HEART OF A SCOT SERIES LAUNCHES!
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PURCHASE TO LOVE A HIGHLAND LAIRD
I am so excited! My HEART OF A SCOT series is launching today. You’ll be introduced to one sexy Highlander a month for eight months, starting with Logan Rutherford!
EXCERPT
Leaping forward, he’d somehow managed to close the distance in the blink of an eye. The alternative, splayed on the ground in a wholly unladylike fashion, possibly injured didn’t bear contemplating.
She found herself clasped to a marvelous, solidly-muscled chest, while equally impressive, firm arms cradled her shoulders and legs. The barest hint of mahogany whiskers shadowed the angular breadth of his neck and jaw—mere delicious inches away—and she forgot to breathe.
What a magnificent specimen of manhood. And he held her in his arms. Hopefully, he’d never let go.
Quite the most spectacular, fortunate accident ever to befall a maiden.
When her faulty lungs decided to function again, the most pleasant masculine scent filled her nostrils. Not a heavy fragrance, but a fresh, crisp, yet slightly musky scent—perhaps a hint of ale and tobacco, too.
She inhaled a thorough, prolonged breath. Probably indecorous, that, although neither Mum nor Bettie had ever specifically warned her against sniffing gentlemen amid their other rigid advice.
Who was he?
Why hadn’t she seen him in Glenliesh before?
Perhaps he only traveled through their unremarkable hamlet?
Och, of course he did. The small village offered little in the way of entertainment or commerce.
Why did the thought cause such profound disappointment?
Mayra wasn’t free to harbor romantic notions; not even in the most secret, most remote recesses of her mind. Well, fine, perhaps in the most clandestine, most isolated niches that even she daren’t peek at except once or twice.
In the dark of night.
With her head buried beneath her thick coverlet.
From the cuaran boots enclosing the gentleman’s feet to his nutmeg-colored jacket and dark blue waistcoat, the stranger’s attire shouted quality. Hatless and tartan-free as he was, she couldn’t hazard a guess as to his clan, or if he even boasted Scottish heritage at all.
Might he be a Sassenach?
A Frenchman?
Perhaps, but his vivid coloring implied Scots or Irish.
He cocked his russet head, and his eyes, an unusual but enthralling shade between summer moss and toasted almonds, glinted merrily at her. An unhurried smile bent his strong lips, revealing a charming dimple in his left cheek and further crimping the corner of his twinkling eyes. From the creases also framing his strong, still upturned mouth, it appeared he smiled habitually.
Instead of mortification engulfing her—as would be appropriate—of its own accord, her mouth swept upward, accompanied by a wave of sheer and wholly foreign giddiness.
And by rumbledethumps, she, Mayra Effie Lilias Findlay, was not the giddy, gay, flibbertigibbet sort.
She didn’t flirt or bat her eyes, or send secret messages to handsome gentlemen with her fan or gloves as Gaira was wont to do.
Perfectly content, Mayra made no effort to leave the blissful security of his arms, and he seemed disinclined to release her as well. And at five feet eight inches, she wasn’t a wee sprite of a lass either. Yet his arms didn’t tremble or shake with the exertion. In fact, she might’ve been a child, so effortlessly did he hold her.
Rather made her feel dainty and feminine.
And ever so naughty.
She peeked over his wide, sturdy shoulder.
Och and rot.
Bettie—Mum, as well—would cluck and fuss something awful, when they learned a man had held her—in public, too.
They would know soon enough, since a few villagers had seen her ungraceful tumble, and even now stood gawking at the attractive stranger in their midst.
The young ladies in particular seemed enthralled. They stared brazenly while striking provocative poses and thrusting their bosoms out, the whole while tittering about the “braw mon” with the wavy auburn hair.
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I hope you can also join me for a two-hour takeover on my Dragonblade Publishing’s Facebook page Nov. 15th from 3:00-5:00 PM Pacific time!
