The Highland Warrior Chronicles Collection Prequel EBOOK & 1-4 EBOOKS (Five eBooks)

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HER REBEL SCOT

Tavish O’Eochaid, favored son of the King of Dal Riada, has no plans to settle down until forced to by duty. But when he enters Pictland on a diplomatic mission, he’s captivated by an enigmatic noblewoman, who hides secrets in her eyes.
Bound by blood to the shadow of the royal court, Catriona cannot afford to fall for the charms of a visiting Scots warrior. As a chosen one of her goddess, she knows where her duty lies. Yet as her visions of a splintered future grow ever darker, she risks everything for a few stolen hours in his arms.
But when betrayal rocks the foundations of Pictland herself, Tavish must choose between sacrificing his honor – or surrendering to his enemy, for the woman he has grown to love.

HER SAVAGE SCOT

When Connor MacKenzie rides into Pictland on a mission for his king, he never expects to be captivated by a beautiful Pictish widow. Drawn under her spell, yet unaware of her identity, he risks everything for one passionate night in her arms.
Aila, princess of Pictland, long ago turned her back on her goddess, and swore she would never marry again. But after meeting Connor, her frozen heart thaws and she imagines a future filled with love.
When he delivers the royal message, Aila becomes a pawn in a deadly game of politics. Her heart belongs to Connor, but she must marry the prince of Dal Riada – his half-brother. But as dangerous secrets unravel, both Connor and Aila must find a way to outwit their enemies and face the shadows of their past if they want a chance of surviving, together, in this fractured new world.

HER VENGEFUL SCOT

The only reason Scots warrior Cameron MacNeil agrees to go to Pictland is so he can have vengeance on the Pict noble who killed his sister. He has no intention of falling for anyone, especially not a pagan princess who is married to his enemy. But when fate throws them together, he struggles to contain his attraction.
Caught in a loveless marriage, Elise has no means of escape. But as a fragile friendship forms between her and the tough Scots warrior, she knows if they want to survive this alliance between their people, they must trust each other. As she opens her heart to her taciturn warrior, she imagines a life together, even if it’s an impossible dream. And then her husband turns up dead, releasing her from the vows she’s come to dread.
When danger threatens her life, Cam risks everything to keep her safe from his king’s machinations. He should be happy now his enemy is dead, but guilt cripples him at the secrets he must keep, for if Elise ever discovers the truth, he’ll lose her forever.
But Elise has a secret of her own, one she is blood bound never to reveal. Even if keeping it means she’ll lose the only man she’s ever loved.

HER BASEBORN SCOT

Tough Scots warrior Finn Braeson dreams of finding a gentle lass to love and share his life with. But when he is commanded by his king to marry the princess of Pictland he has no choice. It’s the only way to protect his mother and younger stepsisters from the king’s wrath. But before he can wed the elusive princess, he must first go undercover and find her.
Bound by a deathbed promise to her husband to never reveal her true identity as the princess of Pictland, Mairi is a fugitive in her own land. Following her beloved goddess and the omen of the Blood Moon, she’s determined to avenge her people against the upstart king, and has no intention of falling for the silken charm of any Scots warrior. Except Finn is like no other man she has ever known, and despite the danger of discovery, and the secrets she must keep, she cannot resist his allure.
Captivated by the wit of the beautiful Pictish lady who has ensnared his heart, Finn craves for a future with her. But when betrayal rocks their fragile alliance, they must fight the political intrigues that surround them and put their trust in each other – or risk being torn apart forever.

HER WICKED SCOT

Sent into Pictland to discover the identity of a desperate assassin, Ewan MacKinnon fights his fascination with the aloof princess, Briana. Although he wants nothing more than to take her into his arms, he won’t taint her with the curse that has blighted him all his life.
After her first disastrous marriage, Briana is determined to dedicate her life in service to Pictland and her beloved goddess. But her goddess is elusive, sending only visions of a splintered future–a future that is tied irrevocably to the one man she fears could shatter her heart forever. The enemy of her people, Scots warrior Ewan MacKinnon.
Coerced into a marriage of convenience, Briana and Ewan battle both duty and desire as political intrigue tightens its noose around them. But with the assassin edging ever closer they must forsake the shackles of their past and risk their fragile love for a chance of surviving an ultimate betrayal.

