The Wrong Highland Bride (Preview)


He watched the beautiful woman beside him as she opened her mouth to speak her vows.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

She was perfect to look at, a stunning highland lass with blonde chestnut hair that caught in the low light of the candles all around them. Her skin was silky and flushed from nervousness. Any laird alive would be pleased to stand in his place. He watched her mouth form the words of the holy vow, but the sound of it flowed over him without staying, as smooth as water.

“I give ye my body, that we two may be one…”

He knew he should feel something, that he should be caught in the holy mystery of this moment. Yet… he felt nothing.

“I give ye my spirit, ’til our life shall be done…”

He couldn’t bear the thought of this lovely lady, whose eyes reminded him of summer cornflowers, for whom he couldn’t muster even a smidgeon of desire.

Instead, his gaze drifted over her shoulder, snagging on the face of the bridal maid who stood behind her. For a moment, his breath stuttered in his chest. Her eyes were a striking blue, like the deep waters of a loch on the sunniest of days. He longed to dive into them, to plumb their depths, believing that somehow her eyes would take him away from this moment and release him from the terror he felt climbing inside him.

“Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

Her face was taut with an expression he couldn’t quite read, but then he could never completely read her face. Even now she was still a mystery, she stymied him at every turn. When he looked at her, all he could think of was how beautiful she was. She had the kind of beauty that inspired utter reverence as if she were the holy mother filling him with fear, want, and awe. It was right, he thought dazedly, to look at her in the little Kirk, surrounded by the holy glow of the candles, looking like a fearsome and wonderful angel.

“Laird Murray? Didnae ye hear me?”

A voice drew him back to the present. The priest looked at him significantly, and his future wife, with an expectant expression.

“Yer vow,” his brother reminded him, nudging him on the shoulder. It was a shock to realize he was still standing upon the altar, and not simply someplace else with the beautiful woman he so admired. He remembered that now he must speak. It was his duty to speak; his clan depended upon it, the safety of the blue-eyed maiden depended upon it.

“Forgive me, father,” his voice suddenly hoarse. “Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone…”

His voice trailed away as once again his eyes settled upon the maid’s face. She frowned slightly as if he were a frustrating puzzle or an opponent she could not quite size up. He felt exposed in that annoyed, combative glance, with her strong eyes and powerful will—a will he could not break but wanted to test. Oh, how he wanted to test it for all his days!

“My laird?” the priest prompted him, but he found he could not speak. All he could do was stare into her eyes. Was it his imagination, or did he notice glassiness in those pupils, as if they were filled with tears? The Laird of Clan Murray, albeit the most fearsome warrior of the highlands and Robert de Brus’ most powerful friend, was terrified at that moment. He found himself praying to the heavens, unable to form coherent sentences.

Oh, lady of light and all the saints above, help me. Can I marry her sister and live with myself? What shall I do?

When he looked into her eyes he knew.

Chapter One

Three days earlier.

“He wants me to do what now?” Scott exclaimed, slamming the missive down upon the great oak desk.

“Marry,” Magnus smiled, leaning back in his chair in the study. “Aye, ye cannae be too surprised about it, brother.”

“I cannae?” Scott raised his eyebrows and glared at his younger brother.

“The MacNabs need to be stopped, and the Menzies need the lend of your mighty strength,” Magnus shrugged in that typical way he always had. He smirked and waggled his eyebrows at Scott. “If ye didnae want to be thought of as the mighty right hand of Robert de Brus, then ye shouldnae have spent so much time in battle.”

“Battle is where I am useful,” Scott said staunchly, staring down at the hastily penned missive from his dearest friend in the Great Cause, Robert. When Robert had asked Clan Murray to join his cause, Scott hadn’t a second thought about it. He had gone into battle with his dirk ready and his axe swinging, but he had never imagined that Robert would find more use for him than just the throes of war. Scott wrinkled his nose distastefully. “This is… politics.”

“Aye, that it is,” Magnus nodded sagely. “John Balliol is a lucky man to have the support of the MacNabs. Ye ken how fearsome they can be.”

“Aye, I ken,” Scott muttered, remembering how he had faced Laird MacNab in battle the year before. He was not a warrior to be underestimated.

“And ye will ken how Laird Menzies didnae have sons,” Magnus continued. “Only lasses.”

Scott winced.

“Lasses willnae be enough to deal with MacNab,” he said quietly.

