned his coin fairly. But thanks to MacDonald, the grains he would have sold through trade to bring his clan more prosperity had gone up in smoke.

Nykr tossed his head again, anxious to jump the start.

He needed to get his head in this race and put aside his irritation. He might have come here to smoke out an enemy and deliver long-overdue justice, but his people were depending on him to win this coin if they hoped to stock their pantries for winter and resupply their seed stock for next year’s planting.

The flag dropped. He held Nykr back for a heartbeat as the riders on either side bolted forward, a thundering mass of destriers.

All would love to disqualify him for the slightest misstep, so he’d let them get a lead. “Now.”
He tightened his knees, bareback on Nykr’s coarse, warm fur. The stallion bolted into a gallop. Long, steady strides.

He blazed past Alasdair MacNicol, whose sire wanted to marry him to Brighde—Christ! That irritation spiraled again, just imagining MacNicol betwixt her legs.

Passed Laird Lindsey’s son.

Passed the Campbell laird whose clan was running the tavern tent and whose wench had annoyed him last night. Nay, he’d found an angel instead, and he still couldn’t get her sweet scent, gentle touch, and playful smiles out of his mind. He’d sensed her melting, learning, burning with a newly lit flame. He’d been the one to do that, and the memory of it was bloody bittersweet.

Passed Angus MacDonald, one of his biggest namhaids. Good riddance. He wanted Devil MacDonald’s bollocks strung about his neck like a trophy and his heart lodged on Tormund’s pike for all to see as they sailed by Stornoway Castle.

He wove between horses, slipped past others, stretching out his lead, closing the distance with those ahead of him, as the steady cadence of hammering hooves lulled him into a trance, the rocking of Nykr’s rhythm became a sea swell beneath him, until it was just him and one other, far ahead…a lad?

Anger nipped. He needed to get closer to determine if he was right. Lads were forbidden from racing.

He wound along the riverbank meandering through this glen, ducked beneath tree boughs. Inching closer to the opponent still leading him. Aye, it was a lad. He nudged Nykr harder. His stallion panted. Felt the tickle of his good luck charm—soft, silky hair belonging to the most mesmerizing enemy lass—against his pectoral, cinched to his chest beneath his sheath straps as if her purity would rub off on him.

They entered a wood. He wove and ducked and urged poor Nykr on, his beast lathered in sweat. An ominous red strip of tartan woven around the lad’s shoulders grew into clarity as he finally gained another length on the rider.

MacDonald red. Fok. Clan MacDonald had two riders in the race? Not good. Time to bury this wee bastard.

Tormund sank his heels into Nykr’s sides. His pulse pounded as his proud yellow and blue kilt billowed behind him on the wind. The two of them burst out of the trees onto the river’s edge, heading toward the final stretch. Wildflowers blurred by. Tumbled rocks, pebbled banks. He banged Nykr’s belly, urging his beloved beast onward, arms moving in rhythm with Nykr’s neck, inching closer, closer, as the finish ribbon wavered tiny in the distance.

The prize money for winning this race that his people so desperately needed was slipping through his fingers. Yet the Demon of the Seas never gave up on a challenge! Life had done nothing but throw challenges in his path like barley grains at a wedding. And he’d made an art form of slicing each challenge down.

He inched closer still, reaching the rider’s rump. Tormund’s eyes narrowed against the plume of dust kicking up into his face. Lips thinned, he gained a few inches, just close enough, he could reach out and touch the lad. So young, the lad’s hair tied in a tribal knot at the base of his neck threatening to jostle loose and was still so golden, it was almost as light as his angel’s hair last night. The lad likely couldn’t even shave yet.

He crept nearer, reaching the lad’s side. Neck and neck. Broke an inch into the lead.

“C’mon, man,” he urged his stallion to solidify his win. “Oats and sweet grass and anything ye desire, just catch this MacDonald maggot…”

Pride surged through his blood as strangely, he was sure he smelled lavender—

“Maggot? Mayhap the MacLeods should stick to terrorizing the waters on their wee bàtas!” the milksop replied in a surprisingly high voice, insinuating Tormund’s fleet of ships was merely a spate of toy boats.

