1st Kiss from Vexing the Highalnder! 99 cents for Enchanting the Highlander!

First Kiss from Vexing the Highlander in Enchanting the Highlander

Feeling panicked, she was afraid she wouldn’t make it down the corridor to her room in time before she was caught.

Alban must have assumed the same thing and suddenly moved her against the wall with his hot body pressing indecently close and held her hostage. “Forgive me,” he breathed against her cheek. And then he moved his warm lips against her mouth and kissed her.

A lady with the right upbringing would never, ever kiss a gentleman—or an untitled Highlander—let alone do so in the king’s own castle when he planned to marry her off to one of his loyal lords. She would never have kissed Alban back—or so she told herself—except to pretend she was not who she was, rather just a servant girl having a good time with one of the king’s honored guests.

Yet, she gave into the kiss as if she’d been trained in the art of kissing, which, with the way Alban was kissing her back, she found it easy to follow his lead. She soaked up the feel of his warm mouth against hers, and the smoldering flame that ignited low in her belly and fanned the heat all the way through her, despite the chill in the corridor. His chest pressed against her breasts, making them tingle with the most delicious need. His manhood stirred against her waist, and she realized why her mother had warned her and her sister never to kiss a gentleman in such a manner. Indeed, not until she was wed to him, for she felt urges she’d never known she could experience. Womanly urges that compelled her to take this further.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, Alban’s mouth smiling slightly against her lips, as she pressed him tighter. She thought if he was as close as he could be, whoever was about to pass them by—hopefully without stopping to speak—would not see her, as tall as Alban was. Though she was hoping the Highlander would not presume she was always this forward with a man whether she knew him or not. Yet she was thrilled beyond measure to enjoy his attentions, even if it was just to keep her reputation intact. But if the man stopped to speak with Alban, and the Highlander quit kissing her to speak with the person in kind, her character would be in tatters.

“Ahem,” the male said, but continued to walk on by.

She didn’t dare glance in his direction to see if she knew the man. Alban didn’t either, but she wasn’t sure if it was because he was so wrapped up in kissing her, or because he was afraid to reveal who she was.

If Alban hadn’t been holding her so close, she would have melted right into the stone floor, her body boneless. His breathing was as labored as hers, his heartbeat pounding just as fast. He didn’t make a move to release her, waiting while the footfalls faded away. He smelled of summer and the woods, of freshly-washed, earthy male. And then the footsteps were gone.

Yet even then, Alban didn’t let her go. “Wait, just a moment more.”
****
We have until Sunday to make a list, so if you haven't bought your copy yet, we'd love it if you did! Thanks!
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Enchanting-Highlander-Eliza-Knight-ebook/dp/B01JNYO2AM
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Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/enchanting-the-highlander

Can One Have Too Many Books?

One of my New Years resolutions is to become better organized by keeping like items together in one space. Over many years and several conferences, I have collected a good number of paperback books, but had no idea just how many until I pulled a large container from the garage, two smaller containers from beneath a bed, cleared a shelf beneath my desk, gathered others from various spots about the house and put them all in one place. I was obviously shocked at the number. Where was I going to put them all?

Of course the smart thing to do would be to give away a portion of them. I do try, truly I do, but as I go through them, I see a cover I really like, an excerpt that makes me want to drop what I'm doing and start reading, or remember how much I liked a book the first time I read it and can't wait to read it a second, or third time. So many books just waiting to be opened.

The closet in my office is now packed with books, and I plan to read each one before giving it away. But there are those books which touch my soul that I'll never part with.

Can one have too many books? I think not!

Happy reading!

Gwyn

Tempted by a Highland Moon: A Work in Progress

After three books in The Highland Moon Series, Duncan is finally getting his story! I had hoped to have "Tempted by a Highland Moon" completed before Christmas, but alas, 'tis no' meant to be!  But here's a taste of what you have to look forward to.

Kila had just finished washing her face, when her step-mother stormed into the bedchamber.