“Aye, which is where ye come in,” Magnus grinned, leaning forward. “Menzies has supported Robert’s claim to the throne since he was a lad. They kent him that long, ye see. For MacNab to start attacking their wee farms is a clearer attack on Robert as I never did see.”

“Ye think it’s Balliol behind it?” Scott asked shrewdly. “That he tries to discredit Robert’s claim by removing his supporters?”

Magnus spread his hands wide. “I cannae think why else Robert would suggest marrying ye to a Menzies lass.”

“Aye,” Scott leaned back in his great chair and sighed heavily. “I suppose ye must be right.”

“Aye, dinnae look so shocked, brother mine!” Magnus laughed. “’Tis kent to happen from time to time.”

Scott smiled knowingly. Of course, Magnus was right—he was the one of the three Murray brothers who had a head for politics. He was the one who advised Robert de Brus on how best to marshal political support, for which Robert was the hammer, fighting the opposition on the battlefield. Between them, they had established Clan Murray as one of the fiercest and most politically powerful in the Highlands. It did not mean they were invincible, though.

“It says here it is to be Alba,” Scott frowned at the paper. “Which one is she?”

“The older, the finer one,” Magnus said. “Delicate wee thing, pretty as if made from bone china.”

Scott remembered her and flinched.

“And he thinks such a lass will be suitable for me?” Scott exclaimed, gesturing at his massive physique. “I’d break the wee thing!”

“Aye, such a lass might be more suited for Tate,” Magnus smirked. Tate was the youngest of the Murray brothers. Taken to travel, they had not seen him at Castle Murray in over a year. “But the poor lad isnae the laird here.”

“I may be now,” Scott warned Magnus. “But we both ken who will be one day.”

Magnus’ face filled with thunder. “Ye cannae say such things,” he said furiously, eyes flashing. “Isnae for mysel, brother! Is for yer bairns, for yer son!”

“I have nae son.” Scott’s voice was harsher than usual. “I willnae ever have a son.”

Magnus looked at him pityingly for a long moment. “He was a bonny lad,” Magnus said softly. “God rest him.”

Scott could not accept his brother’s pity and quickly turned away, staring into the fire as he thought about all he had lost. His beautiful wife, Fenella, so ripe and lovely with child, then their stillborn boy and his wife dead in their marriage bed—his future ripped away in one fell swoop. He had kissed her cold forehead and every one of his dear son’s tiny blue toes before burying them both with his heart and vowing never to take another wife.

“Never again,” Scott said, his voice ragged with emotion. “I cannae do that to another lass, brother.”

“Ye didnae do a thing,” Magnus leaned forward, his eyes earnest. “It was the will of God, brother, nae one else’s.”

Scott wished he could believe him, but the guilt of their deaths weighed heavily upon him. Scott knew it could only be his fault. After all, if he had not been so hungry and greedy for an heir, a son to raise up as a warrior like himself and to take the mantle of Clan Murray when he was gone, then Fenella would have lived.

“’Twas my greed,” Scott said slowly. “’Twas my sin that killed them both.”

Magnus opened his mouth to argue but at that moment a scout appeared, hasting into the study and breathing heavily.

“Laird, there are commotions on the border,” the scout gasped. “Menzies and MacNabs!”

“Shall we send someone?” Magnus asked.

“Dinnae bother, brother,” Scott said, standing up and reaching for his axe. “I am in the mood for battle.”

“Holy mother, save us all,” Magnus muttered, reaching for his own helmet.


“But Da, I dinnae want to marry him!”

Evelyn rummaged through the trunk at the bottom of her and her sister Alba’s bed, looking for her bonnet. She moved with the utmost discretion, afraid of disturbing the fight going on between Alba and her father in the next room, but every move she made seemed amplified against the stone walls of Fort Menzies.

“Alba, my hen, it isnae as if we have a choice!” her father said, his exasperation almost tangible through the closed door. “We cannae protect ourselves alone, ye ken that?”

Evelyn winced. She longed to protect her family, to be the one who could defend them, but she was a woman. No matter how strong her skills with a blade or a bow, or how fast she could ride, no one would ever consider her a worthy protector of her home and her loved ones. Which is why she was forced to do what she intended.