His eyes narrowed. Insults were part of these events. He ignored them, but this lad had guts to challenge him. “Put a claymore in yer fist and see if yer bark is still as loud!” Tormund growled over the wind. “Have yer bollocks even dropped yet?”

Insulting someone’s masculinity usually earned him a glower. But the lad’s lips spread wide, a beautiful smile that snagged his attention. It was too bonny a smile for any lad to have. A shiver of premonition washed over him that he couldn’t place. Didn’t dare place…

The lock of hair tickled upon his pectoral badly enough he almost scratched it.

Since when were bairns allowed to participate? The weight difference was several stones, making the lad far lighter than Tormund’s bulky frame. Hardly a fair competition. But then again, the MacDonalds were as crooked as the pleats of Kilt Rock.

“Last I checked, man, I have no bollocks!” The lad glanced at him with amusement dancing in his wide blue familiar eyes. Tormund wanted to scrub that look off his pretty face speckled in mud and dirt from this jaunt. Preferably using nettles. That premonition tingled harder, buzzing over his skin.

“Ye think a truce declared means I’ll overlook this cheating?” Tormund snarled. “Lads are forbidden from running!”

“Find me a judge who’ll overlook my win in favor of a MacLeod, and I’ll find ye a river filled with gold!” the insolent lad retorted.

Damnation but he sounded so young. Tormund’s proud warhorse was tiring. He ground his molars. If he could overcome just one. More. Inch.

His breath came hard as blessedly, he moved ahead by a neck. The finish line loomed closer. Patrons lined the sides, shouting. The galloping hooves thundered a cadence. His braid banged against his neck, the carved beads tangled in the ends stinging with each slap.

Sweat soaked his tunic in the blinding sun, now risen over the highest peak; dirt turned to mud on his slickened skin. But his opponent’s horse was still too close for comfort. He needed a few more inches to make it a full length and unequivocal win. They thundered along the river weaving through the strath.

Come on, Nykr. A little farther and the milksop will be guaranteed second. Remain focused…
Said milksop was muttering to himself under his breath, urging his horse onward, knot of hair bouncing looser and looser from its ties. Tormund made the grandest mistake.

He looked back. Straight at his opponent’s twinkling blue eyes.

His pulse froze. Galloped like Nykr’s hooves. Eyes dipped to the lad’s chest, to a talon banging up and down upon it. No… And the lad’s chest—now that he could see it—wasn’t so flat, but rounded with smooth, soft breasts.

Tormund’s eyes furrowed as the leather tie holding back his opponent’s hair finally jostled loose. Bright, honey-golden tresses unfurled like a sail pluming on the wind.

“Oh!” Her horse jerked to the side.

She flung off-balance in her stirrups. Cried out.

He lunged and grabbed her arm, and her death grip clenched down on him, too, as he yanked her upright before she was tossed to her death against the rocky riverbank. Brighde MacDonald. His former sister-in-law. The lover he’d ravaged last night.

He was a she. And she was the lass he’d spent all damn night regretting.

Readers should read this book …

Tormund and Brighde have a chemistry that jumps off the pages. Their forbidden love is so tangible. I loved “un-starcrossing” these two starcrossed lovers, and further, aligning those stars for them, forcing their clans to come together because both her brother, and Tormund, choose their love for her over their hatred of each other. I think readers will devour this adventure from beginning to end.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have planned?

I’m plotting out the sequel to this book! It will likely release next year sometime. I’m also working on a new medieval romance series–set in Scotland, of course! And for those who don’t know, I don’t just write Highlander heroes, but also write cowboys. The first book in my next cowboy series–a spin off from my Dixons of Legacy Ranch series that released last year, is also in the works!

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: $10.00 Amazon gift card

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: Over their first game of chess, when they are both masked and anonymous, Tormund asks Brighde if she could go anywhere, where would she go. She answers swiftly: she’d sail away for a year to France and never look back. So I ask all of you, if you could go anywhere, where would you go?