"You are in need of a new gown for the Earl's ceilidh, and there is a most reputable dressmaker in Port-na-craig." She placed several coins on the table. "See if she has a ready-made gown to your liking."

Inwardly, Kila groaned. "I have many beautiful gowns from which to choose. I'm in need of no more."

 Verona's jaw muscles tightened, as they always did when Kila argued with her. "I'll not have you embarrassing me in one of those drab things of yours. Now hurry, before you miss the mid-day meal." She turned on her heel and exited the room.

Kila looked at Wyn and blew out a long breath. Accompanied by Wyn and Fergus, she left The Blackbird Inn and stepped into the narrow street across from the dressmaker's tiny shop.

A man on horseback suddenly appeared from out of nowhere and bore down upon her. Behind her, the maid screamed, but before Kila could be trampled to death, a pair of strong arms pulled her out of harm's way and against a chest of stone.

"I'll fetch Lady Murray, m'lady," sobbed Wyn, before disappearing inside the inn.

Fergus stood nearby, his usual red face void of all color. "I dinnae see him, m'lady, until he were nigh upon ye."

"Are you well, lass? asked the Highlander who had rescued her.

"Aye," she nodded, noting how devastatingly handsome he was.

He frowned. "Are you certain?" Concern was clear in his voice.

She nodded.

"The fool," he growled, shaking his head. "How could he have no' seen you?  'Twas as if he was bent on running you down."

Her knees suddenly felt weak, and she swayed on her feet.

The Highlander must have realized her predicament, for he lifted her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a feather.

She should insist he put her down immediately, but it felt so wonderful being held in his strong arms."Might I ken your name?"

He grinned, and her heart lurched against her chest. "Duncan, Duncan MacDonnel. And your own, lass?"

"Kila Murray—Lady Kila Murray."

"Glad to be of service, Lady Kila Murray," he said with a devilish grin and a slight tilt of his head. "It appears you're staying at The Blackbird Inn as well."

"Aye, along with my step-mother and a small party."

"Then I'll see you to your bedchamber." With Fergus following close behind, Duncan pushed open the door and carried her inside, then headed for the stairs, but was interrupted by the nearby screeching of her step-mother.

"Put my step-daughter down immediately," she ordered the Highlander.

Duncan made no move to follow the woman's demand. "The lass was nigh on trampled to death, and is yet unsteady on her feet. I plan to see her to her bedchamber."

"What the man says is true, m'lady." Fergus offered. "Seen it m'self."

"Nonsense," she snorted, ignoring the guard. "Put her down, or else I'll have her taken from you."

Duncan clenched his teeth to keep from telling the blasted female to go to the devil.

Kila gently placed her hand on his arm. "Please, I dinnae wish to cause you any trouble."

He looked into her amber eyes, noting the tiny flecks of gold, and gently set her on her feet. "Then I bid you good day, my lady."

She smiled. "Much thanks."

He nodded, then headed upstairs to his bedchamber. He stretched out on the bed and crossed his arms. He would like to have spent more time with the bonnie lass, but her infernal step-mother had put a stop to that.

Obviously, the woman was unaware of how close Kila had come to being trampled to death, or else she certainly would have shown more concern for her step-daughter's welfare.

 To be honest, the whole ordeal puzzled him. The rider would have had to be blind not to have seen the lass standing there in the open. He frowned, as an icy finger trailed up his spine. Aye, something was amiss.

I hope you enjoyed!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Gwyn

The Colors of Autumn

Living in Western North Carolina, there's always a great variety of leaf color in the fall. With the TV saying this past weekend would be peak color, on Sunday, my husband and I went for a drive, and were thrilled to find that the colors were the best we'd seen, ever. Here are a few photos of that breathtaking drive.

I never tire of seeing these beautiful colors, probably the reason fall is my favorite season!

I hope you enjoyed the photos!

