Spotlight & Giveaway: The Highlander’s Defiant Bride by Gerri Russell

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Gerri Russell’s new release: The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

She was given as a gift to broker peace between clans. She refused to stay wrapped.

Destiny Gunn didn’t cross the windswept shores of Foulis Castle to become a dutiful bride—she came to save her clan and survive. Betrothed to Highland laird Cameron Munro to seal a fragile political alliance, she expects a ruthless warrior who’ll try to cage her. She never expects a man who sees her passionate spirit.

Cameron Munro is a fierce Highland warrior, bound by iron honor and a code older than the Scottish hills he defends. When he pulls Destiny from a brutal ambush, he realizes the true danger isn’t the enemy at his gates, but the flame-souled woman standing in his great hall, challenge in her eyes.

But when Destiny’s fierce loyalty ignites a scandal threatening both clans, Cameron must choose between the duty that defines him and the woman fated to complete him. One act of defiance. Two hearts on the line. A Highland alliance that could shatter—or forge something unbreakable.

Some unions are arranged by fathers. Some are written by fate.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from The Highlander’s Defiant Bride 

Chapter One

Monday, November 7th, 1715

Clyth Castle, Caithness, Scotland

“Market day was a success,” Destiny Gunn said to the aging groomsman as she swung down from her horse with a basket of goods hooked over her arm.

James took it from her with a hopeful smile that slackened the moment she shook her head.

“There were no oat bannocks today,” she said softly. “I am sorry.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed his face before he caught himself. “No matter, my lady. Whatever you and Cook make of this will be a feast.”

Destiny forced a smile, her chest tightening.

She had only had four shillings to spend, barely a fourth of what she once carried to market. “I bought a sugar cone and some cinnamon,” she said brightly. “Cook will work her magic, I am certain.”

“Indeed,” James said, gathering the reins as they walked towards the castle.

At the base of the steps, Destiny pulled off her kerchief and let the wind catch her loosened hair, its golden curls tumbling free. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in the sharp, salt-tinged air rolling in from the coast. Clyth Castle rose behind her, solid and proud atop its cliffside perch, its grey-stone towers catching the morning light like a crown. The distant thunder of waves striking the rocks below echoed through the seaside fortress, a constant reminder of the strength and peril that had shaped her childhood. Anyone looking upon it would believe the Gunns as prosperous as ever. Only Destiny knew the truth that lay beneath the polished surface. In town, whispers of debts unpaid, promises broken, and the Gunn name slipping into shame had followed her like shadows.

But here, lifting her face into the coastal wind, the brine and sunlight washed some of the heaviness from her chest. For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to pretend Clyth Castle still stood on solid ground in all ways, that its grandeur was not hollowed by secrets, nor its future resting on the shoulders of a daughter scrambling to mend what her father had shattered.

Her father’s gambling had drained nearly every coin from their coffers, quietly at first, then so quickly she could scarcely catch her breath. At the gaming tables in Wick and beyond, he had wagered land, rents, livestock, investments, anything that could be turned into stakes for one more reckless throw of the dice. The castle itself remained, but the wealth that had long sustained it was gone, stripped away by nights of drink and folly that Destiny had been powerless to stop.

Out of necessity, her father had dismissed most of their servants this past month, keeping only Cook, the steward, a maid, and loyal James, who now tended not just to the cattle but also to the gates, gardens, and hunts. The crofters would support her father in times of battle but provided for themselves and their families without assistance from the laird.

Destiny had begged her father to let her see the estate ledgers, desperate to find a way to help, but her father had refused. Trust me, he said. I’ll do what’s right for us.

She wanted to believe him. She needed to.

Lifting the basket higher on her arm, Destiny looked towards the great doors of the castle. It was not the life she had known, but it was still hers. And today, it held sugar, cinnamon, and the stubborn hope that things might yet be sweet again.

As they approached the top step, the door opened and Abigail, their maid, appeared. “Milady,” the timid young girl said with an awkward bow. “Ye have a visitor. Yer friend, Sorcha, is waitin’ in the drawin’ room fer ye.”

