The Mammoth Book of SCOTTISH.

ROMANCE.

TRISHA TELEP.

Introduction.

William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, Rob Roy (not to mention the Loch Ness Monster): Sir Walter Scott certainly knew a country that bred brave, bigger-than-life heroes when he saw it. It's no wonder that the lush mountain scenery of the Scottish Highlands, and the majestic sweep of 790 islands (!), is the perfect backdrop for epic romance. And although the highlands are no longer peopled by the fabled, chivalrous, unruly Highlander clans of old those fierce Scottish outlaws, martyrs, traitors and deadly warriors who seemed to get under the skin of the bloodless English with increasing regularity their fame lives on in the accounts of their deeds (and even in the discredited, but no less brilliant, Ossian poems of James MacPherson).

Any self-respecting Scot knows that a good tartan is the solution to everything: it tells you what you are, where you belong, who your friends and family are. Forget the Vikings: those guys just can't hold a candle to a delicious battle-weary warrior whose fighting skills and wicked sex appeal have spawned a thousand Scottish heartthrobs. From the gothic castles and over the windswept moors, with the broadsword, the claymore, the dirk, the flai, and the Lochaber axe, one of the most time-tested, evocative and romantic superheroes known the world over in video games, comic books and romance novels hails from nowhere other than Scotland.

And from the fierce battle-torn highlands we move to the magic steeped lowlands, where the ley lines meet and the most powerful witches lie in wait, mystical energy flowing as swiftly as the River Tweed. Where glaistigs snatch unfortunate souls straight from their beds, and carry them into the night on headless horses, and bean shth moan and wail in dark woods. Make sure to leave an empty place at the dinner table for the dead on Samhain for you just might find yourself breaking bread with a ghostly lady in white, or a horseman with no head, or a demon, a dark fairy, a bristling loch monster, or a haunting phantom from the other side of the grave. The Scottish hills are alive with the sound of supernatural slithering.

So, although the ell, the stone, the boll and the firlot are no more, and I have been many times a witness to the sorry sight of cafe owners in London refusing Scottish pound notes as if they were monopoly money, do not despair. The stories in this collection are rowdy, wild, irresistible examples of the kind of history, magic and sex you're sure to encounter if you ever find yourself on a dark, lonely road in the middle of the Scottish wilderness, face to face with a half-naked man in a tartan. It's always best to be prepared.

Trisha Telep.

Highland Heart.

Heather McCollum.

One.

Edge of Loch Tuinn, Highlands of Scotland, August 1512.

Rachel Brindle sat her mare with ease, just like any well-bred Englishwoman. She twisted an escaped curl of dark brown hair and poked it under her velvet cap. The wagons of provisions rambled behind Rachel and her sister, Isabelle, as they skirted the large lake that glittered with a million diamond-like bits of sunlight. The water looked so cool, but their father hadn't allowed them to wade in it. She and Isabelle had been commanded to sip water and pray while everyone else refreshed.

Rachel huffed at the rebellious curl. She looked askance to her sister. "Do you think we're almost there?"

Isabelle shielded her eyes against the sun. "Father said it would be after noon. I'd say we're close."

They travelled to Munro Keep to meet with the elderly Hamish Munro, great Highland chieftain and her father's business partner. William Brindle brought shillings and provisions in exchange for the fine wool that the Munros grew on their herds.

"I'm melting." A trail of perspiration tickled between Rachel's breasts under her gown. Perhaps she shouldn't have begged their father to bring them along to escape the boredom of country life. Even with the summer heat, her father had insisted she wear long sleeves to hide her strange dragonfly-shaped birthmark. She dabbed at her forehead and chest with a lacy handkerchief.

"If I succumb to the vapours will you revive me?" Rachel teased. As usual, Isabelle frowned at any mention of their special healing abilities.

"I'll pour water on your face," her sister threatened.

Rachel laughed, the sound cutting off as her glance strayed through the copse of thick pines on their left. Her lips dropped open on an unuttered gasp as her gaze locked with the intense stare of a man. He sat statue-like on his horse, a hundred yards back in the thick growth. His massive chest was bare like that of a barbarian. Red-brown hair nearly reached his broad, tanned shoulders, giving him a wild look. Though the forest shadows dappled along his skin, Rachel could see sculpted muscles protecting his ribs. He held a sword in one arm, and his biceps looked accustomed to holding its weight for long periods of time.

Narrowed eyes assessed her, judging, waiting perhaps for her outcry. But Rachel kept silent, her thudding heart the only warning. Her chin rose as she met his defiance.

"Did you see that plant?" Isabelle pointed into the high grass of the small meadow they crossed. "I think it's shepherd's purse."