Gwyn

Pond Update

In my last blog, "Algae: A Pond Owner's Nighmare," I described how frustrated I was with my own koi pond. Well, I am happy to report that things are much better! After ordering new filter material, which I clean several times a day, and using the Koi clay, the only place I have algae growing is along the edge of the liner. Through trial and error, I found that if I sprinkled the clay directly on top of the algae, the next day there appears to be much less. Another bonus: my koi, which I've had over ten years, seem much happier, which makes me happy, too!

Have a safe and funfilled Summer!

Gwyn

Algae: A Pond Owners Nightmare

If you are a pond owner, like me, then you understand why algae really is a pond owners nightmare. We put in our pond twenty years ago, and I love everything about it-except the string algae. Each Summer I battle this slimy, green enemy that stops up my pump, and blankets my pond, making it look like a swamp.

This summer is no different. I don't use chemicals, even though they're supposed to be safe for water plants and fish. My outdoor cats, for some odd reason, prefer drinking out of the pond, rather than a clean bowl of fresh water. There are also squirrels, rabbits and birds that visit, so I prefer to battle this green demon as naturally as possible.

So far this year, after reading that Koi Clay works great. I ordered four pounds from Amazon. I hope it works, but I'm still waiting. I also ordered a roll of filtering material one foot by six foot, and cut it into pieces to fit my filter. It is coarse on one side and seems to be filtering out some of the dead algae, which I clean out several times a day. I also have UV lights, one in my pump and one in my above ground filter. Using a long handled flat net (I'm certain there is a name for it) I dip off as much as I can, but it sticks to the roots and fibers of my floating water plants, and the only way to remove it is to clean each and every plant. I just purchased a new liner, may have to get rid of the plants and everything, but the koi, and just start over. 

Gwyn

Excerpt from HIGHLAND REBEL - Out March 2009

Hey Fierce Friends!
Sorry I've been AWOL. Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas or Hannukah or other holiday and that the New Year holds amazing things for all of you! I've been promising an excerpt from my new time travel romance, HIGHLAND REBEL, which will be out in March 2009 -- but can be pre-ordered now, don't forget! And I'm finally making good on that promise! Here's the actual first paragraphs of the book, which is the second in my Timeless Highlanders Series from Berkley Books. Hope you love Ian as much as Ellie does! Would love to hear from any and all!

Coming from from Berkley Books, March 2009
HIGHLAND REBEL
By Tess Mallory (copyright 2009)

Celtic music sensation Ian MacGregor flashed his now-famous smile at the thousand or more fans cheering as he took his place center stage at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. He wore a traditional MacGregor kilt, knee-high suede leather boots, and nothing else, except a burnished gold band around his upper arm, skimming the lower edge of his Trinity tattoo.

As he grabbed the wireless mike from its stand and welcomed the suddenly hushed crowd, offstage Ellie Graham tossed her dyed black hair back from her shoulders and narrowed her eyes.

Oh, sure, he was Mr. Hunky Hunk, but take away that tousled blonde hair, the sky blue eyes, his bare, muscular chest, the awesome tattoo and devil-may care smile, and what was left?

Just his ruggedly handsome face, amazing voice, and awesome musical ability.

His bare chest gleamed beneath the bagpipes strapped around his torso, and his ragged hair grazed the top of his broad shoulders as his eyes twinkled, promising pleasure to all who dared to meet them.

The pipes’ leather “halter” was Ian’s own creation, fashioned to leave his hands free for grabbing the microphone—or any willing woman who might fling herself in his direction. And there were a lot of willing women in Ian’s life. He was the epitome of a Highland Bad Boy, a Celtic Casanova, a Scottish Scoundrel, a—

Oh stop, a little voice inside her head ordered. You know that Ian is one of the nicest, humblest guys you’ve ever met. It’s not his fault that he’s gorgeous and, well, a man.

Ellie folded her arms across her chest. It was true. Ian was darn near perfect. Then her mouth went dry and her brain functions faltered as Ian took center stage. Dazed again by the sight of him in action, she watched as he raised both fists into the air and gave the sea of adoring fans what they’d all been waiting for with baited breath.
\
“Ard Cholle!” he shouted.