“Sorcha?” Destiny handed off the basket to Abigail. “Take this to Cook.”

The maid nodded.

“How long has she been here?” Destiny asked.

“Only a few minutes, milady. She said she would wait all day if needed,” the maid said with a smile. “Glad I am fer ye tae have the company.”

Destiny returned her smile. She was not lonely, even though her father had been gone for the past five days. His absence had given her the time she needed to sell off many of their valuables and furnishings. Enough, she hoped, to keep the castle and the remaining residents there for the next several years.

Her father would be angry at first, but then he would see that her efforts had been necessary. He would complain that by selling their things so publicly, she had effectively ruined her reputation. Destiny shook her head at the thought. She had no status to protect, not anymore. All her life’s ambitions had dissolved along with their fortune.

Destiny stopped at the doorway of the drawing room and smoothed the front of her gown before stepping into the chamber. Her gaze clung to the lovely young redhead clad in an elegant green riding habit who stood in the centre of the room because there was no furniture on which to sit. It had been several months since Destiny had seen her friend.

Sorcha turned, suddenly noting Destiny’s presence, and a slow smile came to her lips.

“I cannot believe you are here,” Destiny said, the sound of her voice overly loud in the empty chamber.

“Where else would I be?” Sorcha replied in a softer voice. “The moment I heard about your financial straits, I came to you.”

If word about selling off assets had reached Sorcha, then her father might know what she had done before he returned. Destiny swallowed roughly. She had done what she needed for them to survive. He would understand that, would he not? Forcing the thought aside, she took two steps forward. A heartbeat later, they raced towards each other and, flinging their arms around one another in a fierce hug, laughed with joy.

“You look wonderful, Sorcha.” Destiny was so happy to see her childhood friend she could not stop smiling.

“Given your circumstances,” Sorcha replied with sympathy, “you do too.”

“It is not as bad as you might have heard.”

Sorcha’s smile slipped as her gaze darted about the chamber that had once been filled with a divan, four chairs, several tables, sculptures, paintings, and tapestries.

“Who needs furnishings?” Destiny grasped Sorcha’s hand and led her to the open space near the window. She kicked off her shoes and sat on the carpet she had not been able to part with. Sorcha followed suit, and as they had in the past, they curled their legs beneath them in easy camaraderie and talked about the past—shooting arrows at trees, running though the moorland in their bare feet, and swimming in the lochs in nothing but their chemises. They had enjoyed their freedom with relatively little supervision by either their parents or Sorcha’s siblings.

After an hour had passed, the conversation took a more sombre tone. “Do you think either one of us will ever find bigger lives than those we have now?”

“You mean marriage?” Sorcha asked, her smile fading.

“Not necessarily. I am content here with Father. But I would like to travel, to see more than the hills and valleys of Caithness, should our finances ever allow.”

Sympathy reflected in Sorcha’s eyes. “Where would you go?”

Destiny shrugged. “Perhaps Edinburgh?”

Sorcha laughed. “Forgive me, but with a name like yours, Destiny, you should set your sights much higher than that. How about Constantinople, Paris, Cairo, even London?”

Destiny smiled, fuelled by her friend’s aspirations. “They all sound wonderful.” But with a quick glance at the empty chamber in which they sat, her smile vanished. “’Tis a dream, and most likely to stay as such, given our present circumstances.”

Sorcha took Destiny’s cold hands in her own warmer ones. “How about this? Let us change our clothes and go outside and shoot arrows at trees again, like we used to. That is bound to cheer you up.”

Destiny’s eyes widened. “How long can you stay?”

“My brother will not return for me for the next two days.” She looked at Destiny with a hopeful gaze. “I hope it was all right that I made the assumption I was welcome.”

“Of course you are welcome. Always.” Destiny’s heart lightened. “Let us go change.”