HER REBEL SCOT

Chapter One

The Kingdom of Fortriu, Pictland. Summer, 795

Lady Catriona Magaidh of Fortriu threaded a string of emeralds through the hair of Clodrah, the youngest Princess of Fortriu, as she sat upon a stool in her bedchamber. The younger woman was not making it easy as she kept turning her head to admire how the jewels glittered in her hand mirror, but Catriona knew better than to reprimand her.
They might be half-sisters, but Clodrah was a royal princess while she was merely a thorn to be tolerated in the court of Forteviot.
“I cannot wait until the barbarous Scots arrive,” Clodrah said, for perhaps the tenth time that day. “How exciting it shall be! Do you think they will try to ravish us, Brilicie?”
Brilicie, a princess from the Kingdom of Circinn, laughed. “Indeed, I do not. I’m certain they wish to keep their heads attached to their necks.”
Clodrah gave a dramatic sigh. “But how thrilling it would be.” Her gaze caught Catriona’s in the mirror. “Don’t you think so, Catriona?”
She could see nothing especially thrilling in being seduced by a foreign warrior who likely would not even recall her name in the morning. “Illicit affairs are for married women, my lady.”
As they all well knew. And while Clodrah could dream of such delights, it would be a scandal beyond imagination if an unwed noblewoman, never mind a princess, indulged so.
“But I am not to wed until next summer.” Clouds fell across Clodrah’s face, and she stood, clutching the hand mirror to her breast. “To an old man.”
Sympathy raked through her. The king had made the announcement in the spring, and Clodrah had been inconsolable at the prospect of being wed to a man more than twice her age. Her mood had only lifted when the Scots from Dal Riada, on the western coast of Pictland, had accepted the invitation to the royal wedding of Clodrah’s older sister being held at the end of the week.
“Your husband will be devoted to you,” she said, as she secured the final emerald in place. “You will be mistress of a fine palace, and answer to no one.”
Ah, what bliss such freedom would be. To not have the constant fear in the back of her mind that she was at the mercy of a king’s fickle whim. Somewhere she could freely share her thoughts and not worry about bringing unwanted attention upon her head. It was unlikely she would ever find a husband to cherish, but how dearly she longed for a small hillfort she could call her own home.
At least when Clodrah wed, she would accompany her half-sister to her new palace, and escape the shadow of Forteviot. And at last, she would be able to carve out a future where she did not rely upon royal charity.
But that was her most deeply held secret. If anyone should discover the small inheritance her mamma had sewed into her girdle, she would be left utterly destitute.
“You do exaggerate so, Clodrah. Thirty-one is not such a great age.” Brilicie smoothed the fabric of her rich, iridescent blue gown and Catriona smothered the flare of envy. For ten years, since she had been admitted to the court as a rejected nine-year-old, she had worn nothing but dove gray or similar muted hues, as decreed by the queen. She should be used to it by now. Yet deep inside, the childish wish remained to wear beautiful, vibrant gowns like these princesses who were the closest thing she had to friends.
“It is all very well for you,” Clodrah retorted. “Your husband is far from here, and you may take your pick of wild Scots’ warriors to liven your nights.”
“I’ve no desire for a wild Scots lover.” A blush heated Brilicie’s cheeks. She had been wed a year and seemed content in the choice of her lord. “My husband pleases me well enough.”
The door that led to Clodrah’s antechamber burst open, and several young noblewomen entered, in a rainbow of resplendent gowns and sparkling jewels. They could not look grander if it was the royal wedding this day, but their efforts were for one reason only.
To catch the attention of the visiting Scots.
“My lady,” gasped one, pressing a hand to her breast as she dropped a curtsey to Clodrah. “We have heard the most delightful gossip. My serving woman overheard the Scots’ advance envoys talking in the kitchens about their princes. Two royal princes are arriving, my lady, and they are of such strength and beauty as to dazzle all of Pictland.”
Catriona bit her lip, so she wouldn’t laugh at the outrageous comment. But it seemed she was alone in thinking the Scots’ envoys overstated their masters’ attributes. She stepped back from the ladies and picked up the precious mirror that Clodrah had dropped upon a table. If it was inadvertently damaged, it would not be the princess who faced the queen’s displeasure.
“Papa believed only one prince was accompanying the King of Dal Riada.” Clodrah sounded enraptured by the disclosure. “I am determined to ensnare at least one of their princes and have him declare undying devotion to me. I shall not go to my marriage bed untouched by true passion, as my dear sister has been forced to do.”
