Spotlight & Giveaway: Seven Nights with a Scot by Gerri Russell

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Gerri Russell’s new release: Seven Nights with a Scot

History and romance capture the extraordinary drama of the North Berwick witch trials

As witch hunt fervor sweeps across Scotland, it is even more challenging for Vivian Sinclair to hide her gifts of precognition and healing—and more dangerous. Her guardian, King James, betroths Vivian to one of his most loyal warriors thinking the powerful Douglas clan can keep her safe, but when Quinn Douglas arrives to take Vivian to his twin brother as a bride, he barely thwarts a mob calling to burn the witch. He rescues Vivian, and they begin the perilous journey to her new home.
 
When a powerful man wants Vivian dead, their escape across Scotland places Quinn and Vivian in daily peril and is besieged by the attraction sizzling between them. With each day and each mile, he finds himself falling more deeply in love with his twin’s betrothed. He cannot betray his brother, and he’s pledged to serve his king, but Quinn cannot imagine letting Vivian go.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from Seven Nights with a Scot 

Kilkerran, Scotland
June 1591
As early morninglight filtered into the laird’s bedchamber, Vivian Sinclair Campbell took her dying husband’s hand in her own, wrapping her youthful fingers around his gnarled ones. Their half-year-old marriage was one of convenience, and by tomorrow even that would come to an end if the sound of his labored breathing were any indication.
Laird Dugald Campbell had had a good life. A long life. This moment should not be a mournful one, yet she was sad. Sad that she was the only one who would sit at his bedside as he drew each agonizing breath. Sad that she could do nothing more for him with her herbs and poultices. Sad that once he took his final breath she would have no further protection from the once-great Laird Campbell or even his clan. She would be back to where she started—a woman alone in a world of manipulative men.
Her current situation was proof as to why it was important to keep herself free of entanglements such as marriage and children. How could she shield an innocent child from the horrors of this world when she could not secure her own safety?
It had been six long months since King James sent her to Kilkerran to marry his old friend. Despite the fact the match was more advantageous to Dugald, the king had promised the old laird would protect her. In his own way, he had. But confined to his bed as he’d been for the past fortnight, he did not see or hear the growing hysteria his own son Rupert—known across the land as the Witch Hunter of Scotland—caused throughout the country in his search for the unnatural.
Vivian’s stomach knotted at the thought Rupert might return home soon as news reached him of his father’s impending death. When he did, any illusion of safety her current situation had created would be gone.
Dugald stirred, suddenly restless in his sleep. He tossed his head back and forth. Vivian brought a cool compress to his temple. “I’m here,” she said softly as she smoothed the cloth across his brow.
He turned toward her and opened his eyes. Six months ago, when she’d first arrived at Kilkerran, those eyes had been filled with not only compassion but also strength. Over the months, that strength had faded. There were some at the castle who blamed her for that change. They didn’t trust the tisanes she mixed for their laird to drink each morning.
The truth was, without her medicines Dugald would have died months ago. His heart was failing and fluid filled his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. They’d all expected a miracle from her upon her arrival. What she’d been able to offer her new husband had been relief from his symptoms, but there was no cure for the damage to such vital organs. “Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”
He offered her the hint of a smile. “Ye did yer best, Wife. Now there’s nothin’ either of us can do but wait fer the end.”
“I’m sorry.”
“’Tis not yer fault. I’m the one who’s failed ye, my dear. I was tae protect ye from everyone, including my own people. They do nae understand and I fear Rupert will nae arrive in time to set things right before—” A spasmodic cough racked Dugald’s body.
Rupert.Dugald either did not want to acknowledge or truly did not know about his son’s reputation. Vivian feared she would never receive the protection her husband wanted from his son. “Do not concern yourself with me. I’ll find a way forward.” Vivian lifted her husband’s torso into a more upright position, trying to make it easier for him to fill his lungs with air.