As they rose, the door of the drawing room opened, and the maid entered and bobbed another awkward courtesy. “Forgive me, milady. Yer father just returned, and he wants tae see ye in his study.”

A spurt of dread knotted Destiny’s hands at her sides. Whenever her father requested her presence, it was never about anything good. He had obviously noticed their lack of furnishings. Would he be pleased or irate? Or had something else happened while her father had been away?

“I will return shortly,” she said to Sorcha as she put her shoes back on, then headed up the stairs leading to her father’s study. There was no time to change her dusty skirts. When her father wanted to see her, he meant at that very moment. The man was never good at waiting for anything, which was probably why they were in the financial trouble they were in as of late.

At the doorway of his study, Destiny paused, swallowing back a moment’s fear. What could he possibly tell her that she had not already imagined in the darkness of night as she waited for sleep to claim her? Or, had their fortunes somehow reversed?

Her father bent over his ledger, his shoulders hunched, the firelight carving harsh lines into a figure that once seemed invincible. The door creaked beneath her hand, and for a moment she thought he might look up and smile, the way he had when she was younger.

He did not.

The scratching of his quill continued, relentless, as if the numbers before him mattered more than the daughter standing framed by the hall’s pale light. She had the absurd thought that she looked like an accusation cast in flesh and bone, and it made her hesitate.

“Sit down, daughter,” he said at last, without lifting his gaze.

His voice had the brittle ring of authority he used when he wanted to remind the world, and himself, that he, Alexander Gunn, was still chieftain here. Destiny obeyed at once, smoothing her skirts as she lowered herself into the chair opposite his desk. She folded her hands in her lap, careful, as she had learned to be. She caught the briefest flicker of something in the pale-blue depths of his eyes when he finally glanced at her. It was fatigue, perhaps, or regret, but it vanished before she could be certain.

“You sound so serious, Father,” she ventured softly. “What is it? What is wrong? If it is the furnishings—” She hesitated, then added, “Look inside the wooden box to your right.”

His frown was immediate, sharp with irritation. He dragged the box towards him and lifted the lid. Destiny watched his breath still as silver caught the light, neat stacks of coins gleaming like something holy.

“I told you not to meddle in my accounts,” he said, his voice roughening.

Her heart stumbled. “I had to,” she said quickly before he could close the box again. “You would not let me help, and it was clear we were in trouble. I sold what we could spare. Only what we no longer needed.”

She heard the tremor in her voice and hated it. She waited for anger, for relief, perhaps even gratitude.

The lid snapped shut.

“You had no right,” he snarled. “Do you know what men would say if they learned my daughter was selling household goods to cover my losses?”

Her shoulders drew inward, instinctively. “I only wanted to help,” she said, softer now. “We will make do. We always have.”

For a fleeting heartbeat, she thought he might soften. Thought he might see what she had done for him.

Instead, his mouth twisted. “These coins change nothing.”

Cold settled in her chest.

“You are to be married.”

The words landed like a blow.

Destiny went utterly still, her pulse roaring in her ears. “Married?” she whispered.

“Aye,” he said, already turning back to the ledger, as though the matter were no more than another line item to be recorded. “To the heir of the Munro clan. He will send for you in a fortnight.”

Her hands tightened in her lap, knuckles whitening. “Nay,” she said, the word barely audible. “Father . . . not a Munro.”

He did not look at her. “This marriage is necessary.” His voice, when it came, was calm. Too calm.

And Destiny understood then that this decision had been settled long before she ever crossed the threshold.

“And it will be profitable,” he added.

The word struck her harder than she expected. Profitable. She kept her eyes lowered, staring at the worn edge of the desk, remembering when he had once spoken of honour instead. “For the clan?” she asked softly.

“For me,” he replied without hesitation. “And through me, the clan.”

Her fingers curled into her skirt. She did not lift her head. “The Munros are strong already. They do not need me.”

“They need access to our lands in order to secure their position with the neighbouring clans,” he said. “And I need my name restored. Once you are married, I am no longer a disgraced chief clinging to old favours. I become Munro kin. That changes how men speak to me. How they bargain.”