The crowd went wild. Hundreds of women rushed the stage, screaming like banshees. Ellie shivered. She couldn’t deny that she still got goosebumps when she heard Ian give the MacGregor war cry. His rough, rich voice resonated across the vast hall and she took a deep, steadying breath.

Ian grinned widely as his backup band, “Outlaw”, launched into a rock and roll version of “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” Ellie couldn’t help but smile. The song was an old one, written as a slur against Scotsmen, but Ian had taken it and made it the national anthem of sexy men in kilts. It had become an instant hit in the UK.

With a loud whoop, he danced across the wide platform, his kilt whirling above his knees, exposing lean, hard thighs. He sang into the microphone, his deep, rich voice seducing every woman in the hall. He moved his trim, muscular body like a man possessed, working the crowd into its usual frenzy, and Ellie knew, with a sinking heart, that she had made the right choice.

There was no way around it. As soon as this last show on the UK tour was over, she had to dump Ian. Until then, she had no choice but to watch the man she loved do his best to give a thousand other women musical orgasms.

Ian sang. Women screamed. Ian shouted. Men shouted back. Ian rocked the crowd, enticing every person there, daring them to dance, to sing, to lose every inhibition they’d ever had. And as he did, the walls of the auditorium seemed to tremble with an intense, frantic energy, with Ian at the center of the maelstrom, inviting everyone to join him, love him, embrace him, as he reached the last verse of the song.

“The lassies love me every one
But they must catch me if they can,
Ye canna put breeks on a Highland man, saying,
“Donald, where's your trousers?”

Ellie closed her eyes at the thought of Ian without his trousers. The crowd whistled and cheered as Ian took a bow and gestured to his band; then the mood changed as the music shifted into something soft and mellow.

She opened her eyes, her throat tight, knowing what came next. She steeled her heart not to feel, not to share the stark emotions that slid across Ian’s face as he raised the microphone to his lips once again. It was one of his own songs, and one that filled Ellie—and probably every other woman in the hall—with an indescribable longing. He called it, “Lass O’ My Heart.”

“Ah, bonny lass, I dinna know yer name,” he sang, “but someday I will find ye…Ye are my heart, though we have never met… my love forevermore…”

The words swept over Ellie painfully, and when he reached the end of the second verse and slid the mouthpiece of the pipes between his lips like a lover’s tongue, her heart beat faster and she ran her own tongue across her lips. What would it be like, to be the woman of Ian’s dreams? What would it take to capture his heart so completely?

A hush fell over the audience as the haunting melody shuddered through the air, bringing first sighs, and then tears to those who watched and listened.
Leave Ian. She’d have to be crazy.

Just six months ago Ellie’s visa had expired and she’d started packing her bags to leave Scotland, when her sister Maggie told her Ian was looking for an assistant for his upcoming tour. She’d ignored the idea until Ian had shown up on her doorstep, irresistibly adorable, and she’d found herself agreeing to take the job.

The prospect of touring the UK with the hottest Celtic band on the planet—a combination of bagpipes, bodhran, tin whistle, drums, electric fiddle, and electric guitar, not to mention Ian MacGregor—had seemed like a dream come true. And it had been, for a while. For the first few weeks, Ellie thought she’d died and gone to heaven, if she believed in such things.

Ellie had been a natural at her new job, her ability to shut out any and all emotion turning out to be really helpful in the day-to-day machinations of booking the popular band across the UK. It had been a thrill to watch the Scottish lads dazzle their fans and know that she had a large part in making it happen. With Ian as the charismatic lead singer, he and the band had taken the UK and Europe by storm, and now there was talk of a U.S. tour. Ellie would be a fool to turn down the opportunity.

That was the problem. She was a fool.