He took the cloth from her hands and coughed into it, spotting the white linen with a deep red.
The end was close.
Vivian’s eyes burned and her throat tightened. She did not love her husband as a wife should, but she did care for him. He had not been as overpowering as her own father had been to her mother, giving evidence that not all marriages were as theirs had been. And yet, her husband’s son had added deadly complications to Dugald’s past three marriages.
Vivian had never met Dugald’s only child, but she’d heard rumors among the castle residents that Rupert was responsible for his father’s previous wives’ demises, even that of his own mother. Vivian felt a cold touch on her neck, made from dire whispers and haunted eyes when those who knew Rupert spoke of the man.
When Dugald’s coughing fit ended, he collapsed back against the pillows. “My last and final wish was tae see Rupert and beg him tae protect ye.”
Chances were Rupert would do nothing to assist his father’s fourth wife. “I’m sure he will make every effort to come home, Dugald,” she said, the words at odds with her own worries. “Why not rest for a while, build up your strength for when he arrives?”
With a weak nod, Dugald closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. Vivian settled back in her chair, determined to wait beside her husband until the old laird simply slipped away.
Vivian must have drifted off to sleep herself because a steady knock on the chamber door startled her awake. “Enter,” she said, straightening her gown.
Gillis, her maid, slipped into the chamber, shutting the door softly behind her. Worry etched into every line on the older woman’s face. “Milady, I’ve come tae warn ye. Rupert’s here. He’ll be up any moment tae see his father. What should we do?”
“Nothing,” Vivian replied, coming to her feet, quelling the surge of fear that tightened her chest. “He ought to come up.”
“I’m worried fer yer safety, milady. Rupert’s not a kind man.” Gillis moved to the bedside and took Vivian’s hands in her own. The woman had been hired to the castle especially for Vivian at her marriage to Dugald. In the last six months, the two had grown very close, close enough to speak their minds without reserve. “The other servants have nae love fer the master’s son. Some of the things they say about him—”
“At the moment we must think of Dugald and his needs. Rupert is his son and he wishes to make his peace there. That is more important than anything else,” Vivian interrupted, trying to reassure the worried maid.
Gillis frowned. “M’lady, have a care. The man is nae good.”
Before Vivian could reply, the door to the chamber opened.
“Where is he?”
A tall man with dark red hair and a hawk-like gaze stepped into the chamber. She’d heard Rupert was a commanding figure, but the reality of the man was far more imposing than she’d imagined. Vivian curtsied. “Welcome home, Rupert. Your father has been asking for you.”
He came to a sudden stop at the sight of his father, lying almost lifeless in the bed. Rupert brought a hand up to cover his mouth. “Is it consumption? Is he contagious?”
As Gillis retreated to the shadows of the chamber, Vivian shook her head, wishing she, too, could remove herself from Rupert’s overpowering presence. “I do not believe so on either account. Many of us have been in direct contact with him and none have fallen ill,” Vivian replied.
Rupert’s eyes narrowed on her. “Then what have you done to him? Last I saw my father he was hale and hearty.”
“That was five years ago by your father’s account. His illness has taken a toll on him over the years.”
“Nay. This advance into illness is too swift. It can’t be natural.” Rupert dropped onto the bed at his father’s side. “If my father knew he was failing, he would have sent me a message.”
Dugald’s eyes fluttered open. “As I recall, I sent ye several.” He stared at his son for a long moment before a faint smile came to his lips. “Ye came this time. That’s what matters.”
Instead of expressing remorse, Rupert’s face darkened with anger. “My work keeps me busy. In the last two weeks alone I’ve detained fourteen witches for the tribunal.” His gaze shifted to Vivian.
She flinched at the palpable hatred in his dark eyes.
Triumph lit his features. “I sense something of the dark arts at work here, through the efforts of this witch whom you call wife.”