 
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Excerpt from A Highland Rogue to Ruin:

One of my other favorite scenes is when Tormund, having listened to Brighde’s deepest desires, decides to try and give her each of her dreams in the span of the single week they have together–because he knows she yearns to break free and that once the festival is over, she’s going to have to return to her cloistered existence. She’s smart, and learned, but her overprotective brother who fears losing her like they lost their older sister is slowly stifling her. When Tormund sneaks her away to sail–sailing away is something she’s confided wanting in Torm–it’s a scene full of heat and charged banter, but there’s a brewing tenderness that culminates into yearning and admissions that this isn’t just a tryst. Deeper bonds are tying them together that are going to hurt when they’re ripped apart.

Excerpt:
She smiled, nodded, and unrolled the fabric. A series of squares and a central cross decorated the fabric with ornately flourished corners of Norse knots, of frolicking lapins hopping happily among ivy. Hand-painted.

Her brow pulled together, eyes brightening. “Tafl?”

A grin split his lips, revealing that tiny chip to his tooth. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, nodding toward the board upon her lap.

“Ye ken how to play, angel? ’Tis a Norseman’s game. I can teach ye—”

“Oh, I ken how to play. ’Tis one of my favorites!”

“Of course it is,” he drawled to himself.

“But”—she glanced around—“Where shall we play?” They were set adrift, far into the inlet. Sakes, she’d not noticed how far they’d rowed, so absorbed in her thoughts about Tormund and how she’d likely offended him and lived up to his expectations of a MacDonald.

“Here.” He withdrew the oars, lay them in the bottom of the vessel, then drew the fabric off her lap and lay it out between them. He then hooked the purse strings upon his finger and took it from her lap. “Lay out the food.”

She did so as he shook the game tokens into his palm and cast the purse aside.

“Here? On the bottom of the boat?”

“Aye, here. Away from the faire where I can taunt ye openly.” That stoic expression with that mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“Careful what ye wish for, man. I remain undefeated—in races and games—need I remind ye.”

That laugh barked up his throat. “And ye’re humble, too, I see. Typical MacDonald.”

“Insults. Imagine those from a MacLeod.” Her gaze flashed to him.

He reached behind his back and withdrew his eating knife, flipping it in the air to catch the blade between his thumb and finger as the boat gently rocked, holding the hilt out to her. She took it and climbed off the bench to sit in her pile of skirts, mashing them out of the way, and lay out the cheese, slicing hearty wedges as he leaned over his knees like an oversized lad, boots planted wide, and began setting up the pieces.

The king and his pawns went in the middle, in the central cross, and the enemy pawns were clustered at the edges of the board, his thick fingers dwarfing the intricately carved tokens she now realized were sculptures, chiseled out of stone.

She brought the cheese to her nose to smell the savory scent. “Mmm, where did ye get it? I nay recall this kind being sold at the faire. It’s creamy and soft, and…” She took a nibble. Paired it with a bite of sweet, tart berry. “Sakes, perfection. This treat might be almost as good as yer kisses,” she giggled.

He harumphed, smirked that cocksure smirk. “Mayhap I need to reassert myself to remind my woman what she begged me for last night. It wasna’ berries and cheese.”

She lifted a wedge of cheese and some berries to his lips, still laughing, even as her heart skipped a beat at what he’d just said. His woman? He meant it only playfully, but still, it skipped merrily around her mind. He popped the entirety into his mouth, but as she began to withdraw, his teeth captured her fingertip. Heat danced in his eyes, a scheme he wasn’t sharing. Holding her captive, the soft bite of his nip stinging her skin, he closed his lips and relinquished his bondage, pressing a kiss to her fingertip, then chewed his bite with that smirk on his lips that he’d worn all last night as he’d worked her up and flustered her while they’d been playing chess.

He moved an enemy pawn one square, the boat rocking gently beneath them.

“C’est ton tour, lass.” He gestured, telling her it was her turn.