The noblewomen sighed at such romantic notions, and a strange flutter of sorrow filled Catriona’s breast. It had been so long since she’d harbored secret dreams of finding a man to love, a man of honor who wouldn’t care about her tarnished heritage. But no nobleman wished to potentially pollute his own bloodline by wedding a woman who had been rejected by her own family, nor risk the king’s possible displeasure by taking her as a mistress.
She had no intention of being any man’s mistress. But how wonderful it would be to have a great warrior confide that she was his reason for living.
Enough. Such girlish fantasies would bring nothing but heartache.
“To be sure, it will be entertaining to flirt with these savage Scots,” Brilicie said. “But beware of anything else, my dear Clodrah. We know so little of their ways.” Brilicie’s glance caught hers. “What do you say, Catriona?”
The other noblewomen darted her guarded looks. They never quite knew how to treat her, when both the queen and the elder Princess of Fortriu avoided acknowledging her existence whenever possible.
She ignored them and focused on Clodrah. “Lady Brilicie speaks the truth. The Scots are, after all, our enemies.”
Annoyance flashed across Clodrah’s face. “We are not at war with them at present. And that is all that matters. The great goddess herself has whispered in my ear and shown me how it shall be. Who am I to dismiss her word?”
As the noblewomen fluttered around their princess, unease crawled along Catriona’s spine and she shivered, even though the chamber was not especially cold. But dread always assailed her, whenever Clodrah boasted of the connection she shared with their beloved goddess, Bride.
Bride had been sparing in bestowing her gifts for generations, and it was a great honor to be blessed so. But Clodrah, despite the mystical aura she loved to weave about herself, was not a chosen one of the goddess.
Catriona knew this in her soul, as though Bride herself had shared the knowledge.
But this continuing sense of foreboding that echoed in every heartbeat, was something she had never experienced before. She grasped her fingers together, willing herself to remain calm, when every sense she possessed screamed at her to leave the chamber before this unnamed fear suffocated her.
There was no need for such alarm. Clodrah liked to have her own way, but she wouldn’t be foolish enough to give her maidenhead to a Scots warrior, even if he were a prince.
Yet it was more than that. Bride was powerful and even if her influence had waned from the ancient times, with the advance of the new religion from Rome, she was not a goddess to be trifled with.
Not a goddess who would allow her sacred name to be taken in vain without retribution.
Brilicie came to her side and in silence they watched the ladies as they exclaimed over the wondrous pronouncement. After some moments, the Princess of Circinn gave her a sideways glance.
“Have you seen this also, Catriona?”
Panic flared in her chest. For so long she had hidden the truth, and even though she knew she could trust Brilicie not to betray her secret, caution was a harsh master to overcome. The gift, after all, was allegedly bestowed upon royalty only. Brilicie was the first to be truly blessed by the goddess in more than forty years, and her status in the royal courts of Pictland was unparalleled. “My lady?”
“Bride has been elusive since the announcement that the Scots’ would attend this wedding. I understand your reticence to confide, and yet…” Brilicie shivered, as though the same misgivings haunted her as they did Catriona. “I should dearly love to acknowledge another chosen one of our beloved goddess.”
There was no point denying it. “It is too dangerous.”
“Perhaps. And yet you possess royal blood, even if it is not spoken of.”
Her royal blood was nothing but a curse. And yet it was the very reason why she had been chosen by Bride.
Years of hiding her precious connection with Bride warred with the desperate need to share the dark fear that had grown ever deeper during the last few months. Her mother’s voice echoed in the back of her mind, from when she was six years old and still unaware of the betrayal that tainted her blood and would soon shatter her sheltered life.
Never tell anyone that the great goddess has taken you for her own.
She had kept her promise to her lady mother, Magaidh. But Brilicie knew, from the insight that only another of Bride’s chosen ones possessed. She drew in a ragged breath and cast an anxious glance at her younger half-sister.
“I fear for the princess,” she whispered. “Ever since the Scots accepted the invitation to Fortriu, there has been a shadow on the sun that I cannot explain. And whenever my lady Clodrah speaks of Bride in such a manner, I feel the goddess’ wrath.”
It was a relief to share that burden at last, but when she caught the troubled gaze of Brilicie, any reassurance she’d harbored that the princess might dismiss her concerns as mere foolishness, withered.
Brilicie shared the same fears.