Carefully, she pulled the bonnet cap from the trunk and piled her hair up inside it. With her hair hidden away and a tartan scarf pulled across her face, dressed in the same short trousers with a great cloak of plaid wrapped around her and the belt with her dirk slung about her waist, she could pass well enough for a young warrior of her clan. It was the only thing she could really do to offer protection to her family, even if it meant breaking the rules in ways that were decidedly not allowed.

“But he’s a beast, Da!” Alba exclaimed in the other room. “Laird Scott Murray isnae a man, he’s an animal!”

“On the field that may be true, hen, but he is made of man, I can assure ye, like none else!”

“What of the rumors?” Alba demanded. “They say he killed his own wife!”

“Now hush!” her father commanded loudly. “How can ye repeat such twitterings, lass? That he is strong and fierce is good enough for me! Ye ken we have need of such a lad around here.”

Again, Evelyn flinched and rolled her eyes. If only her father could see all the ways she was trying and succeeding to be just as good as any man would have been.

“I willnae do it,” Alba said staunchly.

“Ye will do what is asked of ye without complaint,” her father snapped in return. “I cannae rely on anyone else, can I? Nae laird in his good sense will marry yer sister!”

“She isnae so bad,” Alba protested, and Evelyn’s heart warmed to her sister’s defence of her.

“Nae so bad?” Her father laughed in frustration. “My hen, yer sister cannae be controlled by any man, and I willnae have the clans of Scotland telling far and wide that Laird Menzies has raised a bairn nae fit for good company! Ye ken the shame that would come!”

Evelyn only scowled at that as she cinched the belt around her waist. She hated how often her father brought up the shame she would bring the family with her wayward ideas, her dislike of tradition, and her desire to fight, lead, and ride. She simply wanted to be loved and appreciated by her family whilst doing her best to keep them safe.

“Evelyn is nae shame to ye, Da,” Alba said quietly. “She loves ye dearly, ye ken?”

Evelyn took a great shuddering breath and felt tears prick behind her eyes. Despite the fact that she and Alba could not be more different, Alba always stood by her side against her father.

“Aye, I do,” Laira Menzies sighed heavily. “I only wish yer mother were alive. She would ken what to do with the lass.”

Evelyn’s heart clenched at the sadness in her father’s tone, and she took a few steadying breaths, feeling her own melancholy threatening to overtake her.

Her dear mother had died in a village skirmish on their border when both girls were still young. She had given her life to protect them, and both Evelyn and Alba had nightmares about it, even to the present day. When Evelyn closed her eyes, she could sometimes see it—the fires in the village, the loud clash of swords, and Alba’s screams. In different ways, they had dealt with the loss of their mother in such a violent manner. Whilst Alba had diverted her fears and worries into caring for Evelyn and raising her, the latter had diverted her own anxiety into learning how to fight. She wanted to ensure that she would never, ever be in such a position again. She would never be defenseless and she would never let anything happen to her family, not ever again.

“I dinnae understand why she cannae be more like ye,” her father continued. Evelyn started at the pain of it. No matter how many times she’d heard this sentiment for most of her life, it never hurt as much as when her father spoke it.

“Evie tries, Da,” Alba said earnestly. “She was always going to be what she is now.”

Alba was everything an eldest daughter should be; she was beautiful, elegant, and mannerly whilst still being homey and kind. She had slipped perfectly into the role of Lady of Fort Menzies in their mother’s absence. She ran her father’s household, and all their tenants and clanspeople loved her dearly. Evelyn could never inspire that kind of devotion. She was far too fond of riding in the woods instead of making soap with the clanswomen. Yet, despite Alba’s daily frustration with Evelyn’s lack of interest in womanly pursuits, she always protected her from their father’s disappointment.

“Aye, I ken,” he sighed heavily. “Which is why, my hen, you cannae say ye shall nae marry Laird Murray. It must be, for the good of the family.”

For the good of the family. That had been her father’s motto her entire life. He always saw Evelyn as the daughter who cared nothing for the good of the family, even though she risked her life regularly for them all—not that he knew of it.

“I must go, hen, look after yer sister,” her father called out. “There’s been an attack on our borders, and I must ride out with the men.”

Quietly, Evelyn picked up her own shield, an old one from a soldier friend of her father’s, wincing as it clanked heavily against the trunk. She heard the conversation stop in the next room.

“Is Evelyn in there?” her father asked, and with silent footsteps, Evelyn flung open the door and raced to the stables. She hid in the back, stowing her shield underneath some hay until her father came down and mounted his stallion.

