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  What Reviewers Are Saying Winning the Highlander’s Heart

  Winning the Highlander's Heart is an

  incredible tale. Terry Spear allows the reader to practically see and feel the sensations that each character emits. Exciting, captivating, mesmerizing and down right sensational this book has all the delectable

  elements that make it a huge winner!~Lighthouse Literary Reviews

  This story is fast paced, full of witty dialogue and interesting characters that will keep readers entertained forhours. If you likehistorical stories about those braw Highlander men, you’ll love this book.~Romance Junkies

  There is something about a good, strong Highland romance that stirs the soul. {This} is a story of true romance and adventure. It is definitely worth reading on a lazy Sunday afternoon.~Fallen Angel Reviews

  [The author] weaves documented historical fact with lush, captivating fiction. Her Highlander men are breathtaking and brave. The heroine is delightfully strong willed and oft times cheeky. Together it makes for quite an adventurous and sensual read.~Coffee time Romance

  Winning the Highlander’s Heart

  Terry Spear

  Vintage Romance Publishing

  Goose Creek, South Carolina

  www.vrpublishing.com

  Winning the Highlander’s Heart

  Copyright ©2006 Terry Spear

  Cover illustration copyright © 2006 Patricia Foltz

  Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vintage Romance Publishing, LLC, 107 Clearview Circle , Goose Creek, SC 29445.

  Some of the characters named in this book did exist; however, the author took creative license with mannerisms, speech, and dialogue. All other characters are purely fictional and have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ISBN: 0-9785368-3-5

  PUBLISHED BY VINTAGE ROMANCE PUBLISHING, LLC

  www.vrpublishing.com

  Dedication

  I dedicate my story to my mother who sells my books before they are ever published and believes they should all be made into movies.

  Chapter One

  WEST SUSSEX, REIGN OF HENRY I

  “Milady!” Mai, the Countess of Brecken’s lady-in-waiting, threw the door open to Anice’s guest chambers at Arundel Castle, then slammed it. Two gray curls fell loose from the woman’s plaited hair, her ivory cheeks flushed. She breathed in rapid, shortened breaths, and her gray eyes were round. “His Grace is headed this way. Lady Anice, ye must hide.”

  ‘Twas folly for Anice to think she could avoid the king’s unwanted solicitations for long. And she, his wife’s cousin.

  “I am not hiding, Mai,” Anice scolded, “I am making myself unavailable to his...charms.” She tied the rope to the bed leg, then ran to the nearest window and tossed the other end out. If the English ladies of her cousin’s court had not treated her with contempt because of her Scottish heritage, she would be visiting with the queen and could save herself the trouble of fleeing from the king’s attempted seduction, again.

  “Och, milady, you cannot mean to—”

  “Aye, Mai, I mean to. Delay His Grace should he come knocking at the door. And for heaven’s sakes hide the rope. Tell him I am with Her Grace sewing in her solar.” Anice lifted the full skirt of her bliaut and chemise underneath and scrambled atop the embroidered cushion on the stone window seat.

  With heart pounding, she peered below. ‘Twas a shame it opened on the inner bailey of Arundel Castle where women washed garments in large wooden barrels, the blacksmith pounded on an anvil, sending sparks flying, and beyond, noblemen’s sons thrust and parried wooden swords on the warm summer day. Still, since everyone was a goodly distance and preoccupied, mayhap no one would notice her slipping down a rope from the second story window.

  Mai wrung her hands. “Milady, what if ye should fall?”

  “You are not helping me, Mai. Hush. I have done this many times before as a wee lass.” But this time was entirely different from her many escapades of the past. ‘Twas difficult enough to find a husband who would live long enough to give her wedded bliss, but she was not about to be tupped by a lusty king who already had a wife.

  Anice tugged on the rope and when it held, she climbed onto the stone sill. Grasping the rope, she swung over the edge and held on tight. Her arms strained while she wrapped her legs around the rope and began to shimmy down.

