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  CLAIMING THE HIGHLANDER

  Mageela Troche

  Sensual Romance

  Secret Cravings Publishing

  www.secretcravingspublishing.com

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  A Secret Cravings Publishing Book

  Sensual Romance

  Claiming the Highlander

  Copyright © 2014 Mageela Troche

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-63105-263-7

  First E-book Publication: August 2014

  Cover design by Dawné Dominique

  Edited by Lori Paige

  Proofread by Courtney Karmiller

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2014 by Secret Cravings Publishing

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Secret Cravings Publishing

  www.secretcravingspublishing.com

  Dedication

  To my niece, Yazzy. From the moment, you were born I have loved you with every fiber of my being. These years later, I am still in awe of you and all that you have accomplished.

  I love you.

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  Jacie Hawkins drives big wheelers for a livin'. Something not a lot of women do. Littleton Oklahoma is just a dry stopover for a few hours of rest and relaxation at the nearest bar. Jacie needs to find a hot cowboy to release some of her pent up frustrations on for the night, but wannabe's aren't her style.

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  **Blood Kisses (Nightwalkers 1), paranormal erotic romance:

  Ashleigh Brown, the author of the popular Nightwalkers series, lives a quiet life free of the limelight. She keeps her real identity secret by writing under the pen name, Victoria Allure. She soon finds herself in a bind when she's kidnapped by a group of handsome vampires seeking Victoria. She then agrees to meet their Master, who's a huge fan of her books. But instead of meeting him, she accidentally crosses paths with her rock star crush. He is the sexy muse behind Nightwalkers and the man she based the hero in the series upon. She would do anything to meet him but little does she know her crush has a secret...

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  CLAIMING THE HIGHLANDER

  Mageela Troche

  Copyright © 2014

  Prologue

  1244, Scotland

  His bride didn’t want to marry.

  The King of Scotland wanted this wedding. Her holdings couldn’t fall into the hands of the Islemen, so they could not encroach into Scotland. His father, Laird MacKenzie, wanted this marriage to increase his holdings and bring an earldom to the family, raising their standing from barons. Laird Grant wanted this marriage to increase his ties to the powerful MacKenzies.

  His bride wanted a berry tart.

  The king, Alexander II, ambled to the aisle and stared at the little girl, tugging to free her arm from her nursemaid’s grip. Behind the king, lords and ladies scooted closer, stretching their necks for a glimpse of the wailing bride.

  “After the ceremony, ye may have one.” Her nursemaid tugged on her arm to drag the wee lass to the altar.

  “Nay.” Brenna Grant plopped down on her behind, falling in a mess of plaid that flopped her about and a lot of chestnut hair that covered her face.

  Caelen wagered she wore a pout to match her crossed arms. The nursemaid lowered herself and wagged a finger at his bride. “Ye will be a proper lady and marry or ye shall not have any treats and shall be locked in the chamber.”

  His bride pushed aside her nursemaid’s outstretched hand and ran toward the altar and beyond it. “I am running away!” She ducked under the altar.

  The bishop sputtered. Spit flew from the corners. He goggled at the king. The nursemaid stomped her way to the altar and flipped up the frontal. “Get yeself out from under there. I na spare the rod, child.”

  “Nay,” she screamed. She kicked the altar. The whole thing shook. Even the gold cross wavered, then righted.

  “Ye wicked girl. Ye not be
going to heaven and seeing yer mama.”

  “Liar!”

  Caelen snatched a tart from the table. He nudged aside the nursemaid and knelt down. “Here’s the treat if you come do this.”

  Baby fine brown hair brushed her forehead. Her groomed brows furrowed over her narrowed eyes. Those brown eyes dominated her soft, full-cheeked face. Her lips were pressed into a stubborn line.

  “She’ll get her dress dirty.”

  “Enough. Take it and let’s wed.” He held out the treat. She stretched her neck out and chomped her teeth into the dough.

