1601 Highlands, Scotland

He should have locked her up when he had the chance. His sisters were the bane of his life. Aedan MacLeod, Laird of Druiminn Castle, stormed toward the small cottage his youngest sister Gwen used while treating the sick and infirm.
Not even the calming view of the ocean could tamper his temper. The fact he’d heard whispers from the servants that Gwen was “up to something” as they’d put it, had given him enough cause to chase her down today and demand an explanation and a promise that she was not.
“Gwen!” he called out as he neared, hearing the muffled reply from inside. He burst through the door, startling the elderly woman who was hobbling out. Aedan waited for her to go before shutting the door and catching his sister’s gaze. “I’ve heard whispers.”
“Whispers?” She smiled and his annoyance increased. “What sort of whispers?”
“You’re forbidden to use magic, Gwendolyn. We’ve had this conversation before and it’s certainly not one I want to repeat.”
“Och, I am in trouble when ye use my full name. Tell me what you’ve heard this time. I’m sure it’s nothing to concern yer wee mind.”
“The servants are talking about ye. Stating how ye’re all secretive again, sneaking away to this cottage at all times of day and night. Picking lots of herbs and such.”
“Herbs ye say.” Gwen laughed, walking over to a nearby cupboard and getting down a bowl. “And this equates to magic?”
“I know what ye are capable of, lass. Dinna think for one moment I’m not aware of what could happen to you, or this family, should it be known. You know as well as I, ye’d be dead and there’d be nothing I could do for ye.”
She waved away his concerns and started to pummel lavender flowers with a mortar and pestle. She continued with her tasks, ignoring him. “Well,” he prompted.
“Brother, I’ve been using magic since I was a babe and no harm has been done. It’s the same now. Ye worry too much.”
“I know you’re up to something, and I demand to know what it is. Braxton mentioned it to me yesterday after he came back from visiting ye here.”
“Braxton told ye, did he? That’ll teach me to trust him.”
He watched as she took her frustration out on the plants that hung from a wooden rack above her work table. He dismissed the flicker of guilt that he’d possibly caused trouble for his fellow clansman and glowered at Gwen instead. She pulled the leaves off with enough force that the rack rocked above their heads.
“He was concerned. Ye know the lad loves ye, and like me, he doesn’t like you putting yourself at risk. So tell me what I want to know. Why are ye being so secretive all of a sudden? What are ye planning?”
She shook her head, her red curls bouncing over her shoulders. “Nothing at all. I assure ye. I’m behaving myself, as the laird’s sister should. Do not worry, Aedan. Everything will turn out for the best.”
“Yes, but what is this ‘best’ ye speak of? That concerns me.”
She didn’t reply, merely shrugged. Aedan fisted his hands. Obstinate, pigheaded wench. “Ye better not be trying to meddle in who I choose for a wife. ’Tis none of yer business, and I willna take nicely to ye using magic to sway women to warm me bed.”
She slammed down the pestle and glared back at him. “I assure ye, I would never interfere in your grand plans for a wife. I know you’ll marry someone who has an opinion, a mind, and the willingness to share their thoughts when required.”
“Your sarcasm isn’t appreciated.” He walked toward the door of her cottage and placed his hands on his hips. Better there than her neck. “Ye know what I want in a wife and I’ll find her myself. So if ye don’t mind, and if ye don’t want me to lock ye in the castle dungeons, you’ll behave and keep out of my business. I may not know what ye be planning, but I know you’re up to something and no doubt it’ll involve me. I’ve put up with a lot of ye tricks over the years, but with the clans coming for the games, it’s time ye grew up. I’ll no longer stand for it.”
His sister curtsied and he ground his teeth. He might as well be talking to a stone wall. “Dinna push me on this, Gwen.”
“Of course not, brother. When have I ever not listened to ye?”
He sighed and cursed as he left before he was tempted to strangle the idiocy out of her. Why couldn’t his parents have had sons? Brothers, right at this moment, seemed like a blissful thought indeed.

