The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance Read online

  Ravenscraig Legacy Collection

  A world of magical Highland romance

  Highlander in Her Bed

  Highlander in Her Dreams

  Tall Dark and Kilted

  Some Like it Kilted

  Sue-Ellen Welfonder writing as

  Allie Mackay

  Allie Mackay is a pseudonym for USA Today Bestselling Author, Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  Copyright © 2015 by Sue-Ellen Welfonder.

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Sapphire Designs, Jennifer Johnson

  www.sapphiredesignsonline.com

  Contents

  Highlander in Her Bed

  Highlander in Her Dreams

  Tall, Dark, and Kilted

  Some Like It Kilted

  Highlander in Her Bed

  The Ravenscraig Legacy

  Praise for Allie Mackay

  “Charming and innovative, Mackay definitely delivers a blast of Scottish steam.” ~ Publishers Weekly

  “I’d follow Allie Mackay’s hot Scots anywhere!” ~ Vicki Lewis Thompson, New York Times Bestselling Author

  “Allie Mackay pens stories that sparkle.” ~ Angela Knight, New York Times Bestselling Author

  “Mackay knows what a Scottish romance novels needs, and socks it to you!” ~ A Romance Review

  “If you want a fun and passionate ghost love story, look no further than Allie Mackay!”

  ~ Sapphire Romance Realm

  Praise for Highlander in Her Bed

  “Fun! A sexy, humor-filled romance with delightfully amusing characters. Artfully blending past and present, HIGHLANDER IN HER BED is an entertaining read. Well-written… readers will enjoy this one!” ~ Fresh Fiction

  “Appealing and amusing. Sizzles with passion. For those looking for something out of the ordinary, don’t miss HIGHLANDER IN HER BED.” ~ Romance Reviews Today

  “A whimsical read that will have you panting from start to finish! Red-hot chemistry ignites from the moment Sir Alex and Mara meet. A sure-bet bestseller.” ~ A Romance Review

  "What a humorous and heart-pulling story! Two people who find each other across time and came to find that real love and a little magic can conquer all." ~ Leah Weller ‘Medieval Lady,’ Reviewer for Bookworm2bookworm

  “A yummy paranormal romp!” ~ Angela Knight, New York Times Bestselling Author

  “Delightful! Compelling, fun, and imaginative, with crisp dialogue and sexy, believable characters. Memorable. HOT.” ~ Romantic Times Magazine

  Unmistakable Identity

  With a twinge of regret, Mara pushed away from the bedpost. But when she turned to leave the antique shop, she slammed into a wall. A solid, well-muscled male wall. Quite possibly the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

  His intensity wrapped around her, dark and seductive, his deep-seeing gaze seeming to burn away her clothes until she felt fully exposed. Naked. Perhaps even a bit tingly. After all, it wasn’t every day a man’s mere gaze seared her into feeling devoured, and in the most rousing, delicious ways.

  More than his strapping build and handsomeness, it was his incredibly intense eyes that captivated her. Sea green eyes a woman could drown in.

  But now his burning gaze held only arrogance. Annoyed, Mara drew a tight breath. He glowered at her as if she had the pox. Perhaps he’d heard her talking and didn’t like Americans? If so, there was an easy remedy: she’d wow him with charm.

  “Hi,” she said, flashing her best smile. “I’m Mara McDougall.”

  He remained stony-faced.

  “Look, I’m sorry I bumped into you. It won’t happen again.”

  “For sure, it shall no’,” he agreed. “The bed is mine, wench. Begone.”

  He spoke with a Scottish accent. Warm, rich, and buttery smooth. And so irresistibly sexy, just listening to him sent another rush of desire curling through her.

  But wench and begone?

  He stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. “You are a McDougall. No one of that ilk will ever sleep in my bed. I forbid it.”

  Dedication

  With much love and affection for Pat Cody and Karen D. Stevens,sister authors, the greatest of travel companions, and fellow paranormal enthusiasts. You are dear friends of immeasurable worth and I wouldn’t want to explore haunted places with anyone else. For all the ghosting good times we’ve had stateside and across the Big Pond – I thank you with all my heart.