Rachel forced her eyes from the man, even though the effort seemed ridiculously difficult. "Nay, Isabelle, I missed it," she murmured. Should she alert her father? Who was the barbarian? Rachel didn't even know whose land they rode across. She knew that the Munros warred with a neighbouring clan, but surely her father would have kept their route along friendly territory.

"Isabelle," Rachel asked casually. "Do you have your bow near you?"

"Yes, but I don't think father wants me hunting this close to the Munros."

"Keep it close," Rachel looked at her sister, her eyes severe. "Just in case."

Rachel pulled her dagger out and set it amongst the folds of her green muslin. Granted it was only one small weapon, but with a single flick of her wrist she could lodge it into a man's skull. Theoretically, of course, since she only practised on turnips at home.

Isabelle nocked an arrow into the bow lying across her lap. She glanced around. "You saw something," she whispered.

Rachel tipped a brief nod. "Just keep alert."

"You should tell"

"Munros! Batail!" The roar sliced through her sister's words. It echoed off the trees and boulders flanking them. Rachel whirled around in her saddle, dagger poised. Men ran and jumped through the trees, not towards them but back the way they had come.

"Ride girls!" their father yelled from up ahead.

Rachel kicked her mount's flanks and leaned low as it lurched forward. Isabelle raced next to her. The meadow ended and they fled into the dappled light of the thick woods. Their father waved his arm overhead to urge them to follow as he wove through the trees.

The guttural sounds and clang of steel mixed with Gaelic curses. Did the barbarian pursue them? Rachel glanced at Isabelle, her sweet, dutiful younger sister. Would she be murdered by marauders because Rachel had failed to warn everyone? She swallowed against the dry panic in her throat as she thought of the man, his piercing eyes, his proud stare. What if he was in jeopardy? Or what if he was to be their killer?

"Watch out!" Isabelle shouted as they galloped towards a thick uprooted tree. Rachel veered and yanked the reins to the right, steering the horse in a tight circle. Her gaze wove through the dense trees as she tried to discern the sound of the battle over her thumping heart. She continued to circle, hoping to find a clear-cut path through the thickets.

"Blast!" she cursed low and looked up at the giant trees. She had absolutely no sense of direction. She shifted in her seat, breathing the moist earthy air while the halted horse quivered beneath her. "Which way?"

She scanned the woods looking for any familiar path. And stopped. The barbarian stood amongst the leaves. Blood streaked down the sword he held ready, his legs braced apart as if waiting for another target to strike. In a fluid motion he pivoted, sharp eyes connecting once again with Rachel's as if they were magnets. He took a step towards her.

The whoosh of an arrow made Rachel drop against her horse's neck, but her wide eyes watched in horror as the arrow slammed into the man's shoulder.

"No!" Rachel screamed and pushed her horse through the undergrowth to him. She slid down into the ferns. Her little slippers found no purchase and she tripped and slipped towards him where he lay surrounded by green fronds. He wore a kilt draped loosely around narrow hips. His eyes were closed but he swallowed. The tip of the arrow protruded from his chest, its shaft buried in his back.

Rachel ignored her shaking and placed her hands on his hot skin. She closed her eyes and released the bubble of power that churned behind her ribs, funnelling it through him. His blood surged with energy. His stomach and bladder were empty. His heart beat hard against the strain of the injury. The whisper of a leak caught Rachel's breath a nick in the artery, blood pooling in his chest cavity.

"Holy Lord," she whispered and opened her eyes. In the distance she could hear shouting, guttural and fierce. Rachel's eyes dropped. "Yes," she breathed, and dug a fist-sized rock from beside the wet ferns, hefting it into her hand. "Holy Lord help me." She slammed it into his chest, against the protruding arrowhead. The man gasped but didn't wake. "I'm so sorry," she whispered and yanked his arm. Holy Lord, he was heavy! She braced her muddied feet against the side of a large pine and used her legs to turn him on to his side. When she'd first laid eyes on him, in the shadows, she hadn't seen the criss-crossing of scars marring his smooth skin. This man had seen battle, a lot of battle. Guilt took hold of her, lending her strength. He'd survived all this time only to be shot when she stole his attention.

The shouts crept closer. Were they looking for him? Rachel sunk lower into the ferns as she wedged her feet against his bloodied back. With a great yank the shaft slid free and the man gave a deep groan. She straddled him, kicking her skirts out of the way. He was so broad that her knees didn't reach the ground and she balanced on his hip while slamming one hand on to each of his wounds, front and back.

She breathed in the tang of blood, the sweat and mud, his masculine scent, as she released her magic, directing it through her splayed hands into his body. The nick first. She cringed as she felt the larger tear along the thin artery, a consequence of removing the splintery shaft. Her eyes flickered closed as she imagined the smooth lines of healthy tissue. Moving outwards, she pushed her power into the torn muscles, repairing, smoothing. She knitted the splintered edges of a rib and healed the broken and seeping capillaries feeding the muscles. Finally, the torn skin. Rachel breathed deep, feeling her energy feeding into the man. Would she have enough strength to escape? Her head swam and she slumped forwards, draping him in blood-stained green muslin.

