Heart of a Scot Series,
A Scottish lass determined to end her betrothal…
As an infant, Mayra Findlay’s hand was pledged in marriage. So closely has her virtue been guarded, she’s never been permitted a beau—has never even flirted with a man. Though she’s repeatedly written her negligent intended—a man she’s seen but once over a decade ago—asking him to break the agreement, her requests have gone unanswered. However, after a chance encounter with a dashing rogue who sets her pulse and imagination cavorting, Mayra initiates a scheme that’s sure to force her affianced to call off their union.
The laird who must make her his at all cost…
Logan Rutherford, Laird of Lockelieth Keep, has no intention of taking to wife the lass a long-dead king decreed Logan should wed as a lad of six. But when he learns his late father spent the portion of Mayra Findlay’s dowry entrusted to his care, and left him a near bankrupt estate, Logan’s plans to petition the king for a reprieve are ruined. He needs Mayra’s remaining dowry to save his beloved Lockelieth. Determined to know just what type of woman’s he’s reluctantly taking to wife before they exchange vows, he assumes his cousin’s identity; a decision that soon has him snared in a tangled web of deceit.
The stranger’s arresting hazel eyes meshed with hers, jarring her to her toes. And then he smiled—a dazzling flash of teeth in his tan face.
In a twinkling, her mind went blank as a sheet of fresh foolscap.
In a completely foreign fashion, Mayra become all gangly limbs, caught her toe on her hem, and with a strangled squawk—somewhere between a crane’s whoop and a sheep’s bleat—toppled right off the cart.
Into his arms.
Oh, curdled custard.
Leaping forward, somehow, he’d managed to close the distance in a blink of an eye.
She found herself clasped to a marvelously, solidly muscled chest, while equally impressive firm arms cradled her shoulders and legs. Gazing at his neck and jaw—mere delicious inches away—the barest hint of mahogany whiskers shadowed the angular breadth, and she forgot to breathe.
What a magnificent specimen of manhood. And he held her in his arms.
Quite the most marvelous 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 Mama nor Bettie had ever specifically warned her against sniffing gentleman.
Who was he?
Why hadn’t she seen him in Glenliesh before?
Coming Summer 2017!