The Duke of Argyll sends his soldiers to the Castle Lachlan to capture Gwendolyn MacLachlan and her nephew and evict Lachlan MacLachlan’s surviving clan members from their lands as a penalty for their chief’s participation in the Jacobite uprising of 1745.  The militia attack brutally decimated the castle and the remaining clan members’ means for survival.  During her darkest hour, Iain Gillean arrives to claim the bride he promised to protect on the eve of the calamitous battle of Culloden Moor.

            Gwendolyn must protect her clan now reduced to two soldiers, eleven women and three children.  Iain must fulfill his promise and leave her to free his father who has been imprisoned in the Tower of London for his part in the preparation for the treasonous rebellion and to regain his ancestral lands now in the hands of the Campbell chief, the Duke of Argyll.

            Together they must lead her kin across the hostile Scottish countryside and evade the Duke’s militia.  With each day a new obstacle arises and Iain must compromise his lifelong goals to keep his promise and explore his newly found need for a true union with his wife. 

            Though Iain and the members of his personal guard find joy during the frustrating journey, they must leave the women and children in supposed safety to pursue the release of their chief.  Iain returns to discover that treachery has placed Gwendolyn in the Duke’s clutches.  He follows her to the castle he has longed to regain and there, surrounded by his heart’s desire, he must trade his honor for her release and she must choose to follow him into exile.  

Excerpt from

Warrior's Promise

CHAPTER THREE

           Gwen walked through a forest of wool—the plaids dyed pine brown—flapping in the brisk wind. With the moon behind her to provide light, she tested one and then another and found they were already dry. The wool pieces might not protect her kin like a suit of armor, but the Campbells would have a far more difficult time recognizing them. The breeze picked up, sending swirls of dry leaves over her boots. Long hours spent dunking and pulling the fabric from the dye vats had left her hands cracked and dry. She folded her arms tightly under her breast, warming her fingers. The image of the cook fire lured her to the path ending in the castle yard.

            She circled the farm wagon, pausing for a moment to insure Aime and the children slept undisturbed. The babe lay on her back, her arms and legs spread wide. Her mouth parted and she snored a long sigh. Young Enid had curled up in a knot behind the wheel.

Gwen reached under wagon and tucked the blanket under Beatrice’s chin and pulled another over Enid’s shoulder. The children would be the future of their clan. Through stories and memories, she’d weave their lives so tightly within the clan, none of them would ever let their close ties unravel. And then she’d bring them home.

Pine needles snapped behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to catch sight of Iain as he walked into the camp. She straightened but remained in the shadows where she could watch him without his knowing.

            The Gillean stopped at the fire and pulled a skein from the satchels his men had unpacked earlier. He poured two mugs and set them on a flat rock near the fire. Then he crouched down and held his spread fingers in front of the flame.

            Soft light played over his smooth features. He’d shaved. Removing the heavy black beard he’d worn on their first meeting had uncovered a square jaw and chiseled features. She didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to remember how she’d fallen apart in his arms, but she couldn’t look away.

            He tested the beverage by dipping his fingertip into the mug, then wiped the warmed liquid on his trousers. Her gaze wandered over the strength and power of the man. Though he might be as compassionate as her father and as strong as Donald, her reactions to him were new and uncomfortable. Those dark eyes and heavy lashes could be called beautiful, if not for the steely gaze. There was nothing soft or easy about Iain. His power as a man, as a warrior, called to her.

Her eyes drifted over his masculine features. Her temperature rose, heating her cheeks with a hot blush. She understood why he’d been successful with the women he seduced—the warrior’s face was sinfully perfect. She laced her fingers in front of her skirts and frowned. Yet another reason to keep her distance and protect her heart.

He stared into the fire, as if he searched the flames for the answer to a difficult question. Suddenly, he raised his chin and peered through the darkness to meet her stare. “Lady Gwendolyn, come warm yourself by the fire. Your wine is sufficiently warm.”

Her heart raced. He’d known she was there. Watching him. Admiring his visage. Though she wanted to hide until she regained control of her wayward thoughts, she moved into the circle of light cast by the fire. “Please, mi’lord, I asked you to call me Gwen.”

            “Then you must stop calling me by my father’s title.” He held out a mug in offering. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

“There is much to do before we leave in the morning. I’ll sleep once I know we are safe.”

He nodded to the mug again. “Drink. This wind cuts to the bone.”

She took the mug and drank deeply. The sweet, mulled wine traveled through her body, warming her and tantalizing her senses. “This is wonderful.”

“One of many pleasures I discovered in France.”

