Highlands Scotland Quotes

To see the years touch ye gives me joy", he whispered, "for it means that ye live.

I thought the force of my wanting must wake ye, surely. And then ye did come. . ." He stopped, looking at me with eyes gone soft and dark. "Christ, Claire, ye were so beautiful, there on the stair, wi' your hair down and the shadow of your body with the light behind ye…." He shook his head slowly. "I did think I should die, if I didna have ye," he said softly. "Just then.

America Is A Gun England is a cup of tea. France, a wheel of ripened brie. Greece, a short, squat olive tree. America is a gun. Brazil is football on the sand. Argentina, Maradona's hand. Germany, an oompah band. America is a gun. Holland is a wooden shoe. Hungary, a goulash stew. Australia, a kangaroo. America is a gun. Japan is a thermal spring. Scotland is a highland fling. Oh, better to be anything than America as a gun.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

In prehistoric times, early man was bowled over by natural events: rain, thunder, lightning, the violent shaking and moving of the ground, mountains spewing deathly hot lava, the glow of the moon, the burning heat of the sun, the twinkling of the stars. Our human brain searched for an answer, and the conclusion was that it all must be caused by something greater than ourselves - this, of course, sprouted the earliest seeds of religion. This theory is certainly reflected in faery lore. In the beautiful sloping hills of Connemara in Ireland, for example, faeries were believed to have been just as beautiful, peaceful, and pleasant as the world around them. But in the Scottish Highlands, with their dark, brooding mountains and eerie highland lakes, villagers warned of deadly water-kelpies and spirit characters that packed a bit more punch.

There's no place on earth with more of the old superstitions and magic mixed into its daily life than the Scottish Highlands.

Adieu, my ladies. If you ever venture to Scotland…leave the husbands at home. (Braden)

That’s why I live inside books. At least there I can choose where I want to be—from the highlands of Scotland to a king’s bed in a faraway land—and even if it’s pretend, sometimes that’s a lot better than reality.

It was written in those stars that we meet.” His voice gathered a tender fervency that unstitched something from inside Mena’s soul. “We are bound in some inescapable way, thee and me. I’ve known it since I first laid eyes on ye in that dress.

Autumn in the Highlands would be brief—a glorious riot of color blazing red across the moors and gleaming every shade of gold in the forests of sheltered glens. Those achingly beautiful images would be painted again and again across the hills and in the shivering waters of the mountain tarns until the harsh winds of winter sent the last quaking leaf to its death on the frozen ground.

I talk to you as I talk to my own soul," he said, turning me to face him. He reached up and cupped my cheek, fingers light on my temple. "And Sassenach," he whispered, "Your face is my heart

He pressed his lips to Akira’s ear. “Hold on, lass, for hell has just made chase.

Wee Archie was wielding a shepherd's crook that, as Tommy remarked later, no shepherd would be found dead with, and he was wearing a kilt that no Highlander would dream of being found alive in.

Legend claimed Berserkers could move with such speed that they seemed invisible to the human eye until the moment they attacked. They possessed unnatural senses: the olfactory acuity of a wolf, the auditory sensitivity of a bat, the strength of twenty men, the penetrating eyesight of an eagle. The Berserkers had once been the most fearless and feared warriors ever to walk Scotland nearly seven hundred years ago. They had been Odin's elite Viking army. Legend claimed they could assume the shape of a wolf or a bear as easily as the shape of a man. And they were marked by a common feature-unholy blue eyes that glowed like banked coals.

I don't think I believe in villains. Heroes either. Just people. People with agendas and the things they're willing to do to get what they want.

Her breath caught when his erection shot to rigid. "Merciful Father, Ye're like a stallion with a mare in heat.

Are ye always standing like a stallion?" His low chuckle brought another wave of gooseflesh across her skin. "Only when Ye're near.

Annabel better not have headed back to England. He’d wring her bloody neck if she had. She was his. And why the hell would she go there anyway? Surely life with him was better than life with those two coldhearted English— “Nay.

And now she was just Gabby, currently staying in a dreamy, magnificent castle in Scotland with a Fae prince who did all kinds of non-nasty, non-inhuman things like tearing up lists of names, and returning tadpoles to lakes, and saving people's lives. Not to mention kissing with all the otherwordly splendor of a horny angel.

Note savages, eh? They live in mountain caves and dress like wild men. They walk about in woolen petticoats, which they are not in the least modest about casting aside when they need their sword arms free. Dash me, can you even begin to imagine the sight of a horde of naked, hairy-legged creatures charging at you across a battlefield like bloody fiends out of hell—screaming and flailing those great bloody swords and axes of theirs like scythes? Not savages?

All the London ton acknowledged Scotland as a barbaric place. The packs there cared very little for the social niceties of daytime folk. Highland werewolves had a reputation for doing atrocious and highly unwarranted things, like wearing smoking jackets to the dinner table. Lyall shivered at the delicious horror of the very idea.

It feels like Scotland." "Have you ever been?" "Mmmm. Twice. Have you?" "No." "You should. It's your roots. You'll be surprised how much they tug at you when you breathe the air in the Highlands or look out at a lowland loch.

Still pleasant as a cornered hedgehog, and as well mannered as a badger, I see.

The rough pad of his thumb dragged across the split on her lip as light as a whisper. She felt his caress in her bones. And elsewhere.

Straightening, he then stared down at her for a moment, his tight-lipped expression easing and twitching with amusement when she began to snore lightly. She was just so damned cute. Shaking

In sleep, Ross’s face was unguarded, his expression soft. It made him appear much younger. He also snored loud enough to wake the dead. It made her think it would be a good thing did she fall asleep first every night for the rest of their marriage. Annabel

At Bealltainn, or May Day, every effort was made to scare away the fairies, who were particularly dreaded at this season. In the West Highlands charms were used to avert their influence. In the Isle of Man the gorse was set alight to keep them at a distance. In some parts of Ireland the house was sprinkled with holy water to ward off fairy influence. These are only a mere handful out of the large number of references available, but they seem to me to reveal an effort to avoid the attentions of discredited deities on occasions of festival once sacred to them. The gods duly return at the appointed season, but instead of being received with adoration, they are rebuffed by the descendants of their former worshippers, who have embraced a faith which regards them as demons. In like manner the fairies in Ireland were chased away from the midsummer bonfires by casting fire at them. At the first approach of summer, the fairy folk of Scotland were wont to hold a "Rade," or ceremonial ride on horseback, when they were liable to tread down the growing grain.

His eyes touched every part of her. Even parts that may never have been touched before. They flashed with lightning, singing along her nerves with electric currents of heat. A sultry, answering thunder whipped through her, calling forth a storm so unexpected, she almost felt betrayed by her own body.

You must stay with me forever. That was your promise. That I could love you forever.

You need to wear less clothing, lass.

Samantha imagined that in another life, she and Alison could have, indeed, been friends. Had she not been about to rob the train.

Alison’s gaze gentled. “Tell me, Samantha, have you ever been to Scotland?

Tis best to weight the enemy more mighty than he seems.” Or she, as was this particular case.

There was something more than a little satisfying about ripping the heart out of someone the moment before they expected to do the same to you.

Ye might no know this about me…” “But I prefer my women… a wee bit dirty. I’ve imagined more than once what yer foul mouth could do to me.

Ye’re wet,” he groaned. “I’m underwater.” “I ken that, bonny. But this dampness has nothing to do with that.

Tonight, Dunadhar Castle is ours.

And while she didn’t yet know how she fit into the world, she did know Duncan was a vital part.

Takes a special kind to go another kind to stay here ........ Nowhere do such patriots so embrace the leaving of the place

Were ye sent by the fairy folk? Do no' lie to me.

I do no' think ye should lick me leg.

If he were to wait for her to ask for his protection, he would be waiting until the whole of Scotland sank into the seas.

The only thing that can hurt me now is the thought of never knowing this feeling again. To never be able to touch you this way again...

The Highlands: Where the people are wild, and the trees are wind-buckled, and there are lochs which mirror the sky.

Here I first mounted a little Highland steed; and if there had been many spectators, should have been somewhat ashamed of my figure in the march. The horses of the Islands, as of other barren countries, are very low: they are indeed musculous and strong, beyond what their size gives reason for expecting; but a bulky man upon one of their backs makes a very disproportionate appearance.

He took a step back to distance himself from her wicked, mind-consuming scent. In the future if he wanted to bamboozle an opponent in the karate ring, all he had to do was splash on some eau de Christina.

She did not want to have to choose between the legend which had finally made her feel as if her life had meaning and this beautiful, caring man whose soul seemed to echo with the same beats as her own heart.

The Hawk hired fifty harpers and jesters and taught them new songs. Songs about the puny fairy fool who had been chased away from Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea by the legendary Hawk. And being such a legend in his own time, his tales were ceded great truth and staying power. The players were delighted with the epic grandeur of such a wild tale. When they had rehearsed to perfection the ditties and refrains portraying the defeat of the fool, the Hawk sent them into the counties of Scotland and England. Grimm accompanied the group of players traveling to Edinburgh to help spread the tale himself, while Hawk spent late hours by the candle scribbling, crossing out and perfecting his command for when the fool came. Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning, he would reach for his set of sharp awls and blades and begin carving toy soldiers and dolls, one by one.

Nursed in poverty he acquired a hardihood which enabled him to sustain severe privations. As the simplicity of his life gave vigour to his body, so it fortified his mind. Possessing a frame and constitution thus hardened he was taught to consider courage as the most honourable virtue, cowardice the most disgraceful failing.