“The MacNabs have nae place on our land!” he bellowed to the clansmen. “We ride!”

They shouted their assent as they saddled up and Evelyn quickly snuck in at the back, mounting her own horse, her face well-hidden. Evelyn reflected as they set off on how ironic it was that her father had always thought she didn’t care enough about the family, and yet here she was, ready to fight and die alongside him.

As the wind whipped around her, Evelyn thought about the secret she kept buried deep beneath her shield, and her hidden face, that whilst she was a lass made for war there was nothing she hoped for more in life than a family of her own. Yet, it was true; who would want to marry and love a lass who had dreams beyond the confines of a castle?

Evelyn told herself not to think of it and instead turned her mind to battle.

Chapter Two

“Who is that?” Scott shouted to Magnus over the heat of battle. MacNab’s soldiers hadn’t been ready for the arrival of Laird Murray and his men; a few had turned tail and run as soon as they saw the Murray brothers dismounting, their eyes full of fire and rage. Laird Menzies’ men were holding their own fair enough, but there was a small lad on the edge of the field of battle near the wooded croft whose skill with a blade put them all to shame.

“I dinnae ken!” Magnus yelled back, turning his blood-flecked face toward the lad. The young man was wrapped up in a tartan scarf, and Scott wondered if he had some kind of deformity that forced him to cover himself. “He might need some help!”

Scott saw that the lad had taken on a MacNab soldier who was about four times his size and, despite his skill, the lad could never hope to defeat such a giant. Scott ran forward with a battle cry, lunging between the giant and the lad, forcing him back against one of the trees in the small woods, quickly disarming him and slamming his own forehead against the head of the soldier, quickly knocking him out. Scott gritted his teeth against the pain before turning to look for the lad, hoping to ensure the young man was alright, but he was met with a sword swinging at his face.

“Jesu!” Scott exclaimed, quickly raising his axe to push the lad back. “What are ye doing, lad? Are ye nae fighting for the Menzies?”

The lad simply stared at him and began fighting him with such nimble quickness that Scott was almost cut down by his sword. Scott was able to hit the boy around the head with the hilt of his sword with only a quick duck and roll, which the young lad had clearly not expected given Scott’s height and weight, and he crumpled to the ground. Scott stood over him, panting heavily and staring in awe at the unconscious lad. Nobody had fought him so fiercely in a long time, not since his own father had trained him in battle. Who on earth is this lad?

“What happened?” Magnus ran up, out of breath.

“The lad near skewered me!” Scott exclaimed, kicking the boy’s sword away, just in case.

“Is that so?” Magnus looked down at him in astonishment. “One of Menzies’ lads, is he nae?”

“Perhaps he has a grudge,” Scott shrugged, rubbing the blood off his forehead.

“Or perhaps he is nae too fond of yer potential wedding,” Magnus frowned thoughtfully. “Or he could be a wee assassin.”

“Dinnae be fooled by his size, brother,” Scott said sternly. “He’s plenty fast, and skilled.”

“Well then, best we bring the lad back tae camp,” Magnus said. “Question him. Work out if he’s just a wee lad with an affection for the lady Alba, or something worse.”

“Aye,” Scott said, watching as Magnus slung the lad over his shoulders and then looked at Scott in amazement. “He dinnae weigh a thing!”

“Well, all the easier tae ride with,” Scott said practically. “Let us be away.”

As they rode the short way back to camp, Scott wondered about the slight boy who was laid astride Magnus’ horse. Where had he learned his skill? Why would Laird Menzies have kept such a warrior a secret? And if the boy wasn’t one of Laird Menzies’ men, why was he on the field of battle, and why was he so angry with Scott? Could it be as Magnus suspected, that the lad was enamored with the young lass he was expected to wed? Scott could see the boy struggling against Magnus’ hold by the time they arrived at the quick camp their men had set up on the edge of Murray land.

“As wriggly as a sprat in a net!” Magnus called, tossing the lad over his shoulder, and striding toward the old barn where the men had built a fire. “Got something to hide!”

Scott groaned inwardly and followed his brother, turning to glare at his men.

“Dinnae bother us,” he said sternly, stepping inside and closing the rickety door beside him. Shafts of moonlight illuminated the barn floor and Magnus dropped the lad on it. He instantly scuttled back until he hit a beam, his eyes sharp and full of fire. Even now, Scott could see the lad was calculating how to get out. He’s nae ordinary lad, that’s for sure.

