New from Mary Wine, the queen of sizzling, page-turning Scottish Historical romance
Passion flares between enemies
Two hotheaded Highlanders, the offspring of feuding lairds, are tricked by the King’s Regent into a desperate choice: marry or die. Bhaic MacPherson is more disposed to lead his clan into battle than stay married to the daughter of his enemy. But perhaps the intensity of his feelings has more to do with desire than hostility.
And the Highlands ignite
Ailis Robertson wanted a husband, not a savage—but when her family was faced with a deadly ultimatum, she had no choice. The union of a MacPherson and a Robertson could end three generations of hostilities between the two families, but can bitter rivals truly become lovers?
This February marks the release of Highland Spitfire, the first in Mary Wine’s new Highland Weddings series! To celebrate, Mary joins us on the blog to share an exclusive excerpt!
She looked back over her shoulder at Bhaic.
He was everything she detested. Hardened. Huge. Devil dark hair and ice cold blue eyes. Her father’s sworn enemy and his father hated her. He was glaring at her, hatred tightening his features. She fought to keep her own revulsion from showing.
She had to. The earl would keep his word. She had no doubt on that matter. None at all.
“It is a simple enough choice madam. Prayers for the living or the dead. Make your choice.” The earl instructed her.
What a poor marriage it would be. He hated her: not her nature, but her blood.
But she couldn’t be so selfish.
Better to be hated, than live with blood-stained hands.
She climbed to the altar and forced herself to kneel. It felt like her knees broke beneath the effort. Staying there took every last bit of self-control she had.
“A most sensible choice,” the earl purred victoriously.
“Me son will nae be wedding that Roberson,” Shamus MacPherson insisted.
“That’s on account of the fact that MacPhersons are too bloody selfish to think of anything but their own gain.” her father announced. “Me daughter is near gagging, but she will nae put herself above me life. Curse and rot ye Morton for using a lass so.”
“Me son is naught to gag over!” Shamus growled. “I’ve got plenty of offers.”
“And the only one that matters is mine,” the Earl interrupted. “I offer to end this feud through a marriage, or wipe out the lot of you who continue to persist in fighting over something your grandparents did. Captain, make ready to fire.”
“Ye’ll have yer way, Lord Morton.”
Ailis flinched, the timber of Bhaic’s tone cutting through her resolve. Panic was trying to take hold of her, the urge to bolt almost overwhelming. She gripped handfuls of her skirt, squeezing until her fingers ached.
“At least today ye will.” Bhaic stated. “Because ye are right about one thing, I will nae stand here and watch me clansmen die while I do nae face the same danger. But I say ye are a coward to fight yer battles through a woman.”
“Alliances have been made through marriage since the dawn of time. Even in the Highlands,” the earl stated. “Ye’ll wed that girl and end this fighting because your children will share blood.”
Oh hellfire. They would have to beget those babes together.
She couldn’t lay with Bhaic MacPherson!
Ailis started to stand, losing the battle to kneel so submissively. She could feel Bhaic closing the distance. Her heart was pounding, feeling like it might burst.
But a hard hand caught her wrist before she made it very far off the kneeling bar. Bhaic cursed low and long in Gaelic, earning a scathing look from the priest.
“Keep yer hands off me,” she hissed and jerked her hands in front of her.
He cut her a mocking look as the priest began the opening prayer. “That will make for an agreeable marriage as far as I am concerned.”
She felt the color drain from her face. Ailis looked toward the priest, but seeing him perform the motions of the sacrament of marriage gave her no relief at all. She glanced back toward Bhaic, but saw once again the horses waiting beneath the row of nooses.
She was caught just like a rabbit.
It was a horrible feeling, made even worse by the sight of Bhaic MacPherson kneeling next to her. The colors of his tartan were something she’d been raised to hate and fear. She’d seen many a widow weeping because his clan had fought with hers. The great hall of Robertson castle rang with curses against him so often, the priest on Robertson land no longer gave out penitence for them.
And she was wedding the worst one of all. The laird’s son, the next leader of raids against her own kin.
About the Author
Acclaimed author Mary Wine has written over 30 works of erotic fantasy, romantic suspense, and historical romance. An avid history-buff and historical costumer, she and her family enjoy participating in historical reenactments. Mary lives in California with her husband and two sons.