He was The Demon Highlander, elder brother to the Blackheart of Ben More. These monikers, they were not granted by the happenstance of birth or marriage, like a Marquess or an Earl, they were earned by means of ruthless violence and bloodshed. It was easy to forget that fact beneath the grand chandelier of this lofty keep. That was, until the fire in the hearth ignited the amber in his eyes, lending him a ferocity that even his expensive attire couldn't tame.

The lass was no damsel. He’d prepared himself for a hard sell, one that might require a few extra knee-weakening smiles, perhaps so much as a seduction, but he’d never in a million years expected the disaster that landed his arms. The disaster named Alison Ross.

Gram walked between the brothers, and slipped an arm through each man's bent elbow. When she glanced over her shoulder at Paisley, her eyes gleamed with pleasure. "These two are mine, sweet pea. The next man in a kilt is yours. In Scotland, it's every woman for herself.

Some discussion of the nature and temperament of the fairies is necessary in view of its possible bearing on their origin. J. G. Campbell tells us that in the Highlands of Scotland they were regarded as "the counterparts of mankind, but substantial and unreal, outwardly invisible." They differ from mortals in the possession of magical power, but are strangely dependent in many ways on man. They are generally considered by the folk at large as of a nature between spirits and men. "They are," says Wentz, "a distinct race between our own and that of spirits.

You should see Nina’s clan tartan," she said, pouring herself more tea. "It’s white with orange, green, and royal blue. Horrendous." "We took to calling any obnoxious pattern Clan MacGarish," I said. "Or MacHideous," added Laurence. "MacUgly," I continued. "MacClash," he countered.

Te prometo mi amor y todo lo que poseo. Te prometo el primer bocado de mi carne y el primer sorbo de mi vino. A partir de este día solo tu nombre gritaré en la oscuridad de la noche, y por tus ojos sonreiré cada mañana; Yo seré un escudo para ti como tú eres el mío. No habrá entre nosotros ninguna palabra severa, ni ningún extraño oirá mi queja. Eres sangre de mi sangre y hueso de mi hueso. Te doy mi cuerpo para que podamos ser uno. Te doy mi espíritu para que podamos ser uno. Por encima de todo, te valoraré y te honraré, en esta vida y en la siguiente.

Amelia envisaged that between York and the royal-infested Scottish Highlands there was a grimy wasteland of derelict cranes and abandoned mills and betrayed, yet still staunch, people. Oh and moorland, of course, vast tracts of brooding landscape under lowering skies, and across this heath strode brooding, lowering men intent on reaching their ancestral houses, where they were going to fling open doors and castigate orphaned yet resolute governesses. Or — preferably — the brooding, lowering men were on horseback, black horses with huge muscled haunches, glistening with sweat —

Make no mistake; I know all I need to know about you, Lord Thorne.” “Do ye?” he challenged. “Sure do. You’re a famously unscrupulous man. A notorious womanizer. A rake who thinks nothing of seducing other men’s wives.” “Well, someone has to, do they not? I doona know many men who seduce their own wives.

It didn't take long for her to help him remove his armor. She gestured to the pallet. "Lie down." "Not yet." He pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest. This is what he was fighting for. Not just for himself, but for all men to hold their women in their arms - and to raise families free from tyranny.

Long ago, when faeries and men still wandered the earth as brothers, the MacLeod chief fell in love with a beautiful faery woman. They had no sooner married and borne a child when she was summoned to return to her people. Husband and wife said a tearful goodbye and parted ways at Fairy Bridge, which you can still visit today. Despite the grieving chief, a celebration was held to honor the birth of the newborn boy, the next great chief of the MacLeods. In all the excitement of the celebration, the baby boy was left in his cradle and the blanket slipped off. In the cold Highland night he began to cry. The baby’s cry tore at his mother, even in another dimension, and so she went to him, wrapping him in her shawl. When the nursemaid arrived, she found the young chief in the arms of his mother, and the faery woman gave her a song she insisted must be sung to the little boy each night. The song became known as “The Dunvegan Cradle Song,” and it has been sung to little chieflings ever since. The shawl, too, she left as a gift: if the clan were ever in dire need, all they would have to do was wave the flag she’d wrapped around her son, and the faery people would come to their aid. Use the gift wisely, she instructed. The magic of the flag will work three times and no more. As I stood there in Dunvegan Castle, gazing at the Fairy Flag beneath its layers of protective glass, it was hard to imagine the history behind it. The fabric was dated somewhere between the fourth and seventh centuries. The fibers had been analyzed and were believed to be from Syria or Rhodes. Some thought it was part of the robe of an early Christian saint. Others thought it was a part of the war banner for Harald Hardrada, king of Norway, who gave it to the clan as a gift. But there were still others who believed it had come from the shoulders of a beautiful faery maiden. And that faery blood had flowed through the MacLeod family veins ever since. Those people were the MacLeods themselves.

Doona fash, Sam.” Calybrid, spying her scowl, hurried to balm the wound. “Ye’re plenty fair.” “Aye,” Locryn agreed. “With eyes the color of the Alt Dubh Gorm.” “Sure, that too.” “Just… no one will write odes to yer breasts is all.” “On account of ye not having any,” Locryn supplied, rather unnecessarily, in Samantha’s opinion.

The Cairngorm water is all clear. Flowing from granite, with no peat to darken it, it has never the golden amber, the ‘horse-back brown’ so often praised in Highland burns. When it has any colour at all, it is green, as in the Quoich near its linn. It is a green like the green of winter skies, but lucent, clear like aquamarines, without the vivid brilliance of glacier water. Sometimes the Quoich waterfalls have violet playing through the green, and the pouring water spouts and bubbles in a violet froth.

He would stay with his brothers out of loyalty, fight alongside his clansmen out of pride, but if he died, it would be for Scotland, for his love of the barren, windswept moors and jagged corries he had been unable to call home for so many years and wanted so desperately to call home again. His passion was his strength, but it was also his greatest weakness.

Ye’re a flame in my darkness. I wouldnae have predicted it, given how we met. But nothin’s ever been truer.

Love is not linear. You don’t have to stop loving someone to love someone else.

There’s not a finite amount of love and when it’s spent, it’s spent. And love is not linear. You don’t have to stop loving someone to love someone else.

How could their love for each other be so wrong?

Bite me, love.

Lilith opened the shutters and allowed herself to bathe in the bright moonlight, as it shone across the Highland Glen.

Watching her was like being caught up in the radiance of a star, and in the light, he was revealed.

Her fingers clutched him now, and her body writhed with a frustration he knew all too well. He wanted her. Now. Here.

Why would anyone want to travel to Scotland? That wild country had nothing to offer but a bunch of unkempt men in kilts waving broadswords and screaming battle cries.

His tongue tapped his top lip as he cupped her breast in his hand. "Tis boidhche --beautiful.

Holy fairy feathers, why does he have to be so handsome? Why couldn't a haggard old man have washed ashore?

Learning to pipe isn't easy. At first it always sounds worse than a chicken yard full of squawking adolescent roosters.

Regretfully, he remained an alluring mystery, with fascinating lines and details she could not help but seek to examine further and memorize.

Annabel stopped rubbing the center of her lower back and ducked her head to hide the blush his words had brought on. It made Ross want to kiss her. Reminded

To Kate, love was indistinguishable from a consuming parasite of the mind.

In her experience, there was no point ruminating upon whether a love match made sense. Love itself made none at all.

A Highlander always keeps his word- it's a point of honour and you have come from a long line of honourable highlanders.

Dear Mother Mary! His plaid sat low and hugged his hips, fitting him like a second skin.

You are charismatic. Men are drawn to you. I am drawn to you. And by your size, let alone your skill with weapons, they will be in awe of you.

Isn't one man's truth another man's lie?

My heart has found a new place to call home. Wherever you are.

She remembered Fiona saying something once, there was nothing more attractive than a competent man. At the time she'd been a young girl, without true understanding, but now she agreed.

No, he didn’t view the scar as shameful, though he did in its getting. For he’d not received it in battle. He’d received it the last time he’d ever acted foolishly over a woman. Oddly poetic that the very woman who brought out that foolish side again was turned off by the scar. As if the scar and tattoo were a shield. A shield protecting him forevermore from heartache.

Are ye hungry?" she asked, her voice soothing. His stomach growled. "I could cut the heart out of a stag and eat it raw." She chuckled. "Fortunately, we do no' have to go to such extremes.

Alone. It was such an insignificant word. Or it had been for centuries. He'd sought out the solitude, had slept away centuries in his cave without hesitation. And now? Now he hated the quiet. He detested being alone.

Four gargoyle brothers came and went with their mates, which included a wolf shifter, a Pegasus shifter, a gargoyle, and Kayla (a tree witch). Only one remained unattached, the middle brother, Gavin. He swore it would always remain that way.

The drinking dens are spilling out There's staggering in the square There's lads and lasses falling about And a crackling in the air Down around the dungeon doors The shelters and the queues Everybody's looking for Somebody's arms to fall into And it's what it is It's what it is now There's frost on the graves and the monuments But the taverns are warm in town People curse the government And shovel hot food down The lights are out in the city hall The castle and the keep The moon shines down upon it all The legless and asleep And it's cold on the tollgate With the wagons creeping through Cold on the tollgate God knows what I could do with you And it's what it is It's what it is now The garrison sleeps in the citadel With the ghosts and the ancient stones High up on the parapet A Scottish piper stands alone And high on the wind The highland drums begin to roll And something from the past just comes And stares into my soul And it's cold on the tollgate With the Caledonian Blues Cold on the tollgate God knows what I could do with you And it's what it is It's what it is now What it is It's what it is now There's a chink of light, there's a burning wick There's a lantern in the tower Wee Willie Winkie with a candlestick Still writing songs in the wee wee hours On Charlotte Street I take A walking stick from my hotel The ghost of Dirty Dick Is still in search of Little Nell And it's what it is It's what it is now Oh what it is What it is now

And without discussing it, I think we both felt that it was a symbolic place to reestablish our marriage; we had been married and spent a two-day honeymoon in the Highlands, shortly before the outbreak of war seven years before. A peaceful refuge in which to rediscover each other, we thought, not realizing that, while golf and fishing are Scotland’s most popular outdoor sports, gossip is the most popular indoor sport. And when it rains as much as it does in Scotland, people spend a lot of time indoors.