Destiny felt something cold settle in her chest. “You mean . . . they will listen again.”

“They will court me,” he said. “Doors that are closed now will open. Men are far more generous to a man who stands behind a powerful clan.”

She hesitated. “And if they are not?”

A thin smile touched his mouth. “Then they are not the only clan worth binding myself to.”

Her breath caught, though she kept her voice steady. “You would seek other alliances?”

“I would be a fool not to,” he said. “This marriage is a beginning, not an ending. Once I am tied to Munro blood, I regain leverage. With leverage comes choice.”

Destiny’s thoughts raced, unease prickling beneath her ribs. “Choice,” she echoed.

“The Highlands are a web, Destiny. One must never tie oneself to a single thread. Today the Munros are useful. Tomorrow, it may be another clan willing to pay a higher price for influence.”

Her stomach tightened. “And my place in all this?”

“You are my most valuable asset,” he said plainly. “Amongst the Munro clan, you will hear things. See things. Understand how they move, where they are strong, and where they are not.”

She felt suddenly very small. “You mean as a wife.”

“As a daughter who remembers where her loyalty lies,” he said. “Do not pretend you have forgotten who you belong to.”

Tears crept behind her eyes, but she blinked them away. “And what will the Munros give you?”

“Cattle first,” her father said. “Enough to replace what was lost. Horses. Provisions. And their word. Support, if I require it. A man backed by Munro steel is not easily dismissed.”

“And if their support is not enough?” she asked, her voice barely more than breath.

“Then others will offer more,” he said. “The Mackenzies, for instance, are always eager to weaken Munro influence. A man with insight, with access . . .” He shrugged. “Such things have value.”

Destiny’s heart stuttered. So that was it. Not peace. Not protection. Information.

“I will not have you think this unkind,” he continued, as if granting her comfort. “You will live well. You will be safe behind their walls. And you will serve a purpose greater than yourself. You should be grateful for what I have done for you this day.” His gaze narrowed. “You will thank me someday.”

She nodded because she had always nodded. Because silence had kept her safe before. Inside, something quiet and fragile folded in on itself.

“And remember this,” her father said, his gaze sharp. “Names are rebuilt through patience and advantage. This marriage is how I begin again.”

Destiny lowered her head, the weight of her father’s ambition pressing down on her like a hand between her shoulders.

“Aye, Father,” she whispered.

But even as she spoke, she knew the truth. She was not being given away. She was being placed.

The door closed behind her with a final, echoing click. For a long moment, Destiny simply stood there in the corridor, her breath shallow, her body numb. The cold of the flagstones seeped through her slippered feet, anchoring her in a world that suddenly felt foreign.

The castle was silent save for the distant wail of wind through the high windows. It should have been familiar, these walls, these corridors that she had walked alone for years, but they seemed to close in on her now, heavy with her father’s demand that she marry.

Her vision blurred. She pressed her back to the stone wall and slid down until her bottom struck the floor. The strength she had clung to for so long broke like glass beneath her palms.

A sob escaped before she could stop it. Sharp, choking, raw. She pressed her hand against her mouth to stifle the sound, as if shame could contain it. But the tears came anyway, hot and relentless, spilling down her cheeks in silence.

She had endured much these past months—poverty, loss, the slow crumbling of the world she had been born into. But this was different. This was betrayal. Not from an enemy’s sword, but from her own blood.

Her father’s words spun through her mind, twisting like thorns. In a fortnight, her betrothed would send for her. In a fortnight, her life would no longer be her own. In a fortnight, she would belong to a Munro.

She pressed her forehead against her knees, her breath catching. The Munros. Their name alone turned her stomach. Every story she had ever heard as a child came flooding back. The night raids, the burning of crofts, the wailing of widows left behind. And now the Gunns would align themselves with that clan.