  A pounding on her chamber door produced a rash of chill bumps to trail along her arms.

  Across the courtyard a man shouted, “Milady!”

  A streak of panic shot into her bones as she clambered down the rope.

  Couldn’t a lady take a walk in the kitchen gardens—even if she got there by extraordinary means—without causing an uproar in the king’s staff?

  The thud of hooves galloped on the grassy earth in her direction. She cursed under her breath. She needed no horseman’s help to descend a rope. Her hands slipped on the coarse hemp and her heartbeat quickened. She was a wee bit out of practice.

  “Drop to me! I’ll catch you!” the man’s deep, sexy voice shouted with a distinctive Scottish burr, as he guided his horse beneath her.

  She snorted. If she dropped to whoever stood below her, no doubt her skirts would fly up around her ears. “’Tis nay concern of yours. Move away.” She meant to speak her words harshly, commanding the man to do her bidding at once, but her voice sounded way too soft and overmuch like pleading.

  She glanced down at him sitting astride his roan destrier. Belted at the waist, a pleated saffron wool tunic rose to mid-thigh, exposing his brawny muscular legs. The narrow tunic sleeves stretched down his arms, widening at the wrist, revealing large hands that clutched his horse’s reins with a fierce grip. Her gaze drew up his massive chest to his dark brown hair, highlighted with reddish strands hanging loose about his broad shoulders, framing and at the same time softening the harsh angles of his face. He had a manly nose that befit Scottish royalty, a sturdy square chin that tilted toward the heavens, and lips women begged to kiss. Not a Norman or a Saxon, but a handsome devil of a Highlander. ‘Twas not his broad shoulders and chest that gave her pause, but his furrowed brow and darkened brown eyes that compelled a longer look.

  Her fingers slid again and her heart leapt into her throat. The man quickly stood in his stirrups, his hands outstretched ready to catch her.

  “Jump, lass, and I shall catch ye.”

  A sprinkle of perspiration trickled between her breasts. ‘Twas not too far to fall, only one more story now. If she landed on the gentleman, he’d no doubt break her tumble nicely. She continued to slide down the rope, her arms quickly wearying. At twenty, she was getting much too old for this.

  The rough rope tore at her tender flesh. Her fingers burned. Trying to ignore the pain, she clenched her teeth and lowered herself further.

  “Milady!” The man grabbed at her.

  When he caught her foot, she nearly fell and gasped in surprise. She kicked his hand away. “I do no’ need your help.” Not unless the hand belonged to a Highland laird who wished to take her away from here and back to her home without delay.

  His hands slid up her hose-covered leg and rose to her naked thigh. She scr
eamed out in shock. What in heaven’s name were his hands doing up her chemise?

  “Sorry, if you would quit your squirming—”

  “You are no’ a gentleman,” she snapped, and let go of the rope before the rider manhandled her much more, landing squarely in his lap. He groaned as if she’d caused him pain. Here she thought he looked strong enough to wage the toughest battles without concern.

  His large, capable hands curved around her waist with a possessiveness she should be resenting, though she couldn’t help wish he’d carry her away home again and free her from the king’s advances. The Highlander smelled of horse, leather, and man—incredibly intriguing—but way too close for comfort, yet she breathed him in like it was her last breath.

  Huskily, he retorted next to her ear, “And ye, lass, are no’ a—”

  Before he could utter another word, she hopped from his horse, catching the hem of her bliaut on his stirrup. Mortified, she nearly ripped the fabric, trying to yank it loose. How many courtiers watched her antics now? She worked on her gown, too busy to find out. Perspiration freckled her brow and her skin grew as hot as the armorer’s fire.

  “If you would allow me, lass, to free it, you would not show off your chemise or other more remarkable qualities.” He grinned broadly and tugged to release her hem. His dark brown eyes now nearly black smiled back at her. Dimples punctuated his bronzed cheeks, but it was the raw look of lust that shook her to the core.