There was no portion of land in the world with so contradictory a nature as the Highlands. Now it was a land of sunlit moors stained red with heather, knowing only the peace of the quiet sky and the heart-shaking beauty of the blue hills; now it was a harsh and awesome place where silent mists obscured the peaks and a bitter relentless rain came down from bitter skies, where an angry sea washed against the shore, and sullen clouds reflected in sullen gray lochs. Scotland in the sun and Scotland in the rain...

The three sisters sat together, Masie in the middle, gazing at the twinkling stars. Wee Masie squeezed her eyes closed; praying hard to the gods a shooting star would magically appear. Please, if ye grant me this one wish, I promise to eat all my cabbage. She wrinkled her nose but her promise was good.

She'd come across a few Highlanders while in Edinburgh, but none compared to Darius. She didn't even have to ask if he was a Highlander. It was in the way he held himself, the way he spoke. It was a look that couldn't be faked or copied. Whatever made a man a Highlander was in his blood, in his very soul.

Whatever comes, ye must know this, gràidheag. Before ye, I was dead. Seein’ ye felt like breathin’ for the first time. A wee bit painful, at first. Then … pure joy.” He kissed the top of her head and pulled her in tighter. “A man will fight to his last scrap to keep such a miracle safe. Because without ye, I’m dead anyhow.

There were twenty-three females on the Keltar estate--not counting Gwen, Chloe, herself, or the cat--Gabby knew, because shortly after Adam had become visible last night, she'd met each and every one, from tiniest tot to tottering ancient. It had begun with a plump, thirtyish maid popping in to pull the drapes for the evening and inquire if the MacKeltars "were wishing aught else?" The moment her bespectacled gaze had fallen on Adam, she'd begun stammering and tripping over her own feet. It had taken her a few moments to regain a semblance of coordination, but she'd managed to stumble from the library, nearly upsetting a lamp and a small end table in her haste. Apparently it had been haste to alert the forces, for a veritable parade had ensued: a blushing curvaceous maid had come offering a warm-up of tear (they'd not been having any), followed by a giggling maid seeking a forgotten dust cloth (which--was anyone surprised?--was nowhere to be found), then a third one looking for a waylaid broom (yeah, right--they swept castles at midnight in Scotland--who believed that?), then a fourth, fifth, and sixth inquiring if the Crystal Chamber would do for Mr. Black (no one seemed to care what chamber might do for her; she half-expected to end up in an outbuilding somewhere). A seventh, eighth, and ninth had come to announce that his chamber was ready would he like an escort? A bath drawn? Help undressing? (Well, okay, maybe they hadn't actually asked the last, but their eyes certainly had.) Then a half-dozen more had popped in at varying intervals to say the same things over again, and to stress that they were there to provide "aught, aught at all Mr. Black might desire." The sixteenth had come to extract two tiny girls from Adam's lap over their wailing protests (and had stayed out of his lap herself only because Adam had hastily stood), the twenty-third and final one had been old enough to be someone's great-great-grandmother, and even she'd flirted shamelessly with the "braw Mr. Black," batting nonexistent lashes above nests of wrinkles, smoothing thin white hair with a blue-veined, age-spotted hand. And if that hadn't been enough, the castle cat, obviously female and obviously in heat, had sashayed in, tail straight up and perkily curved at the tip, and would her furry little self sinuously around Adam's ankles, purring herself into a state of drooling, slanty-eyed bliss. Mr. Black, my ass, she'd wanted to snap (and she liked cats, really she did; she'd certainly never wanted to kick one before, but please--even cats?), he's a fairy and I found him, so that him my fairy. Back off.

We had chosen the Highlands as a place to holiday before Frank took up his appointment as a history professor at Oxford, on the grounds that Scotland had been somewhat less touched by the physical horrors of war than the rest of Britain, and was less susceptible to the frenetic postwar gaiety that infected more popular vacation spots.

I did not mean to be so long away from you. I had clan business to take care of, which took longer than I anticipated.” She nodded. “I understand.” He blew out a breath. “I’m not sure you do. I was eager to get through that business precisely because I wanted it out of the way so that I could return to your side.” Now it was her turn to feel her body flush with heat. “Oh yeah?” “Aye.” He looked down at his hands and then slowly reached and clasped her hand resting against her thigh. The rough feel of his calloused hands on her skin, and the tentative vulnerability in the movement, about made her slide forward off the bench and melt in a puddle on the stone floor. He really was just a big—quiet—teddy bear.

Husband,” she protested. “I can ride. I am not hurt.” “Yer gown is torn and bloodied and ye’ve added yet another bruise to yer pretty face. Do no’ tell me yer no’ hurt,” he said grimly, shifting her about before him until she was pressed snugly up against his groin. Satisfied with her position, he then gestured for the others to follow, and turned his horse toward the castle.

Mr. MacPherson,” she murmured after clearing her throat. “We were just admiring your capable hands.” Oh, God, why had she said that? “Capable of lifting an enormous instrument.” Her cheeks burned. “That is, such a sizable instrument must be a strain.” Drat! It was happening again. She must stop. Must. Stop. Talking. “So much wood.” She couldn’t stop it. “But you’ve large hands and … handled yourself … quite well.” His mouth quirked and a brow twitched. But he simply nodded as though she hadn’t mortified herself before him yet again. She tried one last time to salvage a shred of dignity. “I’ll certainly know whom to call upon, should I require hands of superior size to position me properly for playing my own instrument.” Grandmama coughed on a sip of tea. Campbell blinked.

Falling In Time   When love calls across the ages…   Aspiring writer Lindy Lovejoy knows all about happy endings. But when she travels to Scotland to research Celtic myth and lore, she never expected a chance to live her own storybook romance, until a stop at mystical Smoo Cave whisks her back in time and into the arms of Rogan MacGraith, a Highland hero who’d burn up the pages of the steamiest Scottish romance novel.

At one point the worst thing to happen was the odd stabbing or slashing, the violence that we live with nowadays used to only be seen in Hollywood gangster movies such as Gangs of New York, Menace to Society and Boys and the Hood. Even when we were reading about the crack hitting London, no one in Scotland would have thought in their wildest dreams that it would have taken off in our cities, towns and now even highland villages.

The Hotel dining-room, like most of the others I was to find in the Highlands, had its walls covered with pictures of all sorts of wild game, living or in the various postures of death that are produced by sport. Between these pictures the walls were alert with the stuffed heads of deer, furnished with antlers of every degree of magnificence. A friend of mine has a theory that these pictures of dying birds and wounded beasts are intended to whet the diner's appetite, and perhaps they did in the more lusty age of Victoria; but I found they had the opposite effect on me, and had to keep my eyes from straying too often to them. In one particular hotel this idea was carried out with such thoroughness that the walls of its dining room looked like a shambles, they presented such an overwhelming array of bleeding birds, beasts and fishes. To find these abominations on the walls of Highland hotels, among a people of such delicacy in other things, is peculiarly revolting, and rubs in with superfluous force that this is a land whose main contemporary industry is the shooting down of wild creatures; not production of any kind but wholesale destruction. This state of things is not the fault of the Highlanders, but of the people who have bought their country and come to it chiefly to kill various forms of life.

In the distant past the British Isles were ruled by tribes of giants. In the north, in the highlands of Scotland, in what is now Ross-shire, lived such a tribe of giant beings. This primeval tribe was renowned for their strength, and was famous for its incredible kinsfolk, such as Gog-Magog and the Cailleach-Mhore (Great Cailleach). This Cailleach was famed for her strength, even amongst this mightily-hewed tribe. One day, Cailleach Mhore was walking over the hills with a pannier of earth and rocks on her back. Pausing for breath, she stopped and stood on the site of Ben-Vaichard. As she stood gazing around her, the pannier gave way and all its contents came pouring out. Amidst the noise and chaos the Cailleach-Mhore cursed as her load was scattered. When the dust had cleared her gaze passed over a completely new landscape, with new hills formed by the earth and rocks she had been carrying.

Colin moved between her legs and kneeled. His eyes flashed with his rapturous grin. "I want to take you to a place you've never been." He dipped his chin, staring at her womanhood, his face only inches from her sex. Was he going to kiss her there? She tried to close her legs, but met with hard shoulders. "Colin. You mustn't." She could scarcely utter the words, her body so inexplicably aroused. "Close your eyes and give into the most erotic kiss of all.

My angel of mercy.” The gut-wrenching words stabbed Masie in the chest. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called that. She looked down, horrified by what she saw. He was lying in a pool of blood, his hand out-stretched. “My angel,” he wheezed as he struggled to breathe. He was a warrior, strong and fearless. She bent down and whispered softly in his ear, “Close yer eyes and I’ll end yer pain.” She paused just before her teeth sank into his flesh. Something within his essence held her back. He had to live.