She wished her father had shared this scheme before he left, had given her a chance to wrestle with it, to formulate her own response. To what? To craft a way to refuse such a match? But would she have really done that? Nay. Her father understood her far better than she cared to admit. He knew she would bristle at the notion, which was exactly why he delivered his cruel ultimatum the way he did. And he knew, with an almost infuriating precision, that she would object fiercely, only to relent in the end, just as she always did.

A trembling laugh broke from her lips, bitter and hollow. “This is how the Gunns survive,” she whispered to the empty hallway. “We sell our daughters for cattle, protection, connections, and call it salvation.”

Destiny scrubbed at her face, drawing in a shuddering breath. She would not let her father see her broken. She would not give him that victory.

When at last she rose, her legs were unsteady, but her chin lifted. The tears had dried, leaving only a quiet, dangerous calm behind.

She turned towards where she had left Sorcha, whispering under her breath. “If I am to be bartered, then I will choose what remains of me.” And though her heart was breaking, a spark of something fierce stirred beneath the grief, something that felt almost like defiance.

Destiny began the slow walk towards the drawing room. Each step echoed along the corridor like a drumbeat of finality. When she reached the door, she paused, her hand hovering over the latch. For a moment, she wanted to turn away, to flee to her chamber and let the world crumble without her. But then she heard Sorcha’s soft humming from inside, the familiar tune of a Highland lullaby. The sound of it cracked something open in Destiny’s chest, and she pushed the door open.

Sorcha turned at once, her smile brightening, then fading at the sight of Destiny’s face. “What has happened?” she whispered, crossing the room in an instant. “You look as though you have seen a ghost.”

Destiny tried to answer, but no words came. Her throat ached, and the composure she had fought so hard to reclaim slipped away in an instant.

Sorcha caught her hands, gripping them tightly. “Tell me.”

Destiny shook her head, the tears rising again despite her will. “He has pledged me in marriage,” she managed at last. “To a Munro.”

For a heartbeat, Sorcha said nothing. Then her eyes widened, disbelief and anger chasing each other across her face. “Nay.”

“He has.” Destiny’s voice broke. “He has arranged it all. The heir will send for me in a fortnight.” She tried to laugh, but the sound was brittle. “Father said I should be grateful. That I would be safe. That I would thank him one day.”

Sorcha’s expression hardened. “Safe? With them? Has he lost his wits? The Munros would burn a kirk if it stood between them and what they wanted.”

Destiny’s hands trembled in Sorcha’s grasp. “He says their strength will protect me. That the cattle they offer and the coin it will produce will save the clan. But all I hear is the sound of chains.”

Sorcha pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her. Destiny resisted at first, stiff and trembling, but then she collapsed against her friend, clutching her tightly.

“I cannot do this,” Destiny whispered. “I cannot be sold like a beast.”

“Is there some relative you can flee to?” Sorcha’s voice softened, fierce with love.

Destiny shook her head.

Sorcha lifted her chin. “Then make the best of the situation. The Munro might take your hand, but not your soul. You will find a way to make this arrangement work, Destiny Gunn. You always do.”

Destiny closed her eyes, the comfort of those words sinking deep. For a long while they stayed that way, two women holding each other in the quiet flicker of the fire. When Destiny finally lifted her head, her tears had dried, leaving only a fragile calm. “Father thinks he has won,” she murmured. “But he does not know me as well as he believes. If I must marry a Munro, then I will do it on my own terms.”

Sorcha searched her face, apparently seeing the steel beneath the sorrow, and gave a single, resolute nod. “Aye then. We will face it together. I will send word to my brother that my stay is extended. I will travel with you to Foulis Castle so that you will not have to bear this situation alone.”

“Thank you, my friend. That means everything to me.” Destiny’s gaze drifted to the window, where the afternoon sun had begun to fade. “A fortnight,” she whispered. “Two weeks to say farewell to everything I have known and to prepare for whatever comes next.”

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 author of historical and contemporary novels including the Brotherhood of the Scottish Templars 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 thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Scottish Highlands. 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.

Photographer: Barbara Roser Photography

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