  Humiliated, she jerked her gown loose and landed unceremoniously on her bottom on the grassy ground. Horror of horrors her gowns were hiked up to her knees. She yanked the hem down with a scowl. His heated gaze shifted from her legs to her eyes and again, his lips curved up at the corners.

  Bolting from the ground, she wished she could disappear like a dewdrop evaporated on a sunny day. She darted around the backside of the circular keep. Concerned about who might have watched her jester-like antics, she avoided looking altogether.

  Her breath quickened and heart beat as fast as if she’d run a mile through the heather in the middle of summer. Only ‘twas not her run that sent her heart soaring, but the man’s heated hands that had touched her naked skin and his roguish smile that burned her through and through.

  Gently rubbing her hands together, she attempted to soften the sting. ‘Twas not the way she planned to spend her days at Arundel. Somehow, she had to convince her cousin to speak with the king on her behalf and allow her to return home before things got out of hand. Well, more so than they were already.

  The whole court was sure to know of her escapade by the time she broke her fast.

  Reaching the side of the motte that faced the River Arun, she spied Queen Matilda seated upon a stone bench surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. ‘Twas not good.

  If Mai told the king Anice was visiting with her cousin in her chamber, he’d know she lied. Mayhap not. He might have no idea where his wife sat at the moment. Then again, Anice was certain he’d be apprized of her window escape now, too. She lifted her chin. She refused to be one of his mistresses.

  “Lady Anice,” Matilda called out near the corner of the garden.

  “Your Grace.” Anice hurried to join her. “May I have a word with milady alone?”

  The queen’s hair, like her ladies,’ hung in long plaits free of the veils she had hated to wear when she lived with the Black Nuns of Romsey. Anice could envision Matilda yanking off her veil and stomping on it in defiance of her Aunt Christina who was abbess and the subsequent beating and scolding she’d received from her. The words Matilda had spoken in her defense before the Archbishop of Anselm of Canterbury before she was allowed to marry King Henry echoed in Anice’s mind. Matilda had not taken the holy vows and her Aunt Christina had veiled her to keep her from the lust of the Normans. She’d been much sought after as a bride, having turned down both William de Warenne, 2nd Earl of Surrey and Alan Rufus, Lord of Richmond. ‘Twas rumored even Henry’s older brother, William Rufus, king until his untimely death during the hunting accident, considered marrying her. Despite Henry’s more recent love interests, he had espoused he’d been long attached to Matilda and had long adored her character.

  Now, colorful silken cases elongated Matilda’s tresses while metal tassels extended them even longer. ‘Twas every lady’s desire to have the thickest, longest hair. Yet, Anice hid hers under a veil and wimple. Teased mercilessly by the other ladies about her wild red hair and fiery temper, she chose to keep her tresses hidden until she returned to Brecken Castle.

  Her cousin tilted her chin down, her eyes worried. “What ails you, Anice? Your cheeks are as red as Elizabeth’s gown.”

  ‘Twas the man’s hands that had clutched Anice’s bare thigh that forced the blush in her cheeks. Not to mention exposing her legs and...och, she wouldn’t be able to forget the look on the Highlander’s face—a scoundrel’s fascination and unbridled amusement—all at her expense.

  But the queen wouldn’t want to hear about that. Nor that the king had propositioned Anice thrice already. He would populate the English countryside with the greatest number of illegitimate children of any of their kings, if he had his way.

  “Please, you must speak to His Grace and convince him I need return to my people.”

  Matilda motioned for her ladies to leave them. Her ladies quit the garden, standing out of their hearing. Matilda spoke softly. “His Grace wishes you to marry a Norman nobleman.”

  “I do not want that!” Anice scowled. “You were born in Fifeshire yourself, Your Grace. You were...” Anice fell silent. She wanted to remind her cousin that to an extant Matilda had been forced to marry to make an alliance of sorts to quell the unrest along the Scottish border. Not only that but to tie the Norman bloodline into the queen’s royal Saxon line. Though they were cousins, Anice still had to choose her words carefully.