1605 Highlands, Scotland

Ben stormed up the stone stairs leading to his private room in the keep, the eerie quiet of the castle at odds with the clawing panic that coursed through his body. The servants looked away as he passed them, each of them not willing to meet their laird’s eye. It was probably best that they did not, for at this very moment, Ben wasn’t sure what he would do should he see fear, sadness…pity, even, in their gazes.

The long corridor toward his chamber was dark, the lanterns not yet lit for the evening, and he yelled out orders for the sconces to be lit. Muffled chatter sounded from behind his wife’s door, along with her sweet voice that was broken with intermittent sobs.

He entered and read the room easily. The castle healer sat at the bedside, the old woman’s brow furrowed in worry and compassion. The redness of Aline’s eyes gave her despair away, and he joined her, pulling her tight against his chest. “What is wrong, lass?” She sobbed again, and he looked to the healer for enlightenment. “Tell me what causes this distress?”

The healer sat back, folding her wrinkled hands within her lap. “The babe has been born and is now with a wet nurse. You have a son, Laird. A healthy babe who’ll grow up and do you proud, I’m sure. But what we thought was a twin sibling is nothing more than a hardened mass that will never be born or heal with time.”

Ben frowned, leaning back to gain Aline’s attention. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” the healer said, standing, “there is nothing further I can do here.” The elder placed her hand gently on Aline’s brow. “May God bless you, my child.”

Shock tore through him at the implication of the woman’s words and the finality of them. “There’s no second child?” He took a calming breath, his heart too fast in his chest. The room spun, and he clasped the headboard for support. “Are ye sure?”

“Aye, I’m sure. ’Tis a miracle that you have a healthy child at all, but Lady Aline will unfortunately not recover from this birth. The birth of the boy has caused this mass to bleed—slowly—and it will not abate. I’m sorry, my laird.”

Aline sobbed against his chest, and he rubbed her back, not wanting to believe the healer’s words. “Leave us,” he barked, watching as the woman hobbled out of the room.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I? I’m too young to die.” She sniffed, and tears burned behind his lids. He hated to see her like this, scared and desperate for salvation.

“The old woman is mistaken. I’ll send a rider tonight to Castle Druiminn. Aedan will have Gwen come at my summons and see to ye. I know she’s there visiting after the birth of Aedan and Abby’s second child.”

“’Twas a boy, was it not? I’m happy for them.” Aline looked up at him, her beautiful face blotchy and red, either from the birthing ordeal or from crying, Ben wasn’t sure. “I had hoped to give ye two strong boys, but at least we have one. I hope I’ve not been a disappointment to ye.”

He shook his head. “You were never a disappointment to me. I know we had an odd beginning, but it’s been an honor having ye as my wife. I hope I’ve not been a disappointment to ye, either.”

Her pale hand reached out and stopped his words, her fingers cold against his lips. “You never were. ’Tis impossible for ye to be so.” She slumped onto the bed. Ben studied her person and noted the ever-growing stain of red that spread upon the bedding. “I will send word straight away.”

Standing, Aline reached out and grabbed his arm, shaking her head. “There is no time. Just promise me one thing, please.”

Ben sat back down, taking her hand and fighting the gnawing ache opening inside his chest. “Anything, lass.”

“Watch our precious lad. And as often as ye can, tell him how much I loved him. How sorry I am that I didn’t get to see him grow up into the man I know he’ll become. One like you: strong, capable, and kind, if not a little savage around the edges.”

Her weak smile wobbled, and Ben nodded, the lump in his throat denying him the ability to speak. “Of course,” he croaked out. “I’ll not let a day pass without such a reminder.”

“I’m so cold.” The shiver that rocked her sent panic through his gut.

No!