Lowlanders who left Scotland for Ireland between 1610 and 1690 were biologically compounded of many ancestral strains. While the Gaelic Highlanders of that time were (as they are probably still) overwhelmingly Celtic in ancestry, this was not true of the Lowlanders. Even if the theory of 'racial' inheritance of character were sound, the Lowlander had long since become a biological mixture, in which at least nine strains had met and mingled in different proportions. Three of the nine had been present in the Scotland of dim antiquity, before the Roman conquest: the aborigines of the Stone Ages, whoever they may have been; the Gaels, a Celtic people who overran the whole island of Britain from the continent around 500 B.C.; and the Britons, another Celtic folk of the same period, whose arrival pushed the Gaels northward into Scotland and westward into Wales. During the thousand years following the Roman occupation, four more elements were added to the Scottish mixture: the Roman itself—for, although Romans did not colonize the island, their soldiers can hardly have been celibate; the Teutonic Angles and Saxons, especially the former, who dominated the eastern Lowlands of Scotland for centuries; the Scots, a Celtic tribe which, by one of the ironies of history, invaded from Ireland the country that was eventually to bear their name (so that the Scotch-Irish were, in effect, returning to the home of some of their ancestors); and Norse adventurers and pirates, who raided and harassed the countryside and sometimes remained to settle. The two final and much smaller components of the mixture were Normans, who pushed north after they had dealt with England (many of them were actually invited by King David of Scotland to settle in his country), and Flemish traders, a small contingent who mostly remained in the towns of the eastern Lowlands. In addition to these, a tenth element, Englishmen—themselves quite as diverse in ancestry as the Scots, though with more of the Teutonic than the Celtic strains—constantly came across the Border to add to the mixture.

What is it about The Highlands of Scotland? I wondered. The place is desolate, the weather awful, and yet as I looked out of that car window, I could think of no other place on earth where I would rather be. There is something about The Highlands that pulls me in. It’s hard to put my finger on it. I think it is one of those rare places on earth that takes me back. It’s primitive. Raw. Uncluttered. Time moves slower. Survival becomes more important than the next cell phone call or where the next dollar will come from.

The attempt to separate Lowland from Highland Scotland ignores the extent to which Lowland Scots are the descendants of Highlanders, and how many Lowland Scots, like Nan Shepherd, made the country's mountains the focus of their spiritual aspirations. 'Highlandism' is not simply the ersatz adoption of a stereotypical version of Scottish culture which is entirely unconnected with the reality of modern Scottish life: the Highlands are both the geographical and the historical backdrop with which 'Lowland' Scottish culture interacts.

Glen Shiel, Socttish Highlands, 1296 Strife abounds. King Edward of England has invaded the southern strongholds of Scotland and is pressuring King John of Scotland to abdicate. Several Scottish nobles, called Claimants, vie for his throne. The Cause divides the country, as each clan must choose and support a Claimant. Many contenders seek fortune and power, but a few seek Scotland’s independence. Only by a great force can this be achieved. However, the road to independence is fraught with those that wish to see the Cause crushed, at any cost.

It is often said that what most immediately sets English apart from other languages is the richness of its vocabulary. Webster’s Third New International Dictionary lists 450,000 words, and the revised Oxford English Dictionary has 615,000, but that is only part of the total. Technical and scientific terms would add millions more. Altogether, about 200,000 English words are in common use, more than in German (184,000) and far more than in French (a mere 100,000). The richness of the English vocabulary, and the wealth of available synonyms, means that English speakers can often draw shades of distinction unavailable to non-English speakers. The French, for instance, cannot distinguish between house and home, between mind and brain, between man and gentleman, between “I wrote” and “I have written.” The Spanish cannot differentiate a chairman from a president, and the Italians have no equivalent of wishful thinking. In Russia there are no native words for efficiency, challenge, engagement ring, have fun, or take care [all cited in The New York Times, June 18, 1989]. English, as Charlton Laird has noted, is the only language that has, or needs, books of synonyms like Roget’s Thesaurus. “Most speakers of other languages are not aware that such books exist” [The Miracle of Language, page 54]. On the other hand, other languages have facilities we lack. Both French and German can distinguish between knowledge that results from recognition (respectively connaître and kennen) and knowledge that results from understanding (savoir and wissen). Portuguese has words that differentiate between an interior angle and an exterior one. All the Romance languages can distinguish between something that leaks into and something that leaks out of. The Italians even have a word for the mark left on a table by a moist glass (culacino) while the Gaelic speakers of Scotland, not to be outdone, have a word for the itchiness that overcomes the upper lip just before taking a sip of whiskey. (Wouldn’t they just?) It’s sgriob. And we have nothing in English to match the Danish hygge (meaning “instantly satisfying and cozy”), the French sang-froid, the Russian glasnost, or the Spanish macho, so we must borrow the term from them or do without the sentiment. At the same time, some languages have words that we may be pleased to do without. The existence in German of a word like schadenfreude (taking delight in the misfortune of others) perhaps tells us as much about Teutonic sensitivity as it does about their neologistic versatility. Much the same could be said about the curious and monumentally unpronounceable Highland Scottish word sgiomlaireachd, which means “the habit of dropping in at mealtimes.” That surely conveys a world of information about the hazards of Highland life—not to mention the hazards of Highland orthography. Of

Sophia had been hard pressed not to laugh when MacLean had tripped over one of the floorboards she and Angus had pried loose. Better yet, MacLean had ripped his lace-edged sleeve on a broken nail in the doorframe of his bedchamber. She knew because she'd heard his loud curse from the hallway. Sophia had expected him to roar at the servants and demand things be repaired, but all he did was ask Angus for a hammer to protect himself from the loose boards and stray nails that seemed to plague MacFarlane House. To Sophia's delight, Angus had gloomily replied that there weren't enough hammers in the whole of Scotland to do that. Since Angus had left MacLean in his bedchamber, they hadn't heard a word from him. Perhaps the man was sleeping, although how could anyone sleep in such a damp room and with such a lumpy mattress and smoky chimney? More likely, he was awake and seething at being forced to endure such horrid conditions. She wished she had been there to witness his reaction to the threadbare furniture with broken springs and flat cushions, the inadequate bed coverings for the chilly chamber (it faced north, where the wind was fiercest), a window that was nailed slightly open, and more.

Nevertheless, the idea that Europeans have simply stopped having enough children and must as a result ensure that the next generation is comprised of immigrants is a disastrous fallacy for several reasons. The first is because of the mistaken assumption that a country’s population should always remain the same or indeed continue rising. The nation states of Europe include some of the most densely populated countries on the planet. It is not at all obvious that the quality of life in these countries will improve if the population continues growing. What is more, when migrants arrive in these countries they move to the big cities, not to the remaining sparsely populated areas. So although among European states Britain, along with Belgium and the Netherlands, is one of the most densely populated countries, England taken on its own would be the second most densely populated country in Europe. Migrants tend not to head to the Highlands of Scotland or the wilds of Dartmoor. And so a constantly increasing population causes population problems in areas that are already suffering housing supply problems and where infrastructure like public transport struggles to keep up with swiftly expanding populations.

From the woods that surrounded the burgh came a mass of men. Some rode, others ran. All carried weapons, mainly axes or spears. A few wore mail shirts and cloaks, but most just leather aketons. Among them were a handful of men clad in the short tunics favoured by Highlanders. These men were bare from thigh to foot, an alarming sight to Ormesby, who had only heard rumour of these wild men of the north. As they came, they roared a multitude of battle cries. Ormesby caught one name in the din, issuing from a group of mailed riders who followed a burly man on a finely caparisoned horse. ‘For Douglas!’ they howled. ‘For Douglas!’ Below, the townsfolk were scattering. The English soldiers had formed a tight knot outside the hall, blades drawn, but even as Ormesby watched, the forlorn group of beggars he had seen threw off their ragged skins and furs, revealing thickly muscled warriors. They fell upon the soldiers with savage cries, daggers thrusting. Footsteps sounded on the hall stairs. The door burst open and two soldiers appeared. ‘We must go, sir!’ The clerks and officials were already hastening across the chamber. Donald was running with them. Ormesby remained rooted. ‘Who are they?’ he demanded, his voice high as he turned back to the window, seeing the horde rushing into the town. His eyes fixed on a giant of a man running, almost loping in the front lines. Taller than all those around him, agile in the stride, he wore a simple dark blue tunic and wide-brimmed kettle hat. The other men seemed to be running in unruly formation around him. But it was the blade in the man’s hands that Ormesby’s eyes were drawn to. He had never seen such a sword, so broad and long the giant had to grasp it in both hands as he came. Another name now became audible in the roar of the mob. ‘Wallace! Wallace!

I brought the best of the gowns I found yesterday, but they all need work. I never got to repairing them yesterday what with running between ye and the merchant,” she added apologetically. “No, of course you did not,” Annabel said with understanding as she pushed the door closed. “ ’Tis all right. Surely we can get one ready by noon?” “Aye,” Seonag agreed, sounding relieved that she wasn’t angry. A sigh from the bed made them both glance that way as Ross tossed the furs and linens aside to get up. “I suppose there is no reason fer me to stay abed then,” he said dryly, bending to pick up his shirt. He tugged it on and then walked to Annabel and gave her a slow, hungry kiss that had her releasing his plaid to reach for him. The moment she did, he broke the kiss and stepped back taking the plaid with him. “I’ll need this. Besides, I like ye better that way,” he said with a grin as Annabel gasped in surprise at being left naked.