Dugald frowned. In a sudden surge of strength, he clasped his gnarled fingers around his son’s arm. “There is nae truth tae that. Mark my words, Son. Vivian has helped me more than ye can know in these last few months. I’ll die in peace instead of agony thanks tae her.”
“She’s bewitched you.” Rupert shook off his father’s grip as he stood, pacing back and forth at the bedside. “You have no idea what sorcery is at work here.”
“Nae, Son,” Dugald wheezed. “’Tis ye who are mistaken. Vivian is kind and generous. I’ll nae have ye malign her in such a way.” He started coughing—long, protracted hacking that shook his entire frame.
The sight of his father suffering seemed to defuse Rupert’s anger. His shoulders slumped. “I did not come here to fight.”
Vivian sat beside her husband and poured him a cup of the ivy leaf tisane she had brewed earlier. She offered Dugald a small sip, then another. The liquid soothed his coughing and he settled back against the bed once more.
“I need . . . a promise . . . from ye,” Dugald forced out.
Rupert’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll hear you out, but with no guarantees.”
“As ye become the head of the Campbell clan, I need ye tae care for Vivian as I have cared for her. Protect her with yer life. Accept her as a Campbell, then the others will too,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. He met his son’s steely gaze with his own.
“You ask the impossible.”
Vivian shivered at the hardness in Rupert’s voice.
“Why?” Dugald asked as his strength suddenly faltered. “I canna go tae my maker . . . in peace without yer word.”
Rupert stopped pacing, his look incredulous. “You, more than anyone, know why I do what I do.”
“Yer mother was nae a witch. She was . . . misguided.”
“Misguided?” Rupert spat the word. “I believe you mean evil. She wanted us both dead.”
“Being unhappy . . . doesn’t make a person evil.”
Rupert turned away, glancing about the chamber. From her position on the bed Vivian could see his profile. The muscles of his jaw clenched then released. Finally, he turned back to look at her. “I’m both unhappy and determined, and I’ll continue to be so until every witch in this country is dead. If that includes your current wife, then so be it.”
“Rupert, nay—” Dugald’s words cut off as a fit of coughing seized his lungs.
Instead of tending her husband, Vivian stood and approached Rupert. She whispered, “Please, I beg you to lie to him. Say whatever he wants you to say to ease his way from this world.”
Menace darkened his features. “Tell an untruth?”
Vivian refused to back down. “Have some respect for your father. The truth matters little. Let his soul leave this world in peace.”
“And after he dies?” Rupert asked, his gaze intensifying on her.
She cast a glance back at Dugald as spasmodic coughing rattled his frame. “Then you and I can come to terms of our own.”
“My terms will be when you burn at the stake,” Rupert said, his voice rough and sharp.
She held back a shiver as she turned to face him once more. “I am the king’s ward. He’ll never allow you to harm me.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“Whatever happens after your father is gone will be between the two of us. For now, please put his mind at rest. He needs your compliance, truthful or not.”
The corner of Rupert’s mouth lifted. “If that is what you wish, then that is what I shall do,” he said, stepping past her toward his father.
With their two heads close, their whispers could not reach her ears, but she hoped Rupert would be true to his word for his father’s sake. Even though he had done as she’d asked, Vivian’s stomach heaved. She wished she could have had a vision of this moment, something, anything to prepare her for what was to come. But her visions were never that convenient.
Gillis emerged from the shadows. She grasped Vivian by the arms. “What did ye do, m’lady?”
“What had to be done.” This time Vivian could not stop the shiver that cascaded through her. Her morality would put her own life at risk. But any other choice would be unthinkable.
“The moment m’laird dies that man will be after ye.”
Vivian nodded.
“Run. Go now while ye still have a chance.”
Vivian turned to watch the two men talking, their heads close, their words muted. “I cannot leave until Dugald does.”
“By then it will be too late,” Gillis said, her tone filled with anguish.
“It’s a chance I must take for Dugald’s sake.” She’d come to Kilkerran at the king’s urging and with his promise that she would be safe from a world of people who misunderstood her gift. But she wasn’t safe. She had a feeling she would never be safe again.