She closed her eyes, and fear that she’d passed tore through him, followed by relief when he noted her shallow breathing. Ben lay down beside her, pulling her into the crook of his arm. Her hair smelt of roses, fresh and pretty, and he cursed the ailment that would take her life. “I have ye, lass.”

“Ye always did,” she said as her last breath left her body, and she stepped into the hands of the Lord.

Ben pulled her hard against him and did something he’d never done before in his life. He cried.

Druiminn Castle 1410, Scotland

Boyd Macleod, chief of the Macleod clan, stood before his stronghold, staring down the Fae who threatened him and those he loved. "You will not take her!" he roared, fear and panic threatening his control. The Fae Queen smirked to his outburst.

His wife stood behind him. He could not see her, but knew she would be as defiant as he, standing tall and proud, a sword in her hand and ready to die this day if it meant that they would be separated.

He would not let them take her. Never.

The Fae Queen gestured to Sorcha. "Mayhap, I have not been clear enough, Chief Macleod. Sorcha's mother, a Fae Princess, was granted the child's life on the condition that she would be returned to us on her five and twentieth year. She is half-Fae, after all, and does not belong in your dirty, ancient world." The Fae Queen cast a scathing look about his land, disdain on her face as she gazed up to the castle itself, the curtain wall protecting his four-story tower castle that his father finished building late last century. It was one of the best fortresses in Scotland, and she dared to mock it. Ridicule him and his people.

"I doona care what deal you had. Sorcha doona belong to you. She belongs here with me. With our people."

"No, she does not," the queen said, her tone bored. "No matter what iron you wield toward me, it will make no difference here. I could strike you down with a flick of my hand and take her anyway, take you and your men's life away." The queen's eyes seemed to glow, and for a moment, Boyd thought she may do what she threatened before seemingly thinking otherwise.

"If I do not take Sorcha, she will die here this day. I always collect on what is due to my kind, but I shall gift you something in return, Chief Macleod."

"I doona want anything from you. No more deals will be made here. Not today or ever."

The queen smiled. She was a beautiful woman, her long, flowing white hair sparkled as if the precious metal of silver was threaded into her locks. Her eyes were fiercely blue, as ancient as his land, and all-knowing. A powerful being that, although standing in long, white robes that appeared angelic to anyone who viewed her, the being was as cold as ice and her soul as hard as rock.

"Boyd," Sorcha whispered behind him, clutching his arm and showing the first signs she was scared. Hell, he was afraid, not that he'd ever admit to such a fault, but he was. Sorcha was everything to him. He could not lose her.

"Aye." He turned, clasping Sorcha's arms. "’Tis alright, lass. I'll not let them harm you."

Tears welled in her eyes, and she cast a glance in the queen's direction. "I doona want to go. I'm not a Fae. The tales are untrue," his wife declared, her voice breaking on her last words.

Boyd pulled her against him, stroking her long, white locks, so similar to the Fae before them, and he knew that statement to be a lie. She had come to him as a young woman looking for a husband, her parents seeking an alliance. Sorcha was small-boned with striking features, otherworldly, and he had been captured by her beauty. He had fallen in love with her the moment he'd seen her. His only regret in their marriage was the absence of a bairn. No matter how much they had tried, they had not been blessed by children of their own.

Keeping hold of Sorcha, he unsheathed his sword, holding it at his side. His men, armed and behind him, did the same, and the sound of metal sliding against metal rent the air. A fog descended over the land, and a biting wind accompanied it. An ominous sight, and he could feel his men's alarm, their fear of the change of the elements.

"Do not disappoint me, Macleod. A deal is a deal. If you do not obey my decree, Sorcha will be no more. If she does not come with us now, she will die. The choice is yours."

There was no choice in such a decree. His mind roared with alarm, with hate and anger. How dare the Fae Queen do this to him and his people? If she chose, she could leave Sorcha alone, let her live out her life here with him. He knew the Fae to be fickle, untrustworthy, and cruel when they wanted to be, but this… This was beyond evil. There were no words for such an act.