They don't have the time to take on animals with dietary restrictions and missing legs." "Do you think I don't know that? That's precisely why they're all here with me. No one else would take them. Angus, for example." She moved toward the Highland steer. "Some foolish merchant traveled to Scotland on holiday and decided to bring his wife a pet calf from the Highlands. Never stopped to think about the fact that he would grow." "Surely people aren't that stupid." "Oh, it happens all the time. But usually they make that mistake with pups or ponies. Not cattle." She shook her head. "They dehorned him in the worst, most painful way. When he came to me, the poor dear's wounds were infected. Infested, too. He could have perished from the fly-strike alone. That man was stupid, indeed. The only thing he got right was his choice of calf. Angus is exceedingly adorable." Adorable? Gabe eyed the beast. The animal stood as tall as Gabe's shoulder, and it smelled... the way cattle smell. Shaggy red fur covered its eyes like a blindfold, and its black, spongy nose glistened.

His gaze was locked on the young woman approaching beside Lady Withram. Short, no more than five feet, with a pretty face, shiny, long, wavy midnight hair and more curves than his shield. He noted all that in an instant, his eyes traveling with appreciation over each asset before settling on her eyes. They were a color he’d never seen before in eyes, a combination of pale blue and green, almost teal with a darker rim circling the unusual irises. They were absolutely beautiful . . . and presently brimming with anxiety and fear. Before he’d even realized he was going to do it, Ross found himself moving around the table to approach the girl. Taking her hand in his, he placed it on his arm and peered solemnly down into her unusual eyes before announcing, “Well worth the wait.” He was pleased to see some of her fear dissipate. Just a little, but it was something. She blushed too, ducking her head as if unused to and embarrassed by such a compliment . . . and her fingers were trembling where they rested on his arm. She did not strike him as a light-skirt, nor was she sour faced or ugly, but she had the finest eyes he’d ever seen, and he wanted to see more of them, so Ross turned and escorted her to the table. He didn’t miss the audible sighs of relief from her parents at their backs. Nor did he miss Gilly’s muttered, “Bloody hell. He’s done fer now.” Judging

Ye told me ye had no’ seen the man in the clearing yesterday.” “I did not,” Annabel assured him, swiveling to look at him with a bit of excitement as she was recalled to the day’s events. “But I saw his plaid and the man today was wearing the same color plaid. He was big too. And, he was the same man as the one who startled me in England on our journey here, so I am beginning to think it was the same man all three times.” “Ye’re sure it was the same man as in England?” he asked, not happy at the thought. “Aye. I only caught a glimpse that first time, but he is hard to mistake,” she assured him. “He is very large and has a pretty face.” That brought a scowl to Ross’s lips. He didn’t at all like her finding someone else attractive, which was silly, he supposed. It wasn’t like she was going to run off with her attacker. According to Giorsal, she’d stabbed him. Besides, he himself wouldn’t have been flattered to be called pretty. “Ye mean handsome, do ye no’?” he suggested. “Nay. You are handsome, husband. He is pretty,” she said in a tone of voice that suggested that should clear the matter up. It didn’t. “Is there a difference?” Ross asked cautiously. “Aye,” Annabel said as if that should be obvious. “Handsome is rugged and manly and . . . well . . . handsome,” she finished helplessly, and then added, “Pretty is big eyes, sculpted jaw and hair that flops across the eyes.” She paused briefly before continuing with some consideration, “He would make a lovely girl were he not so muscular across the shoulders and chest.” “Ah,” Ross said, unable to repress a grin. Whether she realized it or not, his wife was saying she thought he was a sexy beast, while the pretty boy was . . . pretty, but not in a way she found especially attractive. He liked that. His

A9, the road that Bea was traveling this early morning after leaving the Isle of Skye, was part of Scotland’s answer to Route 66. It was also a driver’s sort of road as it wound its way along the north coast of the highlands above Inverness, and this time of year was the perfect jot in time to be on it. It was early enough in the day for the sun’s rays to still break across the landscape, highlighting every tree, shrub, mountain, loch, or beach in the crisp and clear Kodachrome of late autumn, and it was also just late enough in the season for the road to be safely navigated at speeds just a bit above normal

A9, the road that Bea was traveling this early morning after leaving the Isle of Skye, was part of Scotland’s answer to Route 66. It was also a driver’s sort of road as it wound its way along the north coast of the highlands above Inverness, and this time of year was the perfect jot in time to be on it. It was early enough in the day for the sun’s rays to still break across the landscape, highlighting every tree, shrub, mountain, loch, or beach in the crisp and clear Kodachrome of late autumn, and it was also just late enough in the season for the road to be safely navigated at speeds just a bit above normal. Her car was running great, and her tunes were vibrating the sideboard speakers with rhythm and base and melody. Using her gears, she took the corners and adjusted to the rise and fall of the road in a syncopated rhythm that made she and her car one. With her left hand on the gearshift, her right grasping the steering wheel, and her eyes shifting from road to scenery and back again, she felt the exhilaration of being on her first road trip alone and free.

May God watch over she who carries my heart.

Why were so many songs collected in the north-east, for example? In part, no doubt, the answer has to do with the activities of collectors; but the richness of the north-east in songs compared with the barren song terrain of the Lothians strongly suggests that differences in rural social organisation have explanatory value. We need to get away from simply counterposing 'lowland' to 'highland'. We need to see the enormous diversity in social arrangements within Lowland Scotland, even in recent times; and to analyse that diversity case by case without trying to smash it into a spurious shape with the intellectual cudgel of 'improvement'.

A fast but skillful driver, Peter guided his Jaguar onto the M6 Highway, then accelerated to a dizzying speed. Thank goodness she'd seen something of the scenery on her way to Scotland, Toni reflected, as the landscape passed in a blur of greens and blues and tans. She managed to stay alert until they passed York, at which point her eyelids refused to stay open. She felt her body sinking lower and lower into the leather upholstery until finally she could fight the drowsiness no longer.

Scottish Whigs had helped to defeat Jacobitism in order to give birth to a new enlightened Scotland. They got their wish— with a vengeance. The years after 1745 witnessed an explosion of cultural and economic activity all across Scotland, as if the collapse of the Jacobite and Highland threat had released a tremendous pent-up store of national energy. It was economic “takeoff” in the full modern sense.

It was from my uncle I learned all that I know of the early history of Scotland—of Wallace and Bruce and Burns, of Blind Harry's history, of Scott, Ramsey, Tannahill, Hogg, and Fergusson. I can truly say in the words of Burns that there was then and there created in me a vein of Scottish prejudice (or patriotism) which will cease to exist only with life. Wallace, of course, was our hero. Everything heroic centered in him. Sad was the day when a wicked big boy at school told me that England was far larger than Scotland. I went to the uncle, who had the remedy. "Not at all, Naig; if Scotland were rolled out flat as England, Scotland would be the larger, but would you have the Highlands rolled down?" Oh, never! There was balm in Gilead for the wounded young patriot. Later the greater population of England was forced upon me, and again to the uncle I went. "Yes, Naig, seven to one, but there were more than that odds against us at Bannockburn." And again there was joy in my heart—joy that there were more English men there since the glory was the greater.

This book attempts to evaluate the roles of the traditional landowners (whose reckless lifestyles led to bankruptcy and the acquisition of their lands by commercially-minded entrepreneurs); the new breed of accountant trustees (for whom financial probity was paramount); the Highland Potato Famine; James Cheyne, the clearing landlord; events elsewhere on Lismore, particularly on the Baleveolan estate, factored by Allan MacDougall; the influence of the Lismore Agricultural Society; investment in infrastructure on the Airds estate; the differing fates of farmers and cottars; the lack of alternative employment for the young; and opportunites elsewhere, particularly in the Central Belt of Scotland.

This high-souled gentry and this noble and far-descended peasantry, 'their country's pride,' were set at naught and ultimately obliterated for a set of greedy, secular adventurers, by the then representatives of the Ancient Earls of Sutherland.

He frowned. Before long, she’d be gone. Returned to England. Married to Teversham, likely. Bloody Teversham. Would she decorate his table? Would she organize his shelves and dress his bloody windows? Would she sweetly sigh his name when he held her after a nightmare?

One is never gladder to be alive than when one is hopelessly adrift, only to reach firm ground, exhausted and shivering and curious where one’s drawers have gone.

Do you suppose Mr. MacPherson was a soldier? War does harden a man.” She paused. “No, dear, not in that sense.

As long as a heart beats, there is hope to be found.

I know you love to read and detest the rain,” she continued, watching his hands with fascination. “I know you can make a discarded fence post into a work of art with nothing more than a sharp knife. I know you treat your men like family, and they speak of you like a god. I know you’d rather be surrounded by cows than people. I know your mood goes positively foul whenever you’ve had too little sleep or gone too long without eating.” She paused. Swallowed a sudden lump.

What’s your vision of life in the Highlands—men in kilts? Jacobite risings? James Fraser? Bagpipes for breakfast?’ He grunted. ‘That’s a far cry from reality, love. Life here is not idyllic. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s difficult.

It had been a long time since he had consciously chosen to listen to music. Because music, like scent, was the closest humans could get to time travel. And he hadn’t been ready for the trip.

A loving relationship you had with someone for many years is not defined by their death, but by all the years that came before.

Minerva McGonagall was the first child, and only daughter, of a Scottish Presbyterian minister and a Hogwarts-educated witch. She grew up in the Highlands of Scotland, and only gradually became aware that there was something strange, both about her own abilities, and her parents’ marriage. Minerva’s father, the Reverend Robert McGonagall, had become captivated by the high-spirited Isobel Ross, who lived in the same village. Like his neighbours, Robert believed that Isobel attended a select ladies’ boarding school in England. In fact, when Isobel vanished from her home for months at a time, it was to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that she went.

Thank God it is Thursday.

She’s yer lady wife’s sister, Kate,” Fingal announced abruptly, and then, just to be helpful, Annabel was sure, added, “Ye ken . . . the lass who kindly ran off to toss up her skirts with the stable master’s son so ye were able to marry our sweet Annabel in her place.