Dugald died shortlyafter sunrise the next morning. Vivian had helped the end come peacefully, burning thyme at his bedside to ease each labored breath. She’d done her duty to her husband, but now it was time for her to slip silently from the castle before anyone noticed her absence. She’d packed her most precious herbs and supplies in a pouch that she’d tied at her waist. Using the back stairs and staying hidden in the shadows, she slipped from the castle and made her way to the village just beyond the castle gates.
Gray rainclouds hovered overhead, making the morning sky appear darker than usual. Last night she’d considered taking a horse, then decided against it. A horse would make it easier for Rupert to track her. She had funds to pay for a seat on a coach.
No matter how she accomplished it, she needed to disappear.
Vivian reached the outskirts of the large village and continued down one of its many narrow streets. When she came to Mary Tate’s house, she paused. A week ago, Mary Tate had delivered her baby several weeks earlier than anticipated. Despite being small, the child had appeared healthy and had started nursing within hours after the birth. Vivian forced herself to move on. Her patients would be well enough without her.
On the next street she passed by the house where Billy Abbott lived with his parents. It had been three days since the youth had fallen from a ledge and broken several bones. His fall should have killed him, yet Vivian had been able to reset his bones and stanch the bleeding, saving his life.
There were so many more whom she had helped. Yet now that she needed help, she could ask no one to assist her or they would also fall victim to Rupert’s unreasoning wrath.
Continuing on, Vivian passed a row of thatched houses, then skirted the edge of the marketplace, staying on the fringes, away from the villagers engaged in their morning routines. She pulled the hood of her cloak more tightly against her face and followed a worn dirt path up a hillside.
The sound of horses plodding through mud and the soft patter of footsteps came to her as she neared the heart of the village. She hitched up her skirts to climb over a low wall, and emerged on the main street of town. She had barely settled on both feet when pain assailed her temples. She drew a sharp breath as a vision thundered through her mind.
A boy, playing near the roadway. A large black horse galloping. Hooves coming down, sharp edges flying. The child’s scream blending with the horse’s. Pain. Blood. Death.
A heartbeat later Vivian’s vision cleared, bringing her back to the moment. As she had for years, Vivian had glimpsed a possible future. Overly aware of her surroundings, the incongruous sweet scent of springtime heather assailed her senses. Nausea roiled in her stomach. Lethargy attacked her arms and legs, but she forced herself to straighten. She must not give in to the toll the visions took on her body. She had to keep moving toward the forest.
At the cost of a young boy’s life?
Vivian swallowed around the lump in her throat. Saving him could cost her everything, but there was no other choice. Lifting her heavy skirts, she hurried down the rain-dampened main road that ran through the village of Kilkerran. Her breath left whispers of mist in the morning air. Frantically, she searched for the blond-haired child. Instead she saw the people she’d come to know over the past six months as they paused in their daily chores and activities to study her with narrowed, suspicious eyes. A shiver of ice slid down her spine as she hurried past.
Not long ago the villagers had been grateful for her abilities as a healer and her strange way of knowing what the future would bring. Now when she looked at them she only saw fear. The witch trials had fueled suspicions of anyone who was different or did things that were unexplained.
To avoid any confrontation, Vivian hurried her steps. She turned a corner near the blacksmith’s shop, felt the rush of heat from his forge against her already-flushed skin. The smithy was as careful as Vivian not to draw attention to his skills. She’d heard the villagers’ whispers, accusing him of mastering the dark arts as he mixed iron with bone dust to form hardened steel.
Why did others not see their talents were a gift instead of something to be feared?
The creeping sensation of being watched again raised the hairs at Vivian’s nape. Even her kinship with the king couldn’t save her if she were publicly accused of misdeeds. He’d sent her away six months ago in order to protect himself and his new bride from any association with her. But the king had been wrong about her finding obscurity in Kilkerran.
News of King James’s participation in the North Berwick witch trials and the execution of seven witches had reached even the smallest towns in Scotland. In its wake, a storm of fear and maliciousness was spreading, sweeping up the wicked and the innocent with equal fervor.
Vivian forced the thoughts aside as she finally caught sight of the boy from her vision in the middle of the road ahead. She raced toward him, dodging the villagers who crowded the street.
In the distance, the steady pounding of horses’ hooves thundered. The sound fragmented and exploded in her mind. Three horses rounded the bend, a monstrous black beast in the lead. Two red horses followed behind.
Unaware, the little boy scampered back and forth across the roadway on his hobbyhorse, a look of cheerful abandon on his innocent face. Did no one else hear the horses approach? Did no one else realize the danger?