She examined his move, the objective being for him to infiltrate her central castle and pin her king with his pawns. If she didn’t steal all his pawns first or ferry her king to freedom. “Hmm, what about stakes, though? Ye seem to like those.”

He eyed her. “Stakes last time included those kisses betwixt strangers that are apparently nay as good as berries and cheese.”

“Hmm, then I wonder what stakes there could be now that we’re friends.”

He arched his brow. “Friends isna’ the word that comes to mind.”

Did he mean enemies still? Or lovers? She nibbled her lip. His sights trained on the gesture. “What do ye suggest, then?” she breathed.

He shifted down to the hull of the boat, folding one long leg beneath him, laying the other one out so it extended the length of the oars and rested against her thigh and rear, caging her in. He slouched back on his elbows like a king overlooking his dominion.

“A question asked and answered with each turn,” he drawled.

“And for the winner?”

He picked up a wedge of cheese and a few berries, bringing them to her lips, teasing them to open. She parted for him. His gaze darkened as she took the offering on her tongue and pulled a bite into her mouth, nibbling it.

“I think ye ken what I want if I win,” he murmured, popping the remains of her small bite into his mouth and chewing again so his jaw muscles bulged. “And ye, lass? Are ye going to ask for a boon again? Or mayhap just ask for what ye really want.”

She couldn’t stop biting her lip, so much so that he reached out and plucked it from her teeth like he’d done before, tucking her tickling wisps of hair behind her ear.

“I want the same,” she whispered, looking askance toward the water as those telltale starbursts burned upon her cheeks.

“Good lass,” he whispered as if to himself.

She’d always hated how easily she blushed, but Tormund seemed to relish each chance he got to splotch her cheeks pink, as if splashing paint upon them.

“But ye have to keep the purse.”

He paused, chuckling, “We canna’ have that,” then moved his pawn beside the one she’d moved, pinning her, going on a swift offensive.

“If ye grew up on the continent, how then did ye learn to sail?” she asked, clearing her throat, feeling his boot hook gently around her rear. He eyed her warily. “Is that too personal? I’m sorry—”

“My Uncle Niall taught me when I was four and ten. Necessity warranted that we either sink or swim.” Delivered bluntly, surprising her. “Owe and I chose to swim.”

“What does that mean, necessity warranting it?”

He nudged her rear with his boot. “One question, mon ange.”

She smirked at him.

“What’s in yer locket?” His question.

She smiled fondly, fished it out from between her breasts, and held it upon her palm, opening it. “My sister.” She showed it to him, caressing the tiny miniature with a fingertip. “She and I were best of friends, and when she lay abed, dying”—she cut herself off and cleared her throat— “I prefer to remember her like this. Smiling. I remember when the original portrait was commissioned. She tried to sit still like the painter requested, but Jamie and I made silly expressions the whole time, and she continued to giggle. My mither scolded us, but I knew Marjorie was uncomfortable in her stays sitting straight for so long, and so every time Mither turned her back, we’d push up our noses or stick out our tongues.”

Her smile fell.

“But that’s when Mither snapped, and she swatted James and worse all the way from the chamber, for he’s my sire’s bastard and she always hated James for it…” She shook her head to clear her thoughts and smiled again. “Sakes, I ramble. It’s just, it made me realize that when the time came for me to have my own babes, I’d never allow another to be cruel to them. As ye can see, mitherhood never happened to me. But James’s first will soon be born and I cannae wait to become an aunt.” She smiled. “I wish Marjorie could have had at least one, so there was still a piece of her to love…”

She clicked shut the locket and moved her next pawn. “What’s in Inverness? Ye mentioned going there.”

He cleared his throat. His jaw ticked. Eyes deadened. For a moment, it seemed as if the blackguard had returned and shoved her demon back beneath his armor. Was that a personal question?

“A massive boc-hord I’ve used at will for years. It houses everything from prose, to poetry, to clan histories.” A library. “The Blackfriars of St. Bartholomew’s and I have an agreement on a particular matter, for which I tithe generously.”