Surely God had not made man to suffer and be miserable? Surely, he would want his children happy, just as mortal parents wanted happiness for their own offspring?

One can go scarcely a mile in the mountains without finding one of the scenes of Ossian, one of the caves of Fingal, the traces of their passing, or the site of their tombs.

If nations are founded not in unity but in exchange, both exchange within a national territory whose boundaries are largely arbitrary, and exchange with cultures that are other to them in time and space, then those bugbears of Scottish cultural history - Lowland Scotland's adoption of the iconography of a Highland Celtic identity and the country's increasing 'Anglicisation' - can be read not as the signs of failed nationhood but as evidence of a nation which has grasped that its real resources are generated by its capacity for cultural export, translation and assimilation.

He was talking about the clearances, the evictions by the chiefs and landlords who wanted to cash in on the land. It had taken years, but the Highlands were eventually emptied—that is, the fertile parts. Enormous sheep farms replaced some crofts, and others were turned into playgrounds—grouse moors and baronial estates. This was also a major reason for the tremendous number of Scottish emigrants, dispersed across the world between 1780 and 1860. So what had seemed to me no more than an early chapter in a history of Scotland, or a melodramatic painting by Landseer, was a lingering injustice. The cruelty of the clearances was still remembered, because many people who had been made poor still remained where they had been dumped.

The true condition of a people may be known by the regard held for woman. The beauty of their women was extolled in song. Small eye-brows was considered as a mark of beauty, and names were bestowed upon the owners from this feature. No country in Europe held woman in so great esteem as in the Highlands of Scotland. An unfaithful, unkind, or even careless husband was looked upon as a monster.

Come with me, lass.” His voice was low and urgent. “Think of your Scots blood. Doona you wish to stand on the soil of your ancestors? Doona you wish to see the heathery fields and moors? The mountains and the lochs? I’m no’ a man who oft makes promises, but I promise you this”—he broke off, laughing softly as if at some private joke—“I can show you a Scotland no other man could ever show you.

Near by spectacular Dunottar Castle towered above sheer cliffs, jutting out defiantly into the grey waters of the North Sea. Here ‘Braveheart’ William Wallace had burned the English garrison alive in the castle chapel and, later, 167 radical protestants had been squeezed into a small dungeon and left to die in Scotland’s own ‘black hole of Calcutta’.

some 2,200ft up, and two miles distant. As if that weren’t enough, Seana Bhraigh and Meall Glac an Ruighe tore into the sky, attempting to upstage Gleann a’ Chadha Dheirg itself. It appeared the sky wanted in on the action too. The clouds had merged into one huge mass which sported virtually every possible variation of black, white and grey. It rippled and undulated as though alive, breathing, and then, as if I couldn’t take any more, the sun appeared again. Through the tiniest break in this veil high above, chinks of light streamed through, flashes raced down to meet me as I appreciated their warmth. The Highlands came alive, light and shadow danced over the lowlands and tore up the mountains. Dark then light, in shadow then illumination, it was the ultimate cinematic experience, and I was the only one there to bear witness. I sat there, open-mouthed for an hour. No-one shared my corner, nobody experienced what I had seen. It was all mine.

Ye ha’e to laugh at life’s trials. It makes them lighter to carry.

Taking Eve’s face in her hands, she said, “Enjoy your trip to Scotland, my friend. I love you. Who knows, you may fall in love with a Highlander.” Eve burst out laughing. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels.” “They’re good for the soul and heart.

Stirling, Scotland, October 1619 "Kristina, wake up and ready yourself for a journey!" In her bedchamber, Kristina MacQueen jolted awake. Had she just heard her mother's voice? 'Twas impossible. Her mother had passed many years ago. The voice had been inside her dream. What had Ma meant about a journey? Kristina had not left the vicinity of her aunt and uncle's manor house in many months. Hearing the faint hoofbeats of many horses galloping in the distance, she sat up and listened. As each moment passed, the horses' hooves pounded closer and closer until they echoed off the cobblestones just outside the window. Her heart thumping and an eerie feeling prickling along her skin, she swung her feet toward the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. A fist battered violently at the home's entrance door below. "Saints. Who could that be?" she whispered. It had to be the middle of the night or the wee hours of the morn, for she heard no one moving about the house and her room was chilly. The visitor couldn't be the physician calling to treat Uncle Gilbert, who suffered from gout, rheumatism and various other ailments. Nay, he wouldn't bring that many horses with him on a house call. Maybe 'twas the creditors, come to expel them from their home. When her uncle's health had declined, so had his funds. Could it be news of her older sister? She had not heard from Anna in many months. Ready yourself for a journey, her mother had said in the dream. Good heavens! Had someone come for her, to take her to Anna? Heart hammering, Kristina leapt from the warm bed. Though she couldn't see, she knew the placement of the furniture in her room and could easily navigate the space without bumping into anything. After tiptoeing across the cold wooden floor in her stockings, she approached the door and turned the knob to open it a crack, then listened. The maids were in an uproar on the ground floor below. "What's the racket?" Aunt Matilda yelled as she tromped by Kristina's chamber and down the stairs. "Who is it?" she demanded near the front door. "Chief Blackburn MacCromar!" The snarled response was bellowed from outside, just below her window. A chill of terror and revulsion flashed through Kristina. "Saints, preserve us." She shut the door and barred it, her fingers trembling. She had not been near the malicious bastard in two years. He had finally come for her. Anxiety and nausea froze her to the spot. What would he do? Would he kill her for a certainty this time?

It still shocked her. In the quiet moments when she took in her surroundings. She was in friggin’ seventeenth century Scotland. Here on a wish from the magical calling card case her sister received from a friend. She’d seen an actual historical battle. There were men in kilts everywhere.

That’s why I live inside books. At least there I can choose where I want to be— from the highlands of Scotland to a king’s bed in a faraway land— and even if it’s pretend, sometimes that’s a lot better than reality.

Making mistakes is the only way to learn, ye ken? Look at me. I’m the wisest woman in Scotland.

Why isn’t the captain of your guard traveling with us…with you?” He chuckled in response. “He stays behind with my men to guard Munro lands in my absence. I can nae leave my clan and lands unprotected.” “I understand, but what about your safety?” “Now lass, ye would nae be questioning my prowess on the battlefield, would ye?” When she took a sharp intake of breath, he smiled, and she realized he was jesting. “Many men will nae approach or engage me because of my looks. Ye witnessed that nae long ago with the Sutherland guard. Sometimes being nae fair of face has its advantages.” “I believe true beauty comes from within, and I don’t think men stay away from you because you think you are not a comely man. I’m certain their behavior has more to do with the fact that you’re the size of a mountain.” Brushing her skirts, Elizabeth wiped off imaginary dirt. “How many days will you be staying with us before you and my brothers-in-law attend court?” “I doona know. It depends on when we arrive, a few days mayhap.” “Have you been to court before?” “Aye, more times than I care to count.” There was strong censure in his tone. “I’ve never had the chance. Grace attended a few times, and then we moved to Scotland.” “Ye’re nae missing anything. In truth, ’tis nay place for a young lass.” “Then I guess I’m in luck because I’m eighteen now.” When a questioning expression crossed his face, she quickly rose. She wasn’t certain what provoked her sudden flare of temper, but between Uncle Walter, Grace, and the unexplained emotions raging within her about Ian, her voice became laced with sarcasm. “It’s getting late and past the bedtime for a young lass.” Ian flew to his feet. For such a large man, he moved faster than she would’ve expected. He loomed over her and grabbed her arm to stay her. “Wait. That’s nae what I meant.” There was a heavy silence. “Then what did you mean?” When he didn’t respond and released his grip, she met his gaze. “Have a pleasant evening, Laird Munro.” She turned on her heel and did not look back. As she walked away, she almost laughed at the irony. That’s what she should’ve done years ago. At least now she was determined to leave the past where it belonged. She was traveling home to England, and that’s where her future lie.

I lied to you,” she said with a belligerent edge. He hid a smile. “I lied to you.” “I’m domineering and used to getting my own way.” “I like a woman who knows her own mind.” “I’m stubborn and opinionated.” “If I’m contemplating a lifetime with a lassie, I want her to show a bit of spirit.” “I have no society polish. A countess should be sophisticated, whereas I’ve never had a season. I’ve never even been to London.” “Aye, you’ll settle into the Highlands well, then. My home is a long journey from the bright lights of Edinburgh—a wee wife who pines for city life would never be happy with me.” She narrowed her eyes. “I kissed you like there’s no tomorrow.” “Are you trying to convince me for or against?” Her lips twisted in self-denigration. “I’m clearly a woman of wayward morals.” He couldn’t contain his laughter. “Is that right?” Her cheeks were fiery now. “You don’t want to marry a flirt.” “If I’m the only laddie my wife flirts with, I have no objection.” Her expression was a mixture of defiance and shame. “How do you know I don’t kiss every gentleman the way I…I kissed you?” He smiled gently. “Have you ever kissed anyone else like that?” “No.” Her long eyelashes, darker honey than her hair, flickered down. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t.” She was bewitching. He’d admitted to being besotted. Every moment in her company only deepened his enchantment. “I’ll take my chances.” “Surely you want a wife you can trust.” “Apart from your…waywardness and propensity for impersonating fairytale characters, I believe you’re an admirable creature.” “Hardly.” The compliment didn’t please her. “I let you take liberties.” “As your future husband, I’d like to place it on record that I intend to take liberties at every opportunity.” He paused. “Scotland’s a gey chilly place, especially in the winter. I don’t want a cold marriage bed.” She stiffened. “There remains one insurmountable obstacle.” “What’s that?” Her delicate jaw set in an obstinate line. “I don’t want to marry you.” With

Grace was breathing heavily when she crested a hill that was a lot steeper than she had originally though. She stood looking over the land even as a cold breeze blew past her. She wrapped her arms around herself. Though she had traveled extensively all over Europe, she continued to set her stories in Scotland. Her father used to laugh about it, telling her that there must be something in Scotland drawing her to the land. She used to roll her eyes at his teasing. Now she wondered if he hadn't been right.