  She climbed out on her hands and knees. Caelen took her dimpled hand. Caelen curled his hand carefully around hers. She held it so trustingly. He almost pulled away. This wedding would be done this day and two days hence, he would return to his foster home at Clan MacLean and return to training. He had to be a feared warrior like his grandfather and father so he could lead the clan one day.

  He halted before the bishop and inclined his head. The bishop cleared his throat and watched Brenna eat her treat. She smacked her lips after each bite. Her nursemaid stretched out her neck and bore her black eyes into his happily eating bride. Brenna raised her nose high in the air and smacked her lips louder, even spitting out a chewed morsel. On her last bite, with fruit on the corners of her mouth, she was now his wife—the future Lairdess of the Clan MacKenzie and Countess of Wester Ross. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, leaving a smeared red trail across the fine silk of her heather-hued gown.

  “That was the easiest way to get a lass to the altar.” Laird MacKenzie laughed. The boom traveled through the great hall. Brenna threw back her head and let out some gruff ha-ha.

  “He shall never have it that easy again,” the King added.

  Caelen took her sticky hand and led her to the dais. He picked her up and set her in the chair. She climbed to her knees. “Thank you,” she said, her tongue peeking out from between the gap in her teeth. She rubbed her eyes and then sat back on her heels.

  She squirmed to free her legs from under her. She tapped Caelen on his forearm. “I lost my shoe.” She lifted her foot and wiggled her toes at him. Caelen ducked under the table and spotted a crumpled fluff that must be her slipper. It was the softest, most girlish material he had ever seen. He hooked his thumb on the back and lifted it out. The thing barely filled his palm. Brenna propped her foot on the chair’s arm. Her little plump toes wiggled. He cupped her heel in his palm, sure he would break her. He stared at her foot, left and then right. How did he put it on without ripping the thing or crushing her toes? He slipped her toes in and then the rest of her foot.

  She smiled before sitting back on her legs. She propped her chin on her dimpled hand. “What does a husband do?”

  Caelen shrugged.

  “My da tells my new mama what to do but you can’t do that. I don’t like that. You have to protect me and love me.” Her high-pitched voice held a thread of authority. “We can play but you can’t scare me. I don’t like that.”

  “And a wife?” He threw out as she drew in air.

  “Same thing.” She shrugged. “Don’t forget. You’re my husband and I love you.”

  Laird Grant lifted his cup. “To the bond of MacKenzie and Grant. May we cut down our enemies and love our women.”

  The revelry swirled around them. As the French wine flowed, the toasts from their future children to the great battles Caelen would fight bounced off the great hall’s beams. Only the feast of pheasant, deer, swan, and every sea creature in Scottish waters ceased their shouts. Halfway through the procession of delights, Brenna curled up in her chair and dozed off.

  She was nothing more than brown hair, wide, brown eyes, and the pinkest lips he had ever seen. She was funny looking.

  She was his wife.

  He didn’t even have chest hair.

  Chapter One

  Sixteen years later…

  Caelen rode by a cart leaving a trail of hay as it journeyed across the bridge toward his islet home, Castle MacKenzie. Years had distorted his memories. The three lochs circling the isle no longer seemed to stretch to the edge of the earth. The greenery along the shore had lost its luster from the vibrant green he swore glowed under the Scottish sky, and now appeared much like every other tree and bramble in the land. As a boy, he had battled against kelpies rising from the lochs as well as the Norsemen who sailed the waters. The curtain wall enclosed most of the craggy, horn-shaped isle. The low tide revealed more of the isle’s edge.

  Three round towers peeked from atop the curtain walls. The center tower housed the family. He had sprinted every section of the structure, yet time had blurred his memories, leaving him with a sense of excitement that came from childhood. He stared up at the laird’s chamber window, his parents’ chamber. Behind the expensive glass, his father lay within those walls, fighting death.

  The summons had arrived mere days ago. Caelen had been out in the fields when he was summoned to the great hall of Castle MacLean. The messenger, a MacKenzie man he didn’t recognize, informed him in four, curt words of his father’s impending death. Caelen had responded with a nod, unsure of how he felt. Surprise and disbelief left him in a haze.