“So I’ve heard!” she exclaimed with a grin. “I’d hoped to visit before returning home, for I have documents I wish to verify, but I fear James willna let me go alone. Mayhap I can go with ye.”

He said nothing else on the matter, and for a moment she sensed him pull away. But the strange tension eased as, in turn, they continued to play. He was marching for her king, which she’d moved out of the central cross to attempt her escape to the board’s edge and he had her pinned on two sides, though her pile of his pawns was mighty.

She smirked and taunted, “In one more turn, my king will win. How does one stay on course whilst sailing?”

“With an astrolabe.”

“What if ye nay have yer astrolabe? Like now?”

He chuckled. “I look at the shore.” He gestured to the beach as if the answer were obvious.

She raised her eyes to the stars and shook her head. “Ye ken what I mean. If ye’re out at sea and canna’ see land and have no astrolabe—”

“I’d make a shite captain then,” he laughed. “Is my angel planning to sail away, now that she’s tasted the freedom of saltwater beneath her?”

She laughed.

“Here. Come.”

He swept aside the game, the pieces tumbling, and lay upon his back, propping his leagues of legs up onto the bench.

“Ye destroyed our game!” she glared.

He merely frowned and crooked his hand more forcefully at her to come to him, quoting, “Watch the stars, and see yourself running with them.”

She furrowed her brow, but lay down beside him, a Tafl pawn jabbing her thigh. She giggled and lifted to pull it out from beneath her while he opened his arm to her.

“Who wrote that? I should love to read it.”

“The Roman emperor Aurelius. I sail often by the stars. I love my tools and find how they work fascinating, but none are so poetic as the heavens as my guide.”

She propped her head upon his bicep, feeling his arm come around her shoulders and his hand wedge beneath her arm, tucking her more tightly to him, as if the most natural way to hold her. The water lapped around them, echoing softly from within the belly of the vessel. His scent once more enveloped her. Warmth. Sagebrush. Sea breeze. A faint hint of male exertion. A potion she should love to burrow against for sleep. He lifted a hand and pointed, the yardarm bisecting her view, and so she squeezed closer still to him, curling into his side to hug his hip and torso with her belly so she could see.

“The North Star. On a cloudless night, it is bright, a steady anchor in the sky. Or I look for the wee plow to get my bearings.”

“Plow?”

She glanced up at him, his jaw so close and the dark stubble of his beard growing around his jaw. Watched him focus on the sky while she focused on him.

“Aye, ’tis a constellation, and the tip of it is the North Star. If I ken which way is north, I can determine all other cardinal directions, and if I stack my fists like so…” He pressed her closer still, squishing her, as he reached his fist around her, stacking them one atop the other until he touched the bright star. “I can hypothesize my latitude.” He glanced down at her, his arms falling, but as they did, coming around her to keep her near. “Stornoway is about the same distance south of the North Star as we are now, so if I travel due west, I’d hit home.” They held each other’s gaze. She watched his lips. His gaze dipped to hers. “It’s the brightest star. It always guides me on the right path.” But he was looking at her as if she were the right path.

She twisted her finger in his tunic lacing. “What happens when it’s cloudy and stormy, and the sea splashes a mighty tantrum?”

He barked a laugh. Pet back her hair, resting his chin atop her head and severing the connection of their gaze in favor of touch and smell. “Then I’m good and truly foked.” She giggled at his coarse language and draped her arm across his belly, around his waist. “Which has happened more than once. One time, I was blown off course in a storm, and I washed ashore on Skye, which is where I received this wee gift, warding off MacNicol’s swords and sending them running.”
He hiked up his sleeve, revealing a welt that ripped a curve from his elbow down his forearm, which had been tattooed into the shape of a serpent’s undulating body. “They ambushed us whilst we were disoriented. I fought through it. Drove them back. It wasna our fault we’d beached there, and MacNicol to this day does nay forgive me the maiming to his leg, but it was survive or be killed. I had no choice if I wanted to live.”

It dawned on her as his explanation trailed off. “That’s what ye do, is it nay? Yer tattoos. They conceal yer scars…” Masks.