“We must ensure the princess does nothing to endanger herself with these foreign warriors.” Brilicie’s voice was so low, she had to lean closer to hear. “But she must never know, Catriona. We know how she loves to go her own way. But until the Scots are gone from Pictland, I fear she will never be safe.”
Catriona inclined her head. She agreed with all Brilicie said. But disquiet still lingered, deep inside, a relentless misgiving that both she and Brilicie were missing something fundamental in the goddess’ warning.
Something that would irrevocably change everything they had ever known.
*
Catriona joined the other noblewomen in the great hall, to await the ceremonial arrival of the Scots. Despite her precarious position within Forteviot, royal etiquette dictated she took her place among the most highly born ladies in the land. Unfortunately, that meant she was standing next to the dais, where the royal family would sit. Where the king, if he chose to glance this way, could not help but see her.
They had not exchanged a word since she’d joined the court, and she was thankful for it. Her heritage was tainted but if her royal blood was ever acknowledged, any hope she harbored of escaping the shadow of Forteviot would vanish. She would become a desirable prospect for those with ambition, and she had no wish for the king to reward one of his faithful advisers by giving her to him as a bride.
If only she could wait at the other end of the hall, by the doors, far from the king’s possible notice and the queen’s disdainful glance. But as it was, she would have an unimpeded view of the foreign warriors, as they exchanged diplomatic pleasantries with their hosts.
And where, doubtless, the princes would attempt to dazzle every lady their roving eyes chanced upon.
The royal family entered the hall and sat on the carved chairs upon the dais. At once, the double doors at the far end of the hall were flung open, and the Scots marched in.
Excitement rippled through the ladies by her side and even though it went against her better instincts, she couldn’t help following everyone else, and craned her neck to catch an early glimpse of their erstwhile enemies.
Her heart slammed against her chest and the breath stalled in her throat as her gaze snagged on a truly magnificent warrior. With hair as black as midnight, a beard that gave him a breath-stealing wildness, and biceps that caused her mouth to dry, he fairly swaggered, apparently oblivious to the ladies that flanked the hall who sparkled with jewels and attempted to distract his attention.
“Goddess, save us,” breathed Lady Fyfa, the noblewoman by her side. “Is that barbaric creature one of the princes?”
“He must be,” said another. “Such arrogance in his bearing. I am quite overcome.”
“I am determined to have him in my bed,” Fyfa said.
“Not if I can help it,” remarked the second and, as one, both women broke etiquette and took half a step forward.
Catriona had the overwhelming urge to follow them, but thankfully the sight of the Scot had not stolen all her good senses. Besides, she would not humiliate herself by letting the other ladies know she was as entranced by the stranger as they.
She pressed her lips together and tried to calm her erratic pulses. This was madness. A fleeting glance should not affect her so. Yet she couldn’t drag her bewitched gaze away as the royal entourage drew ever closer.
Several of the Scots turned admiring eyes to the ladies by her side, but the black-haired warrior—who surely could be none other than the eldest prince of Dal Riada—appeared indifferent to their charms.
He drew level to her. So close, she need only reach out, and she would touch him. As though he heard her errant thought he glanced her way, and she gasped, transfixed, as his dark gaze caught hers.
His confident march faltered, and time itself suspended, spinning an ethereal web around them both. The hall receded, the murmur of the nobles faded, and then he smiled at her, and she was lost.
For an eternal heartbeat, the entire entourage halted. It was scandalous and she should break this dangerous connection, but she was captivated by the admiration glowing in his eyes. Unaccustomed warmth flooded through her before the prince – he could be none other—inclined his head at her, another blatant breach in etiquette.
The spell shattered and she blinked as he proceeded the few extra steps before pausing before the dais. She did not hear the formal greetings. A thrilling buzz filled her head, like the time she had indulged in too many goblets of wine at Clodrah’s betrothal in the spring.
The ladies by her side shot her bemused glances but she didn’t acknowledge them. This magical moment would pass soon enough and once again she would fade into the background. But for now, she drank in the truly splendid sight of the Scot’s broad shoulders, encased in a rich saffron shirt that showed his magnificent biceps to fine advantage.
He had not yet said a word, but his commanding presence mesmerized, and she had a scandalizing vision of tugging her fingers through his wild black hair that brushed his shoulders.
A delightful shiver chased over her arms at the prospect, even though it would never happen. But goddess, how she wished it might.