Highland Heather Romancing A Scot Series,
Knowing you can never be together, would you still sacrifice everything for the person you love?
A desperate Scottish lady
Lydia Ferguson—the sole surviving heir to the Laird of Tornbury Fortress—has lost nearly everyone she loves. Now her father lies on his deathbed. And as if this isn’t dire enough, he’s invited men from the surrounding area to a warrior’s contest—the winner to claim Lydia as his bride. Still grieving a lost love, Lydia wants nothing to do with an arranged marriage… Unless, perhaps, the groom is Alasdair McTavish
A Scotsman dueling with his past
Alasdair McTavish, son of Craiglocky Keep’s war chief, is a seasoned warrior in his own right. So when he’s sent to Tornbury to train the Ferguson soldiers, he’s more than equal to the task. When Lydia confides her father’s cockeyed plan to choose her husband, Alasdair is forced to confess he can’t help. Although he’s given the brave, beautiful laird’s daughter his heart, he can never offer her his hand.
A danger unseen
When a dangerous adversary makes a move against Lydia, a dastardly scheme comes to light, and Alasdair realizes only he can protect Lydia. Can these brave Highlanders rid Tornbury Fortress of evil, and find a way to a happy future?
Read an Excerpt Here
A few feet inside the room, Lydia spun around and planted her hands on her hips. “Pray tell me, what you’re doing? Why are you so upset and acting like a savage? I but spoke the truth. I’m not your responsibility.”
Alasdair leaned against the door, his eyes hooded, and an almost predatory demeanor about his large form. His lips twitched with her last fiery declaration, but he kept stoically silent.
His untamed hair hanging nearly to his shoulders, golden stubble shadowing his face’s chiseled planes, and an unfathomable, wild glint in his steely azure eyes, accented his Viking ancestry. All he needed was a battle-axe and round shield to complete the image of a fierce, marauding Norseman.
And she wouldn’t mind all that much if he’d laid siege to Tornbury.
She feared he’d already done so with her heart.
Oh, the plundering hadn’t been the overwhelming bedeviling of senses as Flynn’s had.
No, Alasdair’s onslaught had been a subtle, insidious seduction, snaring her before she even realized she’d been led into a trap.
He smiled then, that charming, tempting bending of his strong mouth which, despite her pique, towed at her reluctant heartstrings and sent a frisson of excitement coursing through her pores.
His absurdly broad shoulders and marbled muscles appealed to her femininity. Why must he be so deliciously masculine?
Still, he owed her an explanation for lugging her into the drawing room like an errant child.
“Well?” Widening her eyes, she leaned forward a mite, demanding an explanation, irritated at his highhandedness and her wanton response. “What, you’ve nothing to say now? After you dragged me in here, like a crazed, uncivilized barbarian?”