Her stomach pitched. She tried to call out, but her voice failed her. Desperate to cover the distance that separated her from the child, Vivian surged forward, uncaring of the gasps and stares of the others. She stumbled and fell to her knees and then was up again, running faster.
She reached the child just as the horses did. Cocooning the child with her arms, she threw her weight to the side as they fell. Pain raked across her arm as a hoof came down. A cry escaped her lips.
Crack.
Vivian clutched the child to her chest, hoping to absorb the impact as they hit the rocky ground. Had one of them broken a bone?
The golden-haired boy in her arms appeared unharmed. His blue eyes filled with bewilderment, then relief—until he saw the broken hobbyhorse in his hand. Tears welled in his eyes. His wail of sorrow mixed with the cacophony of sounds—the pounding hooves as they came to a stop, the shouts of men, a shriek of “my son!”
A broken hobbyhorse, not a bone.Vivian struggled to catch her breath. She released her grip on the boy. Her vision clouded and her stomach roiled. The throbbing of her arm matched that of her heartbeat. She clutched her arm only to have a sticky wetness ooze through her fingers.
Vivian knew she should get up and run. Run as far away as she could. This event had been witnessed by too many people for it to go unnoticed by Rupert. He would now know she’d left the castle and intended to escape his grasp. Her only hope was to stay ahead of him. She had to get up. She had to keep running.
The sound of boots from the direction of the snorting horses hit the muddy road, coming toward her. Fear rushed through her, churning her stomach, making her mouth dry. She squinted up into the morning light to see a tall silhouette above her.
“What were you doing in the road with that child?” the man asked in a harsh voice.
Vivian tried to stand, but her legs collapsed beneath her as the vision had sapped her strength. She needed a few moments more to shake off the effects. Then she would disappear. She’d planned to return to the convent where she’d lived with her mother after her father’s death and before James had found her. At the convent, her mother had found happiness and healing. Vivian’s childhood there had been filled with the same. Perhaps she could return to those happier times as well as find the seclusion she needed to be safe.
“What’s wrong with you?” the man beside her asked, bringing her back to the moment. He reached for her uninjured arm and lifted her to her feet. His gaze sharpened.
“What’s wrong with me? Your recklessness is at fault here. Did you not see that child playing with his hobbyhorse?” She jerked backward, afraid his intelligent gaze might see what others missed.
Before she could move farther away, he reached for her other arm, pulling her hand away from her wound. “Whose blood is this?” His dark gaze shifted from her face to the boy who stood wrapped in his mother’s arms. The other villagers circled her. People she knew. People she’d cared for. Though now she hardly recognized them. Their faces had twisted into masks of fear. Fear of her and the unknown.
Vivian shivered. She had expected this moment was coming, and now there was no escape.
William Abbott detached himself from the crowd. He held a dagger in his hands. “It’s the Devil’s blood. You’re a witch.”
Vivian swallowed roughly as her gaze flicked between the blade held by a man she once thought of as a friend and the stranger before her. Sweet Mary, she didn’t want to die today.
“The blood is mine. It’s red, like yours.” The world swayed before her eyes. She had to stay in control. She had to find a way out of this situation. Perhaps if she broke through the crowd that pushed toward her and just kept running . . .
She took a step only to have darkness edge her vision. The hand on her arm tightened, keeping her upright. The roar of her blood filled her ears, deafening her to her surroundings. She cried out and looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes. Strong, hard arms wrapped around her.
The stranger stared at her for a moment as something like recognition flared in the depths of his eyes. Impossible. She’d spent most of her life in isolation, hiding . . . The thought faded as her vision swam before her eyes.
“You’re right. I was at fault here. I should have been more careful. Let me help you,” a deep voice whispered close to her ear.
The tone reverberated in her mind as the world closed in around her. Darkness edged into her field of vision until there was nothing more.

Excerpt. ©Gerri Russell. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 

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Meet the Author:

Gerri Russell is the award-winning, bestselling author of historical and contemporary novels including the All the King’s Men series and Flirting with Felicity. A two-time recipient of the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award and winner of the American Title II competition sponsored by RT Book Reviews magazine, she is best known for her adventurous and emotionally intense novels set in the twelfth through the seventeenth-century Scotland.

Before Gerri followed her passion for writing romance novels, she worked as a broadcast journalist, a newspaper reporter, a magazine columnist, a technical writer and editor, and an instructional designer. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and four mischievous black cats.

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