About a week into the tour she had fallen, flat-out, facedown, slam-bang in love with Ian. She’d hid her mounting frustration, along with her growing love, as best she could, cloaking it with an aloof negativity that generally kept Ian at arm’s length. Before each show they met to go over the details of the gig, but that was thankfully the extent of any personal time she spent with Ian.

Oh, they had traveled together in the tour bus, Ellie hidden behind her book, seemingly oblivious to the playful banter around her; they ate together sometimes, and went to after parties held in his honor. But she was always careful to keep everything professional between them, never personal. Which was hard, because Ian had such an easygoing, flirty, likeable nature. He had made her smile more in the last six months than she had in the last six years.

He was dangerous.

Ellie took a deep breath and tried to slow the pounding of her heart. On the other side of the stage, his current girlfriend – Tiffany? Brittany? Something with a “ee” sound – stood, looking bored and impatient.

One thing about Ian, he had a knack for picking the most vapid, selfish, shallow women for his arm candy, which had helped Ellie harden her heart toward him as the tour continued. The sight of Ian with his arms slung around two European models, or groupies, or actresses, had made her realize, again and again, that her crush on the piper was absolutely ridiculous.

Then, to her horror, Ian had actually turned his attention to her, teasing and flirting with her, insisting on talking to her into the wee hours after a gig, alone in his or her hotel room. He’d even taken her hand at times and kissed it. She’d almost fainted.

Terrified that she would succumb to his charm, Ellie knew she had to switch gears and move from being standoffish to becoming completely cold. Once she’d overheard one of the musicians in the band call her the Ice Queen. At the ripe old age of twenty-four she’d been easing out of the ‘Goth’ persona that had protected her from the world since she was twelve. She’d kept her hair dyed black, if only to keep her separate from her twin, but had mostly given up the layers of black she’d worn through high school and college, and toned down the harsh makeup. But as soon as there was a chance her heart might be in danger, Ellie ran back to the shelter of that disguise as fast as she could.

It was easy to revert. Even easier to send Ian careening for the nearest super model. Clad in her favorite black clothing, black boots, wearing lipstick so dark it looked black, with her dyed black hair and heavily outlined eyes, Ellie knew she looked fairly formidable. Not that Ian knew a war was going on. He’d just shaken his head at her ‘new’ style, and, as she had intended, retreated from the fray. Oh, he was still sweet to her, but the flirting had stopped . . . just in time.

Ian began to sing again and glanced offstage, his face brightening at the sight of her. Then he tossed her that rakish grin she had come to both love and fear, and her face grew warm as she fought to keep from smiling back.

Her fingers tightened in the pocket of the overly large black sweater she wore. A Paper crackled. Her resignation letter was short and concise. It didn’t give away even one little bit of her true feelings. If she let down her walls for one instant, Ian would use that amazing smile and those burning eyes to convince her to stay. She would give in and go on loving him from afar, a little bit of her heart shattering daily like the last note of a faulty pipe. Better to fake disdain than to take such a risk.

The lush, poignant notes skirled from Ian’s pipes as if they had a life of their own, and Ellie clasped her hands together, caught in the magic only Ian could create. Tears threatened to fill her eyes and she took a deep breath and willed them away.

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried when her parents died, so she sure wasn’t going to cry over a song, even if this was the last time she would ever see Ian like this -- eyes closed, face radiant, caught in the throes of the love that meant more to him than any woman probably ever could.

Then he opened his eyes and Ellie’s throat tightened. He was looking at her again, his gaze tender as he sang the last lines of the song directly to her.

“And when the lass o’ my heart I find…in the heather soft, in yer arms entwined…I will love ye, lass, ‘till the end of time…”

He held the note, his liquid voice hovering in the air above a dazzled audience as Ellie held her breath, the ache in her chest almost unbearable. Then he turned away, and she felt the loss down to the core of her soul as he sang again to his audience.