            He chaffed his hands in the heat rising from the fire and drank from his own serving. The quiet of the early morning surrounded them in a cocoon of awareness. She could hear his steady breathing, feel his gaze traveling over her face. As the breeze sent a spiral of ash into the air, he shivered and pulled his cloak tighter around his throat.

“Would you like one of the dyed plaids? They’re dry.”

“Nay. Although I find the cold invigorating, I’ve not yet grown the extra layer of skin my father claims true Scots pass to their young.”

            “Perhaps you must sleep in a heather-lined cradle as a babe.”

            “Perhaps.” He smiled and she longed for another. “We will leave with the dawn. Have you completed your preparations?”

            “The plaids are dyed. We will fashion skirts by tying the lengths about your waist.”

            “I don’t believe my men will complain about the fit.”

“Good.”

He turned his broad shoulders and back to the fire.

His clean-shaven jaw proved as strong and handsome as she had imagined. Gwen thought to ask him how he convinced such arrogant, powerful warriors to dress as women, reconsidered how he might take offense, and decided against questioning the loyalty of his men and his ability to lead them.

“If we could defend this position, I would give the women more time, but—”

            “No amount of time would be sufficient to say farewell to our home. They will be ready. Each of them found some small memento to carry away.” Tears threatened, but she swallowed hard to contain them. “It’s very sad when you look over their meager collection.”

He grazed his fingertips across her cheek. “What item did you find?”

She shrugged. “Robert found a piece of my loom. I will take it with me to fashion a new one when we settle, and I saved several plaids woven by women who fled before the attack.”

“I’m glad you found something important to you.”

She met his gaze, somehow comforted by his indomitable strength. Iain would allow her softhearted moments, he would consider her feelings and he’d proved he would listen to her suggestions and attend her intelligence.

“Have you decided where you will go?”

“There is a cavern fortress once held by our clan a day’s ride away. As children, my brothers and I journeyed there. Very few know of the caves.”

With him so close, the quiet, intimate moment became uneasy.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I should prepare a pot of porridge. The children will awake hungry.”

 “I should check on the horses.”

He bowed slightly and walked several steps, turned back and retraced his path to stand in front of her. “Before I take my leave,” he whispered as he bent his head and softly swept her lips with his own. She unfolded her arms and reached for him, grazing his smooth cheek with her fingertips. He released her from the mesmerizing kiss. Surprise and a glint of something hungry burned in his gaze as he lowered his head again to kiss her once more. His firm, dry lips ignited a gentle fire. The flame traveled through her body awakening desires she’d never imagined. She pressed against him, seeking a release from the ache burning low in her belly.

He shifted to cup her cheeks between his large hands. He seemed so in command, so confident until his fingers trembled against her skin. “Iain?”

He lowered his head slowly, keeping her gaze locked with the fierceness of his stare. This time he kissed her with more feeling, with more intimacy, with more demand. She melted against him. He moved from her mouth to kiss her cheeks and neck. She mimicked his actions, reveling in the soft flesh beneath her lips. His body hardened, his breath hitched. For the first time in her experience, she understood the lure of passion ... and she wanted more.

He skimmed his way back to her mouth with gentle, biting kisses. “When we marry....”

“Marry?”

“Aye, Gwen.” His lips trailed down her throat as his hands held her captive ... secure ... surrounded by his scent, his taste. “When you are mine....”

Although she’d belonged to him from the moment her father gave his pledge, she hadn’t believed she could become so intimately aware of any man in such a short time. She gripped his shirt, yearning for more.

He smiled against her cheek. “Tommorrow, when we arrive at your cavern fortress, I will join with you before your clan and my guard, before I depart for London.”

She closed her eyes and pushed back from his hold. How could she have forgotten who he was and what he intended? Once again, she would stand quietly and watch a piece of her world ride off to wage war. “To free your father.”

“Aye.”

The memory of her father’s final farewell drummed in her mind. The poignancy, the heartache, the utter conviction that she would never see him again. “Will you return?”

He pulled her against his chest and rested his face against hers. “I do not know. God may grant me victory but no one has ever successfully broken through the Tower’s defenses.”

“Then you fight a battle you cannot win.”

“I made a vow.”

“And your honor is more important than your life.”

“A man without honor has no life.”

The warmth left her body in a rush, leaving a deathly cold in her bones. If she opened her heart to Iain Gillean, she would gain another reason to mourn. “I understand vows. I’ve also made promises.” And she would keep her word. Never again would she love another warrior. I’ve lost too much.

He raised her chin with the caress of his thumb. His gaze warm and inviting. If he kissed her again....

“Gwen, will you join with me before your clan and become my wife?

She backed out of his embrace and shook her head. “Nay, mi’lord. I will not.”

All images and writings copyright 2006  Sheila-Rae Z. Mohs  Last Updated 12/30/07