Scotland - The Highlands - Thirteenth Century "Have ye e'er seen such a lovely set o' bosoms?

It seemed she would marry, be a wife to this unknown Scot, the mother of his children, and lady of his people . . . Lord save them all. R

The unfairness of it all was rather depressing. Not only did men get to enjoy sex, which from all accounts was painful for the woman, but they didn’t have to suffer monthly bleeding, or push huge babies out into the world from their own bodies, which was not only painful but often killed the woman. Truly, it did seem to her that women often got the short end of the stick in life. The

Wife?” Annabel glanced around the room before turning back to him and saying with surprise, “Oh, you mean me.” For some reason that seemed funny to her and she found herself giggling again. “How do you feel?” he asked, eyeing her closely. “Like I have to pee,” she answered, and then slapped a hand over her mouth with dismay, only to tear it away and mutter, “Damn, I said it,” which was followed quickly by an alarmed, “Oh damn, I said damn.” Swearing was definitely not allowed at the abbey. For some reason her words seemed to amuse the man. She could tell by the way his lovely dark eyes crinkled and his terribly stern mouth turned up. He had lovely eyes. “Thank ye,” Ross rumbled. “So do you.” “So do I, what?” she asked with confusion. “Have lovely eyes,” he explained. “I didn’t tell you, you have lovely eyes. Did I?” she asked with a frown. Annabel was sure she’d only thought that. Still smiling, he shook his head slightly, but apparently decided not to trouble himself answering, because he didn’t and simply bent to tug the furs and linens away from her, saying, “Come, I’ll walk ye to the garderobe.” “Oh no,” she said at once, scrambling to get out of bed. “That is not necessary, my lord. I know where it is. I used to live—Oh,” Annabel gasped with surprise when she stood up and the room swung wildly. Ross immediately reached out to steady her, and she leaned against his chest and closed her eyes briefly in the hopes that the room would settle when she opened them again. After a moment, she cautiously eased them open and tipped her head back to peer up at the man holding her. He had a very nice face. She hadn’t seen enough men to decide whether he was handsome compared to others, and so far his face seemed a touch stern most of the time.

He then turned back to his bride and paused as he noted the welts on her back. Ross recognized them as whip marks at once and it made him stiffen with rage at the thought of anyone touching her so in violence. He hadn’t cared much for her parents; their demeanor was cool and uncaring toward their daughter. He hadn’t seen a single sign of affection for her, but this pushed his feelings for them from indifferent to active dislike. Mouth

It was as if, once she was married, the woman had washed her hands of the girl. However, the welts on her back had been the final straw. Aye, they would leave for MacKay first thing tomorrow morning, Ross determined. He would take her home, where they could consummate their marriage in the bed where she would one day give birth to their children. Annabel’s life here was done. She was his now.

An English lass,” Marach muttered, joining the conversation with a sorrowful shake of the head. Ross chuckled, but shrugged mildly as they approached the gates of Waverly. “A lass is a lass.” “And an English lass is an English lass,” Gilly said grimly as they rode over the bridge across the moat. “I’ve yet to meet an English lass who did no’ look down her nose at us ‘heathen Scots.’ They’re all spoiled rotten.” “Hmm,” Ross said with a sigh. “Well, we shall ha’e to hope this one is no’ spoiled.” “Hope away, me friend,” Gilly said with a grimace. “But prepare yerself for a fishwife o’ a bride who’ll make yer life a nightmare.” Ross

While he had already decided to leave first thing this morning, the man’s making it so obvious that he would like to see the backs of them was more than a bit insulting. To both of them, he thought grimly and wondered what kind of life his poor bride had endured as the daughter of two such uncaring individuals. He himself had been gifted with loving and caring parents who had never made him feel unwelcome or unimportant. It seemed obvious Annabel had not enjoyed the same. He would make that up to her. She would never feel unwelcome or uncared for again,

My lord, surely you do not expect me to . . . with men standing around me?” she asked as if he’d suggested she do it in the village square for all to see . . . and naked. “Well, they won’t be able to see anything,” he assured her with amusement. Damned if he’d let his men look on her cute little derriere as she knelt in the bushes. “They’ll be on the other side of the bushes, but there to stop anyone else approaching.” Annabel was shaking her head before he’d finished. “I cannot possibly—not while I know your men are all standing around listening to me . . . I just cannot,” she said helplessly. “It’s pissen, lass,” he said helpfully since she seemed unable to voice the word herself. “It’s a pissen yer needing. Ye can say the word. I’ll no think less o’ ye fer it.” Annabel opened her mouth, closed it, and then simply shook her head again. Ross sighed. If she couldn’t even say the damned word, there was no way she was going to do it with guards standing but feet away. He glanced around, considering what to do, then nodded. “Right. Then come here.” “Where are we—?” Her question died as he led her to a bush at the stream’s edge and paused. “Ye do it here,” he said releasing her arm and moving three or four feet away to turn his back to her. “And I’ll stand guard here. That way yer front and back are safe and we can both keep an eye on the sides.” Ross waited for either agreement or the rustle of her adjusting her clothes, but neither sounded. Resisting the urge to look back and see what she was doing, he asked, “Yer no’ doing it, are ye?” “Umm . . . nay, not yet,” she muttered, then paused, cleared her throat, and asked, “Do you think you could whistle, my lord?” “Whistle?” He did glance around then. She was standing where he’d left her, looking uncomfortable, but still upright, not down on her haunches with her skirt hiked up around her waist. Annabel grimaced apologetically. “It would help if you did.” Sighing, Ross shook his head, but turned away and began to whistle. He was wishing though, that she’d just hurry up and get it done. He still had some pissen of his own to do. So, he was more than a little relieved when she cleared her throat a moment later and murmured, “We can return to the clearing.” Ross

There was nothing soft or serene about his appearance, nothing small and dainty. Ross was huge and rough-looking, a walking wall of muscle-rippling, spicy-smelling, rumbling-voiced man. He

He opened his mouth to ask what she was about, but the question never made it past his lips. She was naked from the top of her head to the tips of her toes . . . and absolutely beautiful. His bride was a fine figure of a woman, all soft and round. Just the way he liked his women, and his mouth watered at the sight. But it was a very brief view he got before she tugged a long shirt on and let it drop to curtain all that loveliness. “What the bloody hell is that?” As the first real words he’d said since marrying the woman, Ross supposed they left much to be desired. But he was just so shocked at the sight of the ugly shirt covering all that beauty, he couldn’t help himself.

He’d set her on her side facing him, and her mouth now hung open, a small string of drool slipping from it. For some reason the sight made warmth rattle through his chest and brought a smile to his lips. She was just so damned adorable to him. The thought made him smile wryly. He’d been all set to order his men to the horses and ride out of here rather than marry the lass who was the Withram’s second daughter, and then he’d spotted her and something about her had made him change his mind immediately. But he really couldn’t say what that something was. She was bonnie enough, Ross supposed, but he’d seen bonnier. And she hadn’t said more than a few words to him all night, so it wasn’t that she had a shiny wit and charm, at least not that he yet knew of. Perhaps it had been the fear and anxiety in her eyes. Her expression had been calm and even pleasant, but her eyes had been awash with uncertainty and terror. He’d immediately wanted to reassure, soothe and protect her. Following

Did my husband catch the man?” “Nay,” Seonag answered. “The laird didn’t give chase. He was more concerned with getting ye home to tend yer wound. He’s out there now with the men though, beating the bushes and searching for him.” “Oh,” Annabel murmured, oddly disappointed that he’d simply dumped her there in Seonag’s care and rushed off rather than stay to see her wake up and reassure himself that she was all right. She supposed it was silly, but after what they’d done in the woods she’d thought— “He wanted to stay,” Seonag added. “But he was driving me wild pacing about like a caged animal and hovering over me shoulder while I tried to clean yer wound, so I ordered him from the room. Told him did he no’ leave and go find the man responsible, I’d stop what I was doing and leave Cook to tend ye. Cook is no’ very good with wounds, so he left,” she added. “Oh,” Annabel murmured, feeling a little better about being abandoned. Although, she would have felt better still to hear that he’d left the room only to hover anxiously in the hall, haunting the door like a ghost in his worry. That, she supposed, was silly too, but she couldn’t help what she wished for. “Can

I was attacked? I thought I just ran into a tree.” “Aye, ye did,” he acknowledged. “But when yer squawking woke me up, someone was chasing ye.” “Squawking?” she asked with affront. “I do not squawk, husband.” His mouth worked briefly and he turned away for another pseudo cough, but then nodded solemnly. “I meant scream. When yer screaming woke me up.” “Hmmm,

With those thoughts marching around inside her head, Annabel found her appetite quickly waning. It did not help that the stew was cold, and the cheese hard from sitting in the open air so long. She’d barely touched her food before she was pushing it away and letting the fur slip to the floor so that she could draw the linen around herself in the roman style and stand. “I thought ye were hungry?” Ross said, stepping closer and scooping her up when she stepped from between the table and chair. “So did I,” Annabel admitted quietly, slipping her arms around his neck as he carried her back across the room. Her words made him stop at the foot of the bed and he eyed her with concern. “Is yer head aching again? Seonag said it was pounding something fierce when ye woke up the first time, but that she’d given ye something fer it.” “She did, and ’tis fine. I am just not hungry anymore,” Annabel said with a shrug. “But ye feel all right?” he persisted. “Aye. You may go quench your thirst without worrying about me,” she assured him. Ross grunted with satisfaction at this news and promptly set her to sit on the foot of the bed.