“Och, my bonny lass, my bonny lass…oh, the bonny lass o’ my heart…”

The final note filled the auditorium like the swelling breath of an angel, and she drew in another sharp breath as the crowd went crazy and roar filled the auditorium. Ian spread his arms and faced his fans, his eyes closed, as if he would take them all into his arms, if only he could.

Ellie took a step back, feeling stunned. She’d made the right decision. She had to get out while she was still alive.

But everybody has to die sometime, right?

Excerpt from Winning the Highlander's Heart

5 Angels!!! (FAR)
5 Beacons!!! (Lighthouse Literary Reviews)
5 Hearts!!! (Romance Studio)
4.5!!! (Romance Junkies) Winning the Highlander's Heart

ISBN: 0-9785368-3-5

Deceit, Intrigue, Romance in Medieval Scotland and England during the reign of King Henry I.

Determined to avoid King Henry I's randy advances, Lady Anice of Brecken attempts escape, wishing to find a Highlander to escort her home to her castle in Glen Affric where she will rule until she can find a laird worthy of her hand. Laird Malcolm MacNeill desires an English bride to improve his standing with those in power. But rescuing the Scottish lass from an escape attempt casts him into deadly political intrigue when the king sends Malcolm and his brothers to escort the lady home and investigate the disappearance of some of her staff. Now he must protect the king's ward without losing his heart to the willful lass, or he could very well earn His Majesty's wrath...and lose far more.

Excerpt from Winning the Highlander's Heart:

Later, the sound of men’s voices stirred him from his ragged sleep. For a moment, he lay muddle-headed trying to discern what it was he’d heard. Was it his brothers? Then they spoke again. He quickly sat up. ‘Twas not his brothers’ voices. Instantly, his body went on high alert.

Was it the owner of the croft then? If so, would he be angry to find they’d used his dry wood for the fire and used his blankets, too?

Malcolm covered Anice’s face with the blanket, then grabbed his damp trewes and shoved them on, when four men stepped out of the byre into the house.

They appeared to be knights, not a farmer and his family, bearded, wet, and bedraggled. The situation couldn’t be worse. “How now,” Malcolm said in greeting, but edged in the direction of his sword.

“We got caught in this storm and beg your charity, good man,” a black-haired man said, his voice dark, but attempting cheerfulness, his blue eyes icy. He pulled off his rain-soaked cloak, handed it to a stockier man, then glanced at the body buried underneath the blanket.

“Aye, there is a fire here to warm ye.” Malcolm motioned to the hearth, trying to be cordial, though he felt less than charitable if these were some of the baron’s men.

The other three men began to pull off their wet clothes, hanging them around the room to dry.

The first said, “If those are your horses in the byre, methinks you are not the owner of this farm.”

“Aye, the owner was not here when my wife and I came upon the place in the storm.”

“Wife?” The man’s thin lips turned up slightly, but his eyes remained hard. He cast another glance at Anice. “I am Baron Harold de Fountenot. You must be a knight to own such a fine horse, and the lady a daughter of a knight, perchance?”

Malcolm’s heartbeat pounded fiercely to hear that this was the very baron who wished to marry Anice. “Aye, Laird MacNeill.” But he couldn’t give away Anices’s identity. If they knew who she was, they’d kill him, just as they’d planned to do using their mercenaries earlier on their travels.

“We will take the place by the hearth,” the baron said, stripping out of his clothes.

The baron was shaking, undoubtedly cold to the bone like he and Anice had been. Too bad he wouldn’t die from a chill. Mayhap he would still. “My wife is still sick from the chill she had taken.”

The baron’s mouth turned up. “Then I will warm her. ‘Tis the only way, do you not agree?”

Malcolm grabbed his claymore. He would kill all of them if any laid a hand on Anice.

The men were half naked and trembling from the cold so hard, he assumed he could easily kill all three of them. A part of him wanted to, to protect Anice from this murderer. But how would he explain his actions to the king if he should act on his feelings? That he had killed the king’s first choice of a husband for Anice because the baron had found them bedded together naked?