“What is yer name?” Magnus asked, folding his arms, but the boy remained silent.

“Are ye deformed?” Scott asked abruptly, gesturing to the scarf wrapped tightly around the young man’s face, only revealing his sharp blue eyes. The lad simply glared back at him. Scott felt his patience snap and he reached to tug the scarf away from the boy’s face. “Well, if ye willnae tell us—”

“Nae!” the lad exclaimed, and those small sharp hands gripped Scott’s wrists, scrabbling at him, but Scott was stronger. In a minute he had stepped back holding not only the lad’s face scarf, but his bonnet too. Scott stared down in amazement.

“Holy lady in heaven,” Magnus whispered. “’Tis a lass.”

Scott stared at her. Her chestnut locks curled around her head, her bare face was sharp and guarded. She was beautiful, too, as she glared up at them, breathing heavily like a fox caught in a trap.

“Ye almost killed me!” Scott exclaimed at the lass. “Yer a lass and ye—who in hell are ye?”

The eyes didn’t change despite the unveiling; her blue eyes were so sharp they reminded him of dark early morning skies, lit with the same fire and repulsion as they had been when she nearly ran him through with her sword.

“A lass,” Magnus repeated, shaking his head. “Well, Menzies would never let a lass fight his cause.”

“A spy then,” Scott said grimly. “Or an assassin.”

“A poor assassin,” Magnus said. “Ye are still alive.”

“Was a close thing,” Scott muttered, kneeling to stare at the lass. “Come lass, ye must ken we cannae harm ye now. Tell us who ye are.”

She said nothing, merely raised her chin, staring contemptuously.

“We could make ye talk,” Magnus said sternly.

“Aye,” Scott said, quickly realising the progress of Magnus’ thoughts. Of course, they would never intend to harm a lass, but she didn’t need to know that. A few threats here and there wouldn’t hurt. “I could give ye to my men. See what they make of ye.”

He expected her eyes to show fear, but they didn’t. Instead, her hand flashed to her belt, and suddenly she was on her feet, a dirk in her hand.

“Let me go,” she said. Scott was astounded to hear her voice. She didn’t sound like the other lasses he’d met, whose voices were soft and tender to match their lovely features. This woman’s voice was sharp and fierce as if she was used to issuing orders.

“Now, now,” Magnus said quickly, spreading his hands in a conciliatory gesture, deliberately giving Scott time to circle to the right and when her eyes darted to Magnus’ hands, he sprang forward to grasp her wrist, twisting it upward and releasing the dirk. He expected her to cry out and fall back again, but instead, a firm kick met his knee, as if she intended to engage him hand-to-hand.

“Ye wee minx!” Scott growled, steadying himself and quickly kicking her feet out from under her in retaliation, dropping her to the floor and stepping back. “How dare ye!”

“Let me go!” the lass shouted, glaring up at him from the floor. He felt a growing exasperation with her boldness and commanding nature.

“Lasses dinnae scream at me like harpies,” Scott said coldly, towering over her.

“Aye?” the lass returned, raising one amber eyebrow. “Didnae get a good look at ye, did they?”

Magnus snorted with laughter behind him while Scott growled.

“Quiet yer tongue!” he demanded, stepping closer, expecting her to recoil. “Or I shall take it from ye!”

“I’d like to see ye try!” she scowled back. “Ye great brute!”

Scott looked down at her, trying to ignore the feelings that were building up in his chest. Scott stood over six feet tall, was broad and strong, and was well aware of his reputation both on and off the battlefield. He was used to lasses looking at him with fear and intrigue, not glaring up at him with fire in their eyes like her. He could not help it. His lower regions tingled with unsettling, untimely desire.

“Brother,” Magnus pulled him away from her, dropping his voice to a low tone. “Seduce the lass.”

“Ye cannot be in earnest,” Scott hissed at his brother. “She is more monster than lass!”

“Oh, aye, I’m sure,” Magnus rolled his eyes and looked his brother up and down, clearly seeing the way Scott’s body betrayed him against his will.

“’Tis only the heat of battle,” Scott said gruffly.

“Aye, for sure,” Magnus smirked. “But she may still be armed.”

“And ye wish me to unclothe the lass?” Scott exclaimed, mentally denying that the thought of her unrobed in his bed inflamed him entirely.

