Lachlan’s
Bride
By: Kathleen Harrington
Blurb
He
is Lachlan MacRath, laird and pirate. And he intends to be her lover…Lady Francine Walsingham could not believe this fierce Highland warrior is to be her escort into Scotland. It is whispered that Lachlan MacRath has magical powers…how else do you explain why her countrymen call him the Sorcerer of the Seas? But trust him she must, for a treacherous plot is about to reveal all her secrets…and Francine has no choice but to act as his lover to keep her enemies at bay.
When Lachlan first sees Francine, the English beauty stirs his blood like no woman has ever before. As luck would have it, they must now play the besotted couple so he can protect her ….and Lachlan is determined to use all his seductive prowess to properly woo her into his bed.
PROLOGUE
May 1496
The Cheviot Hills
The Border between England and Scotland
Stretched flat on the
blood-soaked ground, Lachlan MacRath gazed up at the cloudless morning sky and
listened to the exhausted moans of the wounded.
The dead and the dying lay
scattered across the lush spring grass. Overhead the faint rays of dawn broke above
the hilltops, as the buttercups and bluebells dipped and swayed in the soft
breeze. The gruesome corpses were sprawled amidst the wildflowers, their vacant
eyes staring upward to the heavens, the stumps of their severed arms and legs
still oozing blood and gore. Dented helmets, broken swords, axes, and pikes
gave mute testimony to the ferocity of the combatants. Here and there, a loyal
destrier, trained to war, grazed calmly alongside its fallen master.
Following close upon
daylight, the scavengers would come creeping, ready to strip the bodies of
anything worth a shilling: armor, dirks, boots, belts. If they were Scotsmen,
he'd be in luck. If not, he'd soon be dead. There wasn't a blessed thing he
could do but wait. He was pinned beneath his dead horse, and all efforts to
free himself during the night had proven fruitless.
In the fierce, running
battle of the evening before, the warriors on horseback had left behind all
who'd fallen. Galloping across the open, rolling countryside, Scots and English
had fought savagely, till it was too dark to tell friend from foe. There was no
way of knowing the outcome of the battle, for victory had been determined miles
away.
He*l, it was Lachlan's own
damn fault. He'd come on the foray into England with King James for a lark.
After delivering four new canons to the castle at Roxburgh, along with the
Flemish master gunners to fire them, he'd decided not to return to his ship
immediately as planned. The uneventful crossing on the Sea Hawk from the
Low Countries to Edinburgh, followed by the tedious journey to the fortress,
with the big guns pulled by teams of oxen, had left him eager for a bit of
adventure.
When he'd learned that the
king was leading a small force into Northumberland to retrieve cattle raided by
Sassenach outlaws, the temptation to join them had been too great to resist.
There was nothing like a hand-to-hand skirmish with his ancient foe to get a
man's blood pumping through his veins.
But Lord Dacre, Warden of
the Marches, had surprised the Scots with a much larger, well-armed force of
his own, and what should have been a carefree rout turned into deadly combat.
A plea for help interrupted
Lachlan's brooding thoughts. Not far away, a wounded English soldier, who'd
cried out in pain during the night, raised himself up on one elbow.
"Lychester! Over here,
sir! It's Will Jeffries!"
Lachlan watched from
beneath slit lids as another Sassenach came into view. Attired in the splendid
armor of the nobility, the newcomer rode a large, caparisoned black horse. He'd
clearly come looking for someone, for he held the reins of a smaller chestnut,
its saddle empty and waiting.
"Here I am,
Marquess," the young man named Jeffries called weakly. He lifted one hand
in a trembling wave as the marquess of Lychester drew near to his countryman.
Dismounting, he approached the wounded soldier.
"Thank God,"
Jeffries said with a hoarse groan. "I've taken a sword blade in my thigh.
The cut's been oozing steadily. I was afraid I wouldn't make it through the
night."
Lychester didn't say a
word. He came to stand behind the injured man, knelt down on one knee, and
raised his fallen comrade to a seated position. Grabbing a hank of his yellow
hair, the marquess jerked the fair head back and deftly slashed the exposed
throat from ear to ear. Then he calmly wiped his blade on the youth's doublet,
lifted him up in his arms, and threw the body face down over the chestnut's
back.
The English nobleman
glanced around, checking, no doubt, to see if there'd been a witness to the
cold-blooded execution. Lachlan held his breath and remained motionless, his
lids lowered over his eyes. Apparently satisfied, the marquess mounted, grabbed
the reins of the second horse and rode away.
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Author Info
KATHLEEN HARRINGTON, winner of the Colorado
Romance Writers’ Award of Excellence, has touched the hearts of readers across
the country with her sparkling tales of high adventure and unending love. Her
historical romances have been finalists for the Romance Writers of America’s
RITA, The Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Awards, the Virginia Romance
Writers’ HOLT Medallion, and the Phoenix Desert Rose Golden Quill. Her fabulous
heroes have garnered the KISS (Knight in Shining Silver) Award. She lives in
Southern California.
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