The dog kept tipping his head up to Annabel, and then to the path ahead, and then back to Annabel again. It was how he used to follow his father, Ross recalled, and suspected his wife had been adopted by the beast in his father’s place. He

Me wife was attacked and punched in the head,” Ross explained. “And doubtless she has other bruises and wounds from the attack too. Take her above stairs and be sure there is nothing serious. Then see her changed. I’ll—” “There is no time for that now,” Annabel protested at once. “We must get these bluebells strewn about. Your sister and her husband—” “I’ll tend the flowers,” Ross interrupted. He took the sack from her and then urged her toward the stairs. “Let Seonag examine ye and help ye change . . . else I’ll do it.” When he paused on the last word and suddenly turned to look down at her, his eyes going smoky, Annabel felt her own eyes widen. She recognized that look and instinctively knew that his examining would be a lot more involved and take much longer than Seonag’s. She suspected it would include his getting naked too, and for a moment she was tempted, but then Seonag tsked with exasperation and took her arm to pull her away from Ross. “There’s time enough fer yer kind o’ examining later, after yer guests have left,” the maid said to Ross as she urged Annabel up the stairs. Glancing over her shoulder she added, “Now get on with ye and give those flowers to the maids to strew about. Ye don’t want yer wife embarrassed by yer home when yer sister enters.” Recalled

This was a first, he thought, negotiating with a horse.

If you can’t take the heat, don’t tickle the dragon. ~ Anonymous

And then I want to write him a letter describing in intricate detail the way the heather on the hills sways rhythmically with the wind, almost like it’s dancing. To make my point: I’m obsessed with Scotland. I came to that realization about five minutes ago, when Dakota slowly pulled around a bend on a narrow road that opens up to a valley. My heart caught in my throat as the landscape unfolded before us.

We cannot view the past through the prism of today’s sensibilities.  To do so would delete a part of history.  We can’t change history, but we can learn from it.

I was under his spell, as I had come to be under the spell of this west coast of Scotland. And his was the nature of a Highlander, after all, a man forever fighting for the possession of himself. There was a dark heritage in his blood, that same heritage of violence and disquiet which had seethed through Highland history since the beginning of time; and I would imagine that this unrest, this dark vein of passion, must be guarded with a constant vigilance lest it stealthily conquer a man’s soul and abandon him to the darkness.

The ideal coorie scene should reflect a balance of the outside and in. Bring to mind a day spent Munro-bagging or loch swimming, bookended by a bowl of something hot and nourishing as you dry off next to a heat source with a contended dog at your side. Don't forget smell: faint lanolin clinging to woollen blankets, cinnamon dissolving into porridge cooking slowly on the hob, the frosty pinch of winter air when you step into a Trossachs morning. If a King Creosote album is playing as you road trip across the humpbacked north-west Highlands then all the better. The more homegrown ingredients are added to the mix, the coorier life will be.

It tipped "cosagach" , similar to coorie, as a trend. The Gaelic word loosely translates to mean cosy; the tourist board encourages visitors staying in Highland log cabins to get comfy beside a roaring fire with a book, a hot toddy and good friends.

In the biracial world constructed in nineteenth-century North America, people had to choose sides; more often the choice was made for them.

Mrs. MacBean is auld, English. Half of her doesnae work right, and the rest doesnae work at all.

The Highlanders are not without considerable quantities of corn, yet have not enough to satisfy their numbers, and therefore yearly come down with their cattle, of which they have greater plenty, and so traffic with the Lowlanders for such proportions of oats and barley as their families or necessities call for.

She didn't think that she was superior to her visitor because she could speak in two languages, though not so well in English as in Gaelic, whereas he knew only one. After all, rich people and rich people's servants didn't know Gaelic: that was the way it was.

UBIQUITOUS SCOTS As the British Empire grew, Scots found themselves scattered to the corners of the Earth – an experience which often profoundly changed them. Few changed as much as Thomas Keith. Born in Edinburgh, he enlisted in the 78th (Highlanders) Regiment of Foot and was sent to Egypt as part of the Alexandria expedition of 1807. Captured near Rosetta, he was bought as a slave by Ahmad Aga, and he and his compatriot, William Thompson, decided to convert to Islam. Thomas became Ibrahim Aga and William, Osman. After fighting a duel with an Egyptian soldier, Thomas sought the protection of the wife of a powerful figure, Muhammad Ali Pasha, and she sent him into the service of her son, Tusun Pasha. In 1811 he joined an expedition to fight the Wahhabis of what is now Saudi Arabia, and four years later he was appointed Acting Governor of the holy city of Medina, the burial place of the Prophet Mohammed.

From the perspective of the late twentieth century, there seems to be only one possible view of the Highland clearances, as they are called, but contemporary writers often showed different attitudes. Harriet Beecher Stowe went to Scotland and returned to the United States to write something called Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands, in which she defended what the lairds were doing. And Robert Chambers, in his Picture of Scotland, published in 1827, wrote, “The landlords have very properly done all they could to substitute a population of sheep for innumerable hordes of

She swallowed. Nodded. Reminded herself that she must not speak. Gestures only. And for God’s sake, nothing lewd.

The pipe-music filled the room with sound, until it seemed that the throbbing walls must burst asunder- or the very roof of the inn fly off, to release the pressure. The candle-light pranced around the room in a crazy reel of will-o’-the-wisps, distorted by the clouds of dust melting down from the ceiling like Hebridean mist. The Highlanders looked at each other in wild surmise, then started smashing tankards against the walls in time with the swirling strains of music, sending ale cascading up into the air, spattering the ceiling and soaking the revellers’ hair and plaids.

Callum pulled a sgian dubh from out of his stocking and slammed it into the door-frame, where it lodged deep into the wood. “They call it the black knife,” he said. “But it is true steel. That’ll keep the witches frae’ your door at least, Mistress Nansie! Dia leat!” Nansie squeezed his hand. “Dia leat! God with you too, my son!” Callum crossed himself, touched the blade of the sgian dubh for luck and then padded softly down the stairs after the others. “Tapadh leat mo mhàthair!” he called back quietly. “But somethin’ tells me there’s no God where we’re headed…” He stepped out onto the moor, and plunged on into the darkness, until it swallowed him too.

They say we Highlanders take in dancin' wi’ our mother’s milk!” said Tam. “You must have skipped your breakfast that day then!” said Souter Johnnie.

banner of Scotland, red lion and lilies on yellow cloth, flapped in a brisk wind.

While Stonehenge is by far the most famous stone circle of all, similar arrangements of stones and wood are found throughout northern Europe, from Ireland to Scandinavia and into Germany and Spain, and even parts of North America. Some of them are made from glacial erratics. But most stone circles use quarried rock, a testament to prehistoric humans’ aptitude at moving extremely heavy objects across great distances. Recumbent stone circles, however, are unique. They are found only in northeastern Scotland. Archaeologists have identified as many as one hundred, from crumbling remnants to towering megaliths scattered through the Grampian Mountains, the gateway to the Scottish Highlands. Their name derives from the arrangement of the largest stone, which was laid in a horizontal, or recumbent, position.

A victorious line of march had been prolonged above a thousand miles from the rock of Gibraltar to the banks of the Loire; the repetition of an equal space would have carried the Saracens to the confines of Poland and the Highlands of Scotland; the Rhine is not more impassable than the Nile or Euphrates, and the Arabian fleet might have sailed without a naval combat into the mouth of the Thames. Perhaps the interpretation of the Koran would now be taught in the schools of Oxford, and her pulpits might demonstrate to a circumcised people the sanctity and truth of the revelation of Mahomet.

Hawk is…dead.

About the Author   Allie Mackay is the pen name for USA Today bestselling author Sue-Ellen Welfonder who writes Scottish medieval romance under her real name.  A former flight attendant, she has three grand passions: Scotland, the paranormal, and animals.  All can be found in her medieval romances and the paranormals she writes as Allie Mackay.

In a heartbeat, he scarcely could take a breath. Wearing not a stitch of clothing, Eva stood in thigh-deep water with her back to him. Before he blinked, his gaze slid from coppery tresses brushing feminine shoulders to a tiny waist which fanned into glorious heart-shaped buttocks. Heaven's stars, her flawless skin had to be as pure white as fresh cream. God on the cross, save me. Christ, he was only a flesh and blood man. Who on earth could resist such a temptation? He clenched his teeth and growled. Frigid water or nay, he lengthened like a stallion catching scent of a filly in heat. God's teeth, even his ballocks turned to balls of tight molten steel.

She swatted the fur beside her. "Sit." Growling, he shoved his dirk back in its sheath. "I'll listen, but if ye lift a finger against me, I'll slit your throat afore ye can draw your next breath." "I'll keep that in mind." Eva smoothed her fingers over her throat ...

Unbridled passion with an incredibly hot seven hundred-year-old Highlander in the middle of the night? Mm Yeah. Bring it on.

He watched her emerald eyes darken with need until they were the color of the Highland hills warmed by the summer sun.

I didna accomplish anything. The king wasn’t there. He prefers to rule Scotland from his palace in London. What has our country come to?

Highlands of Scotland:

Robbie took her hand, leading her toward their shared bedchamber. “When Scotland needs them, they will be there. I have faith in that.” “Ye always did have more faith than anyone,” she sighed, following her lover to the warmth of their bed.