"Lass." The whisper tickled at her ear and she felt her body lowered gently to the soft earth. Warm fingers brushed the hair from her cheeks and her eyes fluttered open. "What are ye?" Dark blue eyes stared down into her own, questioning, stunning her.

"There! A horse! I know I shot him. Over there!" The barbarian glanced over his shoulder and then back at her. His sensuous lips thinned into a line of frustration.

"I'll come for ye."

Come for her? Where was she going? Rachel felt her consciousness slip over the edge into comfortable darkness.

Two.

Rachel became aware of the sway of the horse under her and stirred. Where am I? As her memory crashed into place, her eyes snapped open. The barbarian?

Grey clouds pushed against blue overhead. Horses clipped along at a quick gait around her, the slight jostling of armaments and bridles indicating a large number. Cold fingers touched her cheek, drawing her to the eyes of a stranger. She struggled to pull away.

"Whoa there, lass," the young man said. "I'm not going to hurt ye." He grasped her arms so she wouldn't tumble from the horse. Rachel's gaze circled the small army marching across the moor. Curious stares from rough dirty faces met her. "Ye're English?" She nodded but didn't say anything. "Now what was a bonny thing like ye doing all muddy and bloody amongst the ferns on the border of Munro land?"

Her gaze returned to his. Genuine confusion wrinkled his dirty forehead, but a twinkle livened his kind eyes.

"I ..." What should she say? "I ... was travelling with my father. He has business up in the Highlands. He's a wool merchant." She glanced past the man's shoulder back towards the thick forest beyond. "I need to go back." Had Isabelle escaped?

The man didn't say anything for a few long moments. "If yer da has dealings with the Munros, we aren't likely to take ye back."

Rachel's heart sped and she turned to study the landscape. The man leaned closer. "I'm Angus Riley, friend and warrior to The Macbain of Druim. And ye are?"

Rachel kept her chin high and her lips tight.

"Now if I'm to introduce ye as a ... guest at Druim, I must know yer name, lass. Prisoners doona fair well in the dungeons. It be dark, cold and skittery down there."

A threat or a fair warning? "Rachel Brindle. And you will return me to my father, William Brindle, please."

"Ah, now Miss Brindle, how is it that ye have so much blood on ye?"

Rachel glanced down at her hands. They were streaked red. So they hadn't found the man she'd saved. "I ... I must have cut myself," she murmured.

"I see no gash upon yer lovely skin, lass. Not even a bump from falling off yer mount."

Rachel's mind whirled. "I don't remember." She shook her head and noticed that the torturous velvet cap at least was gone. Would her father find it amongst the ferns and know she'd been taken? Or would she be lost forever at Druim?

I'll come for ye. The barbarian's words came back to her. Would he? Rachel let out a long sigh. She wouldn't count on it.

The cost of her name was so incredibly worth the warm water enveloping Rachel in the deep bathing bucket in the room she'd been given at Druim. "Guest" was certainly better than "prisoner". Angus Riley had kept his word and introduced her to the tall, grim-faced leader of their clan as a damsel in distress. She'd been given food and drink and a small room above the main hall.

What would happen to her tomorrow was unknown, but for the night, she was told she could bathe, sleep and recover from her obvious ordeal. Bathing and eating played a part in Rachel's plan, but not sleeping. She intended to escape. For despite their gentility, she knew her current protectors would turn captors once they confirmed her connection to their enemy.

Rachel rubbed the floral soap along her limbs but resisted the urge to relax. Escape was a priority, before Druim realized just how capable she was. Her bedraggled and exhausted appearance upon arrival had lowered their defences. There wasn't even a guard outside her door.

Rachel dried and dressed in her stained green gown. It was still damp from her attempt to wash away the blood. Rachel fingered her clean hair. It was dark outside the window slit. She cracked open her door to an empty corridor dimly lit. She walked with purposeful stealth. The main stairway would lead to a great hall filled with warriors. Her eyes studied the shadows. This was a huge fortress. They needed at least one other exit. Rachel nearly fell into a rectangular hole cut into the floor at the end of the corridor. Her heart thudded as she gathered her long kirtle.

The ladder within the hole led down into a low-ceilinged hallway. The earthy smell of roots and grain indicated that it was a storage area. Perfect. Rachel crept along the dark, rough wall into a kitchen. Several cloaks hung from pegs. She threw one over her dress and pulled the hood up. Could she disguise herself as a servant and sneak out the gates past the guards?