  An extra-special nod to Kristine Hughes, aka Gorgeous, aka Anglophile Extraordinaire. She’s so much fun to be with, she should be illegal. She’s like a sister, a dear friend, and she knows Regency and Victorian England so well, I’m sure she lived there in another lifetime. In this one, she kindly read this book in its earliest incarnations, laughing in the right places, offering encouragement when needed. Our adventures in Merry Olde inspired my pen, as did our many late night Alan Rickman swoon-sessions, celebrated each time she visited my home during this book’s conception. A thousand thank yous for everything, Gorgeous.

  Karen, Pat, and Kristine, what would my life be without you? I do not want to know.

  Acknowledgment

  This book was originally released as a traditionally published title by Penguin NAL. Now the book is mine and I want to thank my wonderful writer pals, fellow Guardians of the Cridhe, Tarah Scott and Ceci Giltenan. A mere thank you doesn’t come close to express how appreciative I am for all they are and do. Lucky me, they’re sharp ladies, so they’ll know how much they mean to me. Love you, Sisters!

  Thanks to the readers and reviewers who loved this book when it first released. Your enthusiasm meant so much to me. I hope you’ll enjoy the story anew. You, and new readers, might be pleased to know that this version contains fresh, never-before-seen material. I’ve made tweaks here and there, and added a few bits that were deleted from the original manuscript.

  A loving nod to the real “Dottie,” my friend, Anne MacDougall Bryant’s, late springer spaniel, Dorothy Joy. A true MacDougall heroine, Dottie was a very special girl, gentle and precious. She lives on in our hearts, never to be forgotten.

  Love and appreciation to my handsome husband, Manfred, for his support and unflagging enthusiasm, and in memory of my own wee sweet muse, my little Jack Russell terrier, Em. He was spoiled beyond measure and rightly so. It is very hard to write without him, but his best buddy, my precious gray tabby cat, Snuggles, keeps me going.

  “Few women can resist a Scotsman. No woman can resist a Highlander.”

  ~ A truth known by every female living.

  Prologue

  West Highlands, near Oban, 1312

  He’d known not to trust MacDougalls.

  Would that he’d calculated their number.

  Now, in the gut of a deep ravine, the most harrowing way into their benighted territory, Sir Alexander Douglas and his entire array faced their respective ends.

  They were caught in the thickest of fighting, surrounded by dying, cursing men and scre
aming, frightened horses. Their fate stood clear. Sealed by both ill fortune and poor judgment. Alex’s surety that none would suspect he’d choose such an ambush-prone defile as his path.

  That, and the honor that forbade him to refuse a king’s orders.

  Furious, he swung his horse round, his blade arcing without cease, run red with blood. And still it wasn’t enough. Trapped indeed, he cursed every MacDougall to come at him, cutting down as many as he could, and glaring at the steep-sided gorge that had so quickly become a whirling turmoil of death and destruction.

  On and on they came. An endless torrent of MacDougalls, streaming out from every hidden crevice and surging down the braeside in a savage, killing flood the likes of which he’d never seen.

  His men were every bit as fierce, even superbly-armed and accoutred, they didn’t stand a chance.

  In only a few chaotic moments, a journey that should have held such promise came to a dizzying, brutal end. All around him, his entourage lay smashed and shattered, the lot of them unable to withstand the crushing ferocity of hurtled boulders, the MacDougalls’ wild, downhill charge.

  Those who yet stood or sought to fight from the backs of their steeds, knew well who’d won the day.

  Then, from the midst of the sword-swiping clangor, a proud-faced MacDougall came spurring to within a few yards of Alex, a handful of hot-eyed, pike-bearing clansmen close at his heels.

  “Hah, Douglas! I greet you!” the man called, his eyes flashing scorn. “‘Tis a fine day to die, is it not?”

  “You do your line no service, Sir Colin,” Alex shot back, recognizing the man from the bargaining table that had brought him to this wretched pass. “Rather death than to see my name sullied as you have now soiled yours.”

  Coldly arrogant, the MacDougall flicked