“I wish ye to do what ye can,” Magnus said, his gaze hardening. “We need tae ken who she is. There has nary been a lass who willnae lie with you, brother. Put it to good use.”

Scott scowled at his brother, clapping him on the shoulder as the latter turned to exit the barn, leaving them alone. Scott rubbed a hand over his face and stared up at the ceiling. He was not the type of man who would take a lass against her will; he had never been that kind of man. Magnus was right; he never struggled to find a bonny lass to warm his bed on a cold night, but this was different. This was a lass who seemed she would sooner die than lie with him.

Scott sighed. He turned back to look at her. She glared at him and yet her eyes were watchful. If she had been a wild dog, her hackles would have been raised. Perhaps that is how to approach her, Scott thought, as if she were a wild horse.

Violence would only get him kicked in the shins and it was clear that was exactly what this soldier lass expected. He would have to try tenderness. Scott slowly unbuckled his belt, his weapons still attached and dropped it outside the door along with her own dirk. He closed the door and showed her his empty hands.

“What are ye doing?” she asked, sounding wary for the first time since she had spoken.

“I am unarmed,” he said simply, walking at a slow pace as he would approach a nervous mare.

“Then ye are a fool,” she scorned, but there was a deep furrow between her brows as if his behavior was entirely beyond her understanding.

“Perhaps,” he said calmly. He stood about a foot away from where she sat on the floor, still wreathed in her cloak. Magnus was right; she may still be armed, and he might still be at great risk from her. He needed to find a way to check, but he knew if he forced her she would fight like a rabid dog. “Will ye nae stand up and face me?”

It was the right decision. The lass scowled but immediately stood to her feet.

“I faced ye on the field of battle, and I’ll face ye here!” she spat, eyeing him. Scott slowly lifted his hand but held it away, determined not to force his touch. The lass is like a wild horse, he told himself firmly. Be gentle, slow, and keep your hands visible, he told himself.

“Will ye dare to let me touch ye?” Scott said quietly.

“Why would I?” she asked with narrowed eyes.

“I have shown ye I am unarmed,” he said quietly. Her eyes widened at his gentle tone. “Will ye not show me the same grace?”

She stared at him for a long moment and then nodded, her chin outthrust stubbornly.

“Alright,” she said. “Ye can touch me, little good may it do ye.”

Scott nodded and slowly extended his hand to the belt at her waist, worn like all soldiers over her cloak and trousers. He slowly unbuckled it and tossed it aside, knowing from its weight that it held no other weapons. It was a strangely alluring act, this gentle undressing of a lass who had been so vicious. He could tell from her incessantly watchful stare that she thought of it as nothing more than a standoff between two soldiers—a way of showing her worth and mettle. Yet, as she sought to prove herself masculine, he could not help but see all that was feminine about her. Slowly, making sure she could see his hands, he raised his fingers to the brooch at her shoulder, unclipping it so the cloak that covered her fell loose to the ground.

There she was, suddenly more beautiful than anything he had ever seen before. Desire thrummed through him. He wondered distantly if he would ever feel this kind of desire again once he was married to the Menzies lass. He wondered what would happen if he moved his fingers to gently cup the odd lass’s cheek and kiss her with all the intensity of his want. Would she kick him as she had done before? Would she melt into his touch, or would she pull his hair, curse him, and scream like a banshee?

“What?” she demanded, her voice wavering slightly. Scott noticed she had not flinched from his touch where his hand rested on her exposed collarbone. Perhaps she was trying to prove herself, or perhaps it was something else.

“Ye are… strange,” he whispered, “in yer man’s shirt and trews.”

“Yer nae the first man tae call me strange,” she struggled to maintain her scornful tone, but never removed herself from his touch. Her blue eyes never left his face. “So, I am unarmed. Are ye satisfied?”

Scott found he could not stop staring at her lips. Her defiance was like wine in his blood, making him dizzy with want, and suddenly he could no longer control himself. Whatever she might do, he was willing to risk. His want had taken over his mind and he could not turn back.

“Nae,” he whispered, leaning forward to capture her lips with his.


If you liked the preview, you can get the whole book here

Not at all Likely Extremely Likely

  • Intriguing and fast pace start to the story. The characters are strong and well depicted. Looking forward to reading this book.

  • Cold water, please! Kenna, your introduction to Scott and Evelyn is scorching hot, hot, hot! How is Scott going to get out of marrying the wrong bride?

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