The Highlander’s Welsh Bride
by Cathy & DD MacRae
Blurb:
Prince Llywelyn was dead, his soldiers fleeing before King Edward’s army. Carys, a distant cousin to the prince, herself a princess of Wales, had picked up arms alongside her husband more than a year ago. Now homeless, her husband buried beneath the good Welsh soil, she seeks shelter in the north, far from the reach of Longshanks’ men. Carys and Wales would never be the same again.
Birk MacLean has been ordered to take a bride and produce an heir. He grows weary of the lasses paraded before him, women of delicate nature and selfish motives. He desires a wife strong enough to help lead one of the most powerful clans in Western Scotland.
One like the Welsh woman sitting in his dungeon, arrested for poaching MacLean deer.
Can Birk convince Carys marriage to him is preferable to a hangman’s noose? And will the heard-headed Scot be worthy of a Princess of Wales?
Excerpt:
Birk led Carys to his desk, halting a few steps away. A piece of parchment lay upon the surface, held in place by an inkpot on one corner and a thick, leather-bound book at the other. The priest eyed him across the expanse, arms folded, hands hidden within the sleeves of his long brown robe. The steward and his wife stood on either side of the priest, witnesses for the ceremony.
The priest turned his attention to Carys. “If the bride will give me her name, I will complete the contract.”
Lifting her chin a fraction, Carys avoided Birk’s gaze.
“Dinnae fash. He’s been well-compensated for overlooking the irregularities of the wedding.”
She blinked. “You bribed a priest?”
“Nae. Compensation comes after he performs the ceremony. Bribery would indicate payment before he does as I ask. I am not that foolish.”
Carys squared her shoulders and addressed the priest.
“Carys Wen, filia Pedr.”
Nodding, the rotund priest carefully inserted her name in the proper place on the document, with a bit of help in spelling from the bride.
Birk dropped Carys’s arm and stepped boldly to the desk. He plucked the quill from the stand and, dipping the tip in the ink, scrawled his name at the bottom of the parchment. With an instant of uncertainty, he handed the quill to Carys.
To his surprise, she waved it aside and approached the desk. Splaying her fingertips upon the wooden surface next to the parchment, she studied the contract.
She can read? Birk’s breath left him in a small whoosh. Shite!
Her shoulders stiffened and she ran one blunt fingernail over the parchment as if clarifying what she saw. Whirling, she pinned him with an enraged look.
“You lied to me?” She blinked furiously and drew a deep breath, stuttering once before she found the words she sought. “You lied to me! You aren’t the steward, or the captain of the guard, or even the head gaoler. You bastard! You’re the chief of Clan MacLean!”
Aware of the small crowd avidly listening to every word, Birk folded his arms over his chest. “I dinnae lie to ye. Ye dinnae ask.”
Her eyes blazed. “You skirted the issue,” she accused, jabbing a finger beneath his nose. She flung her hand toward the marriage contract. “You didn’t think I’d be able to read the contract, did you? As laird, you could pardon me without thinking twice, yet you insisted I marry you. Why? Can you not find a woman willing to marry you? Is the bribe of being Lady MacLean not enough?”
Her chest heaved, fury radiated from every inch. Birk surveyed her laconically. “Are ye finished? Have ye run out of spite?”
“Spite?” Her voice squeaked up the scale, eyebrows punctuating her indignation less than an inch from her hairline. “Cer i grafu!”
Birk’s eyes narrowed. “Ye’ve said that to me before, and I dinnae think it means I do.”
“It doesn’t.”
Purchase Link: https://www.amzn.com/dp/B07KNYTMPK
About Cathy MacRae
Cathy MacRae lives on the sunny side of the Arbuckle Mountains where she and her husband read, write, and tend the garden—with the help of the dogs, of course.
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Thanks so much for hosting us today, Kate!! Love your blog!
Thank you for being here!