"Sorcha is mortal. To take her makes no sense. Leave her be. Mayhap we can exchange something else, coin or land."

The queen laughed, the sound echoing through the land, mocking his words. "I have no need for your riches, Chief Macleod. The child is to be returned to us. Her mother has paid for her crimes of siring a child with a mortal. Now that child is grown and can return to the people she should always have known."

"This is my family. I doona want anything to do with the Fae," Sorcha yelled out over the wind.

But it was no use. No matter how they pleaded or what they offered, nothing but Sorcha would satisfy them. They would take his wife and his life along with it. For to live without her was equivalent to death itself.

The queen raised her hand, sweeping it over his armed men. The sound of clanging metal, of bodies falling onto one another, met his ears, and Boyd turned to see his men still as death.

"Do not be alarmed. They are not dead, merely sleeping. Once Sorcha is with us, they will wake." The queen held out her hand toward Sorcha, her confidence that his wife would go with them spiking a fury inside Boyd he had held dormant.

But no more.

He charged forward, raising his sword. The queen's eyes flared as he came within striking distance, but then he was floating above his lands, his ability to move stripped from him.

The queen's face morphed into something angry and displeased. She no longer radiated light and calm, but darkness, her gown changing to black instead of white, the silks swirling like an angry sea.

"That was uncalled for, Macleod, and I cannot stand for such insolence. Come." She reached for Sorcha. His wife fought the command, turned, and tried to hold on to the men lying at her feet, but like an unknown force, she was pulled toward the queen.

Panic tore through Boyd, and he struggled in his invisible chains, the movement like swimming through a fast-moving current, heavy and impossible to gain traction. "Stop, please, doona take her." He would beg if he had to. This was his wife, his love. He could not have her stolen from him.

"Say your goodbyes. You will not see her again." The queen took Sorcha's hand, and with horror, Boyd watched as his wife seemed to lose all her fear, anger, and panic. Her face relaxed to the beautiful curves he knew so well, that he had traced with his fingers, had kissed when they made love. Her woolen gown made of the clan's red, blue, and green colors fell from her body and was replaced by a long, white, flowing robe, barely appropriate to retain honor.

"Sorcha will be happier with us, Macleod, but we thank you for your care toward our princess."

Sorcha looked up at him, a small frown between her brow. "I love you, Boyd." Her whispered words carried off into the wind.

"No," he roared, "doona take her. No!" Boyd fought against his bonds, but it was no use. He was captured, held above the ground, and as useless as the Campbells.

The Fae and Sorcha disappeared. The queen remained, stared up at him, a smirk marring her lips. "She will be happy with us and live forever, but you'll never see her again. But do not despair, Macleod, for I have something for you too, just as I promised."

"I doona want your doaty gift, shrew," he seethed, conceiving a hundred different ways he'd like to lob off her head.

"Had you cooperated, I would not need to bestow upon you anything, but now I must. You defied our laws. You loved a Fae and sought to keep her here in the human world where she did not belong. Punishment must be served," she said, her eyes glowing alarmingly bright. "I curse you with immortality. You shall live as long as the Fae you valued so dearly. An eternity without the one you love until your heart is full of another. The people you love, your clan and family shall grow old and die, while you, Macleod will be forced to watch. No strike against you will save you from this curse. Not even one against yourself."

He would never love again. No woman could compare to his wife. Sorcha was his heart and soul. "I welcome the curse, for if only to give me time to seek justice upon you." Boyd gained pleasure at the queen being taken aback by his words. Good, he wanted to insult her, scare her, let her know that one day, may it be a week or a thousand years from now, he would have his vengeance.

The queen shrugged one delicate shoulder. "Well then, I suppose you shall live forever. Open your heart, Macleod, and your pain will be over. Fight me on this, and you shall forever dwell in your darkness, your anguish and resentment." And then she was gone.

Boyd dropped like a stone to the ground, making an oomph sound when his gut landed against a rock. He stared at where he'd seen Sorcha last, the sound of his men gaining their wits behind him.

He stood, turned to face his men, despair swamping him. He'd lost the only woman he had ever loved. His life. He raised his eyes and found his men, some still on the ground, staring at him as if they'd seen a ghoul.

"Chief," Corey, one of his guardsmen gasped, pointing at Boyd's head. "Your hair, ’tis white."

Boyd grabbed a lock of his hair and started at the sight of it. Gone was his dark-red brown hair, and in its place was the coloring of the Fae. He could not speak, did not know what the change meant. Or if it were simply the marking of the curse now in place.

The sound of laughter floated through the trees, and he turned, glaring at the woods, knowing the Fae Queen was watching, enjoying her foolery.

"Laugh all you like, but know that one day I shall have my revenge on you. I promise on my own heart's blood," he yelled, slicing across his hand with his dirk. Blood pooled in his palm and slid down his arm. He fisted his hand, raising it to the sky. "I will not die until I see your head upon the ground. See who is laughing then."

The laughter stopped, and he turned, striding back to Castle Druiminn, past his startled men's faces and his staff who went about their chores.

Today, he may have lost everything, but tomorrow was a new dawn. A new day to plan, plot, and ultimately act. He would get Sorcha back, and he would kill the Faery Queen, and he would not die until he had done so.

To Conquer a Scot

Time-traveling isn’t what Abigail Cross had in mind for her Scottish vacation, nor was a potential marriage to the Laird Aedan Macleod. The fact that the obnoxious, yet hot, and definitely sexy Highlander sees the world very differently than she does, is beside the point.

Aedan Macleod knows what he wants in a wife, and Abigail certainly doesn’t meet his Highland standard, even though he must rein in his desire because beautiful, opinionated Abigail would never suit as a laird’s wife.

Tempers flare yet passion is undeniable, as Abby navigates her way in seventeenth-century Scotland. When two rival clans threaten the maddening twenty-first-century minx who’s captured Laird Aedan’s heart, the mighty Highlander is willing to sacrifice everything to keep Abigail safe.

To Save a Savage Scot

Kenzie Jacobs is fascinated by a portrait of the roguish Highlander, Black Ben, which hangs in her ancestral home. There’s a mystery surrounding his death, and Kenzie longs to solve it by traveling through time to 17th century Scotland—and perhaps meet the gorgeous laird who haunts her dreams.

Black Ben, Laird of Ross, suited his dark name more than ever since his wife died in childbirth. He has vowed never to marry again. But Kenzie is an intoxicating elixir and even more potent than whiskey. As confusing and crazy as she may seem, he can’t get her out of his system. But there’s no way they can ever work, as she does not fit into his plans.

Fate has brought them together, and Ben can’t stop Kenzie from returning to her time, though he would do anything–except marry her–to keep her with him. Kenzie has a life to get back to but leaving her favorite, though infuriating, Highlander behind, might be the toughest thing she’ll ever have to do.

To Win a Highland Scot

Fate brought them together—or was it something else entirely?

The Fae took everything Scottish warrior Boyd Macleod had. Cursed and alone, he existed for a hundred years but never truly lived. Not until she arrived. The Sassenach is quick-witted, outspoken, and entirely too beautiful for his peace of mind. She stirs in him a hunger he hasn’t felt in…he can’t even remember how long. Now, that hunger won’t be quenched by anything short of possessing her—mind, body, and soul—forever.

Maya Harris has no idea what kind of strange magic threw her into the past. All she knows for sure is that she doesn’t belong here. She can’t afford to let herself get too attached to Boyd. The powerful, sensual Highlander is not for her. But the longer she spends with him, the harder it becomes to remember why she shouldn’t give in to his heated seduction…

A river of time flows between them. Will love be enough to bridge it? Or will Boyd and Maya remain star-crossed forever?