  “What is wrong, Anice?” Her cousin’s words were spoken calmly, but she appeared concerned.

  Your husband tried to interest me in joining him in his chamber earlier this morn while you were at chapel. That’s what Anice wanted to tell her, but she could not. She knew very well Henry’s philandering hurt Matilda more than she would admit.

  Anice bit her lip. How could she convince Matilda she must leave Arundel without telling her of the king’s amorous advances? Did the man not stock enough fillies in his stable already? She blew out her breath. “’Tis naught, Your Grace. I am only homesick.”

  She knew Matilda wanted to return to Westminster where she mainly held court, though like now, she often accompanied Henry on his travels across England, but she hoped her cousin would understand her need to return home.

  Wordlessly, Matilda studied her, and Anice wondered if her cousin knew the truth of her distress.

  Taking a deep, exasperated breath, Anice considered her dilemma. She wished no part of any Norman laird the king wanted her to marry either, who would wed her for her properties and not care one whit about a woman whose Scottish heritage they scorned. Yet, another concern plagued her. Would any marriage she attempted be truly cursed? She squashed the worrisome notion down into the pit of her stomach. For now, avoiding the king proved tantamount.

  Not only that, the most dreadful feeling something awful would befall her people at Brecken Castle continued to plague her. Early on, she’d learned to hide from others these strange premonitions that oft came true, but she couldn’t contain the dark foreboding that filled her with dread now, forcing her to seek any means necessary to return home.

  How could she leave Arundel without the king’s permission? She could not. Not unless her cousin convinced him to allow Anice to return home.

  Squinting to get a better look at the inner bailey, she watched as the man—who’d touched her so inappropriately—rode toward the stables with three others. His broad shoulders and the way he held himself erect commanded respect. He wore a claymore at his back and a dagger at his hip. And his clothes were of quality fabric. He rode a nobleman’s horse, not a common mount, so she assumed he was a man o
f some import.

  “Who is that?” Anice enquired.

  “Earl of Pembrinton, but you would do well to avoid the man.”

  Anice raised a brow, genuinely intrigued. “Why?"

  “He seeks audience with His Grace as he is in search of an English bride. It matters not whether she is young and pretty, or that he loves her. He desires what most men crave. Power and money. He is a titled lord without properties.”

  Anice’s heart fluttered. “Mayhap I should meet this Highlander.” Though she had already met him, way too intimately. But perhaps he would agree to return her home, if she could obtain the king’s permission.

  Matilda shook her head quickly. “He is not for you, cousin. From what I have heard, he had some difficulty with a couple of Scottish families and marriage alliances. Marrying an English woman would end the strife.”

  Anice’s blood heated like a blade of steel grew white hot over an open flame. To think he would prefer an Englishwoman to a bonnie Scottish lass. “But if he seeks property and—”

  “I am certain he believes marrying an English lady will afford him greater entitlements.”

  “Then he is nay a true Highlander, but a...a blackguard.”

  “Watch what you say, Anice. I know how strongly you feel about the English, but I am married to His Grace and this is my rightful place now.” She took a deep steadying breath. “Not only that, but the English educated King Malcolm, after all. My father loved my mother, though he was a Scotsman and she, a Wessex-born princess. Now Prince David has taken a fancy to a Norman lady here, while receiving his education with us. I am sure if King Henry is agreeable, my brother will marry her. ‘Tis the way of things.”

  Anice groaned deep inside.

  The Scottish kings were bought and paid for by the English. Even Matilda’s brother, King Alexander, was considering taking King Henry’s illegitimate daughter, Sybilla, for his wife. That was partly why her cousin Alexander had given her to King Henry as his ward, rather than her being a ward of the Scottish king when her uncle died so suddenly.