  “Caelen, depart this day,” MacLean said.

  “Nay, I have duties to see to.” Caelen shook off his numbness.

  “Nonsense, I shall handle them.” Lachlan stepped forward, determined to bear the responsibilities Caelen shared with him.

  Returning to his home—he was not ready to lead the clan or face his father and the one act that changed his life. “I depart when the sun rises, not before.”

  As Caelen looked upon his home, his gut twisted for not following MacLean’s advice and for more than a lack of action. At six, he had been sent to foster at Clan MacLean. His mother had stood at the castle stairs weeping. His father had stood proud, instructing him in his duties and his responsibilities to the clan. As the future laird, Caelen played a vital part of this clan’s future. He had to become a great warrior just like his father and the long line of warriors who had come before. Caelen had accepted these duties. His boney shoulders bore it. He had never forgotten the orders from his father.

  Twenty-six years later, he rode under the castle arch and into the center of the courtyard. Women gathered around the well. Deer carcasses hung, waiting to be dressed. Caelen handed over his Spanish mount to the stable boy. The blond lad gawked up at him. Caelen saw his back teeth.

  “Ye be the Viking Highlander. Ye cut down thirty MacDougalls by yeself. MacLean willna fight wit’out ye.”

  Caelen had been deemed the Viking Highlander for his blond hair and for his great prowess at raiding. The stories stretched even beyond the border to England, where mothers warned their children about the Viking Highlander coming for their souls.

  He dipped his head in greeting. “Aye, lad.”

  He cut his way across the courtyard. He paused for a quick beat before entering the Great Hall. Four deerhounds barked at him but his quick command to quiet stopped them.

  Not sparing a glance to his surroundings, he climbed the turret stairs. Sunlight shined from window. The torchlight blazed, flooding the small space with flickering light. With measured steps, he approached his parents’ chamber. The iron-banded door appeared smaller than he remembered. His father, Laird Kenneth MacKenzie, had always cast a shadow over him, blocking any light. As a boy, Caelen would stretch his arms and not reach his father’s chest. Father appeared like a mountain to the little boy. Caelen had sworn to become the man his father was—strong, fair, and brave.

  Reaching the door, he raised his fist. His hand hovered before he knocked. He bowed his head and the door opened. His mother stood on the other side.

  “Caelen.” She threw herself in to his arms. She squeezed him tightly as he returned the embrace. Her tears dampened his leine.

  “Mother.” Beneath the stench of dried blood, herbs, and stale air, the scent of his mother’s faint, floral fragrance stirred up memories of her brushing back his hair.
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  “Your hair is quite long.” She pinched the edges between her fingers before she brushed it back. “It makes you look so fierce,” she said as if such a thing was bad.

  “Aye, Mother,” he said, before she noticed something else about him. “How is Father?”

  She rubbed her lips together. Caelen saw the changes to her. She was a beautiful woman, remained so even now. Her silver hair shone like a beacon around her face. The lines about her eyes had deepened, shooting off from the sides and underneath, and the brackets framing her mouth were most pronounced. Gone was the smile that graced her face as well as the bright energy that radiated from her. It had been replaced by grief that turned her lips downward. Nevertheless, she still possessed a regal air.

  Her chin shook. “Come.” She ambled to the bed.

  Caelen lingered at the threshold. His father was more than ill. Death hovered about him. Yet, something prevented him from moving. His mother waved him forward.

  “When the laird gives you a command, you obey.” His father’s voice trembled, a weak resemblance to the booming voice Caelen remembered.

  He pushed himself into the chamber and over to the massive, carved bed. In the center of the thick feather mattress, and beneath a mound of covering, his father’s head peeked out. His once muscular frame had faded to a skeleton. His skin hung from his bones. His cheekbones resembled blades jutting against his sagging skin. Gone was the robust man, hearty and strong, who had faced enemies with vigor most men half his age lacked. His father faded away and stole the memories of the man he was.