Winning the Highlander's Heart

Winning the Highlander’s Heart

Terry Spear

Vintage Romance Publishing

Goose Creek
, South Carolina

www.vrpublishing.com

Winning the Highlander’s Heart

Copyright ©2006 Terry Spear

Cover illustration copyright © 2006 Patricia Foltz

Printed and bound in the United States of America.  All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher.  For information, please contact Vintage Romance Publishing, LLC, 107 Clearview Circle , Goose Creek, SC  29445.

Some of the characters named in this book did exist; however, the author took creative license with mannerisms, speech, and dialogue. All other characters are purely fictional and have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

ISBN:
0-9785368-3-5

PUBLISHED BY VINTAGE ROMANCE PUBLISHING, LLC

www.vrpublishing.com

Dedication

I dedicate my story to my mother who sells my books before they are ever published and believes they should all be made into movies.

“Milady!”  Mai, the Countess of Brecken’s lady-in-waiting, threw the door open to Anice’s guest chambers at Arundel Castle, then slammed it.  Two gray curls fell loose from the woman’s plaited hair, her ivory cheeks flushed.  She breathed in rapid, shortened breaths, and her gray eyes were round.  “His Grace is headed this way.  Lady Anice, ye must hide.”

‘Twas folly for Anice to think she could avoid the king’s unwanted solicitations for long.  And she, his wife’s cousin.

“I am not hiding, Mai,” Anice scolded, “I am making myself unavailable to his...charms.”  She tied the rope to the bed leg, then ran to the nearest window and tossed the other end out.  If the English ladies of her cousin’s court had not treated her with contempt because of her Scottish heritage, she would be visiting with the queen and could save herself the trouble of fleeing from the king’s attempted seduction, again.

“Och, milady, you cannot mean to—”

“Aye, Mai, I mean to.  Delay His Grace should he come knocking at the door.  And for heaven’s sakes hide the rope.  Tell him I am with Her Grace sewing in her solar.”  Anice lifted the full skirt of her bliaut and chemise underneath and scrambled atop the embroidered cushion on the stone window seat.

With heart pounding, she peered below.  ‘Twas a shame it opened on the inner bailey of Arundel Castle where women washed garments in large wooden barrels, the blacksmith pounded on an anvil, sending sparks flying, and beyond, noblemen’s sons thrust and parried wooden swords on the warm summer day.  Still, since everyone was a goodly distance and preoccupied, mayhap no one would notice her slipping down a rope from the second story window.

Mai wrung her hands.  “Milady, what if ye should fall?”

“You are not helping me, Mai.  Hush.  I have done this many times before as a wee lass.”  But this time was entirely different from her many escapades of the past.  ‘Twas difficult enough to find a husband who would live long enough to give her wedded bliss, but she was not about to be tupped by a lusty king who already had a wife.

Anice tugged on the rope and when it held, she climbed onto the stone sill.  Grasping the rope, she swung over the edge and held on tight.  Her arms strained while she wrapped her legs around the rope and began to shimmy down.

A pounding on her chamber door produced a rash of chill bumps to trail along her arms.

Across the courtyard a man shouted, “Milady!”

A streak of panic shot into her bones as she clambered down the rope.

Couldn’t a lady take a walk in the kitchen gardens—even if she got there by extraordinary means—without causing an uproar in the king’s staff?

The thud of hooves galloped on the grassy earth in her direction.  She cursed under her breath.  She needed no horseman’s help to descend a rope.  Her hands slipped on the coarse hemp and her heartbeat quickened.  She was a wee bit out of practice.

“Drop to me!  I’ll catch you!” the man’s deep, sexy voice shouted with a distinctive Scottish burr, as he guided his horse beneath her.

She snorted.  If she dropped to whoever stood below her, no doubt her skirts would fly up around her ears.  “’Tis nay concern of yours.  Move away.”  She meant to speak her words harshly, commanding the man to do her bidding at once, but her voice sounded way too soft and overmuch like pleading.

She glanced down at him sitting astride his roan destrier.  Belted at the waist, a pleated saffron wool tunic rose to mid-thigh, exposing his brawny muscular legs.  The narrow tunic sleeves stretched down his arms, widening at the wrist, revealing large hands that clutched his horse’s reins with a fierce grip.  Her gaze drew up his massive chest to his dark brown hair, highlighted with reddish strands hanging loose about his broad shoulders, framing and at the same time softening the harsh angles of his face.  He had a manly nose that befit Scottish royalty, a sturdy square chin that tilted toward the heavens, and lips women begged to kiss.  Not a Norman or a Saxon, but a handsome devil of a Highlander.  ‘Twas not his broad shoulders and chest that gave her pause, but his furrowed brow and darkened brown eyes that compelled a longer look.

Her fingers slid again and her heart leapt into her throat.  The man quickly stood in his stirrups, his hands outstretched ready to catch her.

“Jump, lass, and I shall catch ye.”

A sprinkle of perspiration trickled between her breasts.  ‘Twas not too far to fall, only one more story now.  If she landed on the gentleman, he’d no doubt break her tumble nicely.  She continued to slide down the rope, her arms quickly wearying.  At twenty, she was getting much too old for this.

The rough rope tore at her tender flesh.  Her fingers burned.  Trying to ignore the pain, she clenched her teeth and lowered herself further.

“Milady!”  The man grabbed at her.

When he caught her foot, she nearly fell and gasped in surprise.  She kicked his hand away.  “I do no’ need your help.”  Not unless the hand belonged to a Highland laird who wished to take her away from here and back to her home without delay.

His hands slid up her hose-covered leg and rose to her naked thigh.  She screamed out in shock.  What in heaven’s name were his hands doing up her chemise?

“Sorry, if you would quit your squirming—”

“You are no’ a gentleman,” she snapped, and let go of the rope before the rider manhandled her much more, landing squarely in his lap.  He groaned as if she’d caused him pain.  Here she thought he looked strong enough to wage the toughest battles without concern.

His large, capable hands curved around her waist with a possessiveness she should be resenting, though she couldn’t help wish he’d carry her away home again and free her from the king’s advances.  The Highlander smelled of horse, leather, and man—incredibly intriguing—but way too close for comfort, yet she breathed him in like it was her last breath.

Huskily, he retorted next to her ear, “And ye, lass, are no’ a—”

Before he could utter another word, she hopped from his horse, catching the hem of her bliaut on his stirrup.  Mortified, she nearly ripped the fabric, trying to yank it loose.  How many courtiers watched her antics now?  She worked on her gown, too busy to find out.  Perspiration freckled her brow and her skin grew as hot as the armorer’s fire.

“If you would allow me, lass, to free it, you would not show off your chemise or other more remarkable qualities.”  He grinned broadly and tugged to release her hem.  His dark brown eyes now nearly black smiled back at her.  Dimples punctuated his bronzed cheeks, but it was the raw look of lust that shook her to the core.