Rachel whirled around at a muffled gasp. A woman stood in the doorway, a bit older than she. Evelyn, if Rachel remembered the woman's name from her earlier introductions the maid who watched the chief's young children. Evelyn's eyes were wide in her round face. Rachel grabbed her stiff hand. She poured just enough power into it to warm the servant. A blue glow surrounded their clasped hands.

"Holy Lord our Father," Evelyn murmured and passed the sign of the cross over her chest with her free hand. Rachel stared into her frantic eyes.

"I have powers. They are good powers, but if you don't help me I will turn them against you." The woman didn't say anything. Did she not care what happened to her? "I can turn them against your young charges." Evelyn's eyes nearly popped at the lie. She bobbed her head nervously. Rachel smiled. "Good. I think you want me gone as much as I want me gone now. So you're going to walk me out of here, past the guards, past the gate to where I can find a horse."

The night was cool as they left the building and it felt good against Rachel's flushed face. As much as she dreamed about adventure, the actual participation in it was stressful. Perhaps she would agree to settle down with a docile Englishman like her father wished. She and Evelyn walked arm in arm, like two young maids heading home for the evening.

"Wave with me," Rachel whispered, and Evelyn lifted her hand to the watchman. He tipped his head at the girls and walked the other way along the wall. "You're good at this, Evelyn," Rachel murmured and patted the girl's rigid arm. Evelyn passed another sign of the cross before her chest. Rachel frowned. She didn't like scaring the woman.

Evelyn hurried with her through the streets towards a corral. "You know, I fibbed back there," Rachel said in the dark. "My powers only heal. I can't hurt you or your wards. And I wouldn't anyway."

Evelyn stopped before a low barn. "There are horses. Now go." She turned a fierce expression on Rachel. Evelyn certainly wouldn't be inviting her over for supper anytime soon.

"Not a word, Evelyn." Rachel held a finger against her lips then lowered it quickly. Could the girl see her finger tremble? "You'll look guilty if you admit helping me get away."

Evelyn fled. Rachel entered the barn and went to work. She selected a horse and worked a bridle between its teeth. It wasn't her horse, but it was a fair swap. She led the beast through the darkness, keeping to the rear of all the houses. She knew exactly where she was headed. The moor that stretched wide and bare in front of Druim would allow no hiding and a single rider out at night would arouse suspicion. No, the mountains behind the castle were the best way to go. "Holy God, please guide my way to safety," she whispered into the hazy mist floating down along the ledges of granite.

Rachel led the horse along a narrow path between the castle wall and the rock face. Thunder rumbled and Rachel tipped her head upwards with a soft groan. The horse nickered. "Shh," Rachel whispered. Rain began to tap the summer leaves overhead just as she spotted a fairly large ascending path. She tramped up it, under the trees. Lightning sparked across the moor behind followed by a deafening clap of thunder. She jumped at the noise and the horse easily yanked the reins from her grip.

"Bloody horse," she hissed after its retreating tail. "Please. Come back here," she called weakly. She spent a full minute trying to decide what to do. Go after the horse or continue on foot? In the end the rain decided it for her. Under the thick canopy, Rachel was dry. She gathered her skirts and started to climb.

She walked blindly, her thin slippers barely protecting her feet from sharp rocks. She wanted to put some distance between her and Druim before finding a safe place to sleep for the night. Rachel wondered what type of animals roamed these woods. She glanced up nervously as God lit up the forest with another flash of lightning. The deafening crack of thunder barely registered in Rachel's shocked mind for, standing on a boulder just above her, was the barbarian. He had come for her.

The light retreated, leaving her blind until her blinking eyes adjusted again to the shadows. He stood staring down at her as if cut from the rugged granite around them, a fortress like the mighty castle behind her. Curiosity and shock mixed on his face. As distant lightning lit up the trees again, she watched his eyebrows rise and the corner of his lush mouth crook upward into a lopsided grin. Rachel's heart danced, flushing her with heat that, luckily, he couldn't see in the dark. He'd come for her. A man who kept his promise.

Rachel wasn't sure what to do. Should she walk to him or wait in the dark? What was the protocol for a rescue? She huffed. Some rescue. She'd done most of it herself. And for all she knew she was being rescued by someone much more dangerous than those at Druim.

The man's shadow moved in the darkness and Rachel jumped, frowning at herself. Even if she could barely see, she definitely could hear.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice sharp in the stillness.

"Alec Munro." His deep voice, drawn rough and strong, reflected his Highland heritage. Rachel released her breath and nodded in relief. He was a Munro. Thank the Holy Lord. "And ye are?"

"Rachel Brindle. I was travelling with my father and sister to Munro Keep when the Macbains attacked."

"And ye circled around into the fight to ..."

Rachel felt guilt bubble up inside. She certainly hadn't meant to ride back and distract him. "My sense of direction is quite poor," she murmured. "I did not intend to disturb you."