“Nay conceal. Commemorate. I wear them boldly,” he bit out, as if she’d affronted him. But his face had shuttered. He was going to pull away, as before. Yet just when she sensed him withdrawing, this time, he surprised her, and continued on a deep breath.

“Owen was just six and ten, I two years younger, alone in the world, when we etched our first ones. Niall was there but we knew nothing of him except what we’d been told. Couldna’ even speak yer language yet.”

He swallowed with a vicious clearing of the throat. Four and ten…the age he’d been when he’d returned from France. He wasn’t talking about landing on MacNicol’s shore anymore. His uncle had taught him to sail at that age, too. Necessity, whatever that meant, had warranted it. Something had happened at that age. Something he didn’t like to talk about. Something she sensed was far more nefarious than anyone knew.

“We decided, if the world was going to scorn us and put us under their blade, when we knew nay of their reasons why, we’d turn the battle scars into something we were proud of. He was an incredible artist. Owe studied among the finest painters in Paris. He designed my first tattoo, and cut it into my skin for me.”

“It must have hurt,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “I welcomed the pain. It reminded me I was still breathing. Our life in Europe was over. But his art and my writing, it sustained us. Our maman—” Again, he cut himself off.

His what? “Writing?” Is that what he’d been about to say before he’d mentioned his mother? He did speak in poetry. No wonder his apparent love of literature. “Is that what ye studied?”

He nodded.

“Ye made them into art. And yer body into a canvas.” Her finger kept swirling contemplatively upon his side as his heart drummed steadily in her ear.

“A cartography of what we’d survived. Owen was my best friend, too, lass, as Marjorie was yers. With his death, I lost everything. With him went the last of my bloodline, and a laird without a bloodline isna’ worth much. With mine vanquished save me and G—”

***

Shite. He was out of line. And yet, Tormund felt her gentle finger swirl upon his ribs, her arm holding him.

“I’m listening, Torm,” she whispered. “Ye and Ghost?”

She wanted to know. But how could he tell her? That excitement in her voice when she’d spoken of the Blackfriars in Inverness, as if prying at the lid he kept locked upon the vault of memories within, that longing when she’d spoken of a wee James being hated simply for who he was—a sentiment Tormund knew all too well—and children of her own she hoped to have. The fear he felt brewing that in nine months his angel could bear his, and how much he realized he wanted such a simple joy when he knew he could never have it openly, then that kick to the teeth about wishing Marjorie’d had a babe…

Would she feel betrayed to learn the truth? Would she understand why he’d kept such a secret from the world? Or mayhap she’d be elated. She’d make a fine mither any man would be proud to call his woman. The fierceness in her voice at how she’d defend her own bairns had resonated deeply within him. Mayhap he and Brighde could forge together what his brother had been unable to do. Only if I can keep her a secret from my enemies, spoke the devil upon his shoulder.
The tiny spark of hope banked, leaving familiar deadness in its place.

He breathed her lavender and quelled the jumping in his muscles so he might bask in her touch, let himself think of France, truly think on the life he’d once had there. A different world and time that had ended so violently and had set him on his life’s course.

Any woman of his would wear a target on her back. Until now, he’d never entertained the idea. He couldn’t let a bond form with Brighde. Needed to cut her loose from the roots he felt her trying to plant in his skin. Tonight was meant to be a goodbye. So why the hell was he jesting about sailing away for a year and thinking on forever?

“With Owe’s death, all was forfeit,” he added with finality.

Her swirling finger stopped. “Forfeit…” His brow knitted and he looked down at her, at the pensiveness capturing her brow.

The night had grown far too serious. He hoisted her atop him, grinning as she cried out in surprise and gripped his shoulders, her heavy plait snaking off her shoulder and thumping him hard aside the head like a soft blond flail mace. Looking into her eyes, the stars beyond, and her bodice lacings still dangling loose and forgotten from within her enemy tartan, bedecked in his lavender posy like the finest brooch, something gripped him. Something he didn’t have a name for but felt an awful lot like fear and an unbearable urge to damn the consequences and claim what he didn’t deserve. An unbearable unease to send her away, sever this connection, so it might protect her the way Marjorie hadn’t been so fortunate.

Fear? He was so numbed to fear, knowing he was going to die someday and it would likely be a violent death at that; everything else merely felt like practice leading up to the finale. But she’d said he feared after the race, and he was beginning to think she might be right.

It was fear. Fear that he could fall for a lass like her. Fear she’d learn the truth. Fear that his secrets would pour out and he’d be unable to stop them. Fear she’d suffer the consequences for loving a MacLeod, like Marjorie had. Like his mother had. Feeling compelled to cut open his scars and finally let the toxic blood flow should alarm him. A lass who, even if he could somehow convince James to risk a second sister on a MacLeod, would be widowed soon enough if she wasn’t caught in the crossfire first. And what if he’d sown a bairn on her already? He’d abandon them both just as Owen and Marjorie had left—

“Torm,” she gasped, feeling his arousal as he nudged beneath her, her thighs splayed around him, for no amount of dark thoughts could quell his body’s desire.

She grinned down at him, a goddess looming over him, and he grinned back, belying the tumult in his heart. Brighde meant fire goddess, just how he’d found her, dancing around the bonfire, Wrapping his fist in her braid, he tugged her down to him.

“Since we both wish for the same boon, why no’ declare me the winner so we can have what we want.”

She laughed. “Declare ye the winner? Until ye destroyed our board, I believe I was close to ferrying my king to freedom.”

“And I had him pinned on two sides.”

“Except ye needed four sides pinned, man. It’s clear ye ruined the game to sabotage yer loss.”

“Then ye’ll have to taunt me with a new challenge.” He nudged his hips beneath her. Ye’ll have to see me again. So much for one more taste and goodbye.

“I clearly would have won on my next turn, so mayhap I ought to claim my boon.”

He grinned up at her. He had her where he wanted her, and released his grip on her hair, lacing his hands behind his head as if lying on a sandbar in the hot sunshine. “Ye have me subdued, lass, so have yer way.”

Excerpts. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

For fans of Diana Gabaldon and Scarlett Scott comes a story of warring clans, illicit longing…and the brutish Highlander who risks it all.

Known as the “Demon of the Seas,” Tormund MacLeod only wants vengeance for his brother’s murder. At this year’s Lughnasadh festival, the vicious and unyielding Laird of the powerful MacDonald clan will know the bite of his sword. But the festival offers many distractions—including a fair and bonny masked vixen whose touch disarms Tormund, body and soul. And och, like the cursed MacLeod he is, he wants what he shouldn’t have…

Lady Brighde MacDonald might understand her brother’s overprotectiveness—but she doesn’t have to like it. What she needs is the reckless freedom in the arms of an imposing, rough, and sweet-talking Highlander. Only too late, they both recognize that they’re enemies. She’s the sister of the man Tormund wants dead. And he is the brutish blackguard of the clans…

Now their tryst could mean war. Brighde would see a truce, but it means she must convince her brother and the man she loves to lay down their swords. But Tormund hides a long-buried secret that could destroy both clans.
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Meet the Author:

Elizabeth is an Amazon Top 100 and #1 Barnes and Noble Ebook bestselling author. She is convinced life is better with good coffee, chocolate, and a pair of hiking boots. Ever since her elementary school librarian “published” her epic childhood tales–complete with laminated handmade covers–she’s enjoyed exploring the world through literature.

While studying prehistoric Britain at Newcastle University, Elizabeth found story inspiration in the tumultuous history of the British Isles and the folklore of Scotland. As an undergrad at the University of Texas at Austin, her rock art research drew her to the harsh Texas desert where she imagined charismatic cowboys and the stubborn women who tame them.

A recovering archaeologist and biomed research coordinator, Elizabeth spends her days penning heroes ranging from Scottish and Medieval warriors to Texas cowboys crowned with Stetsons. Whether in kilts or pearl-snaps, her heroes wear plaid! She currently lives on a mountainside in West Virginia with her husband, sons, and various pets.

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