Page 1 of Highlander’s Bride

Prologue

The Borderlands, 1306

She would finally be his wife.

Raghnall’s heart slammed in anticipation as he patted the ring in his pocket. His horse trotted down the foot-worn road to Mòrag’s farm. Clumps of dandelions and foxtail flanked the path, and sunbaked, open pastures could be seen through the scruffy brush and trees.

The whirring of crickets and grasshoppers, the chirping of birds, and the wind rustling came together into a happy melody, as though they all knew he would finally propose to marry the woman he’d loved. He began to hum along, enjoying the scents of flowers among the weeds, dust, and sheep manure…and something else.

His humming died.

He could smell the smoke even though he didn’t see the house. His stomach dropped as he spurred his mare, his sword flapping against his back as the horse galloped up the hill.

She’s just firing up the oven, he told himself, just using wet firewood…

He couldn’t hear anything beyond the drum of his horse’s hooves. As bushes and trees flashed past him, and the scent of smoke grew stronger, he knew he was lying to himself.

Mòrag knew how to fire up an oven. She’d been doing it since she was twelve years old. And, as a widow, she’d been living without a man’s help for six years. No one cut her firewood, no one fired her oven, and no one brought her game for a stew.

And then he saw it, behind the hill, among fluffy clouds—the dark-gray wall of smoke rising into the windless blue sky like a tower.

His whole body went numb. He didn’t feel his feet lifting and his heels digging into the sides of his mare. “Come on, lass!”

His horse neighed, and the kickback of air told him she’d darted forward. Finally, as they crested the hill, he saw what he’d already known.

Mòrag’s farmhouse was on fire. As was her barn, her shed, and the field of barley.

And then, in the small courtyard formed by the surrounding farm buildings, he saw a female figure lying on the ground and a smaller figure holding her.

Nae, nae! Please, Jesu, nae…

Raghnall didn’t realize he was whispering as he spurred his horse forward furiously, galloping down into the valley.

This couldn’t be her. This couldn’t be Mòrag, and her son, Seoc, not today…

Not ever…

Not when Raghnall was finally ready to wed the woman he loved.

Because if it was her, it would destroy him.

Closer and closer he rode, and the rip in his heart grew wider. He coughed from the black smoke and the ashes in the air. He strained to see, though he was afraid to know for sure.

Only as he rode through the broken, hanging gate that led into the farm could he clearly see the long red hair spread on the black ground.

“Mòrag!” he yelled.

The boy raised his red-haired head, face ashen, lips trembling, just a six-year-old lad holding his mother, who was covered in blood. Raghnall rode into the farm and jumped off the horse, barely letting it stop. He staggered as he landed, not caring if he broke a leg.

“Mòrag…” he whispered as he dropped to his knees by her side.

His hands shook as he took her hand in his, eyeing the gash in her side from where blood was oozing. The skirts of her simple, dark-red dress were lifted up past her knees, and there were fresh finger marks on the exposed, creamy skin of her legs…

Legs he’d never touched, no matter how much he’d wanted to, no matter how many times she’d suggested she would like him to have her, even out of wedlock.

Helpless rage shook him, and he felt his chin tremble as his teeth clenched to the point that his jaw hurt.

“Mòrag,” he whispered, meeting her golden-brown gaze clouded by pain. “Hold on, love. We’ll stop the blood and I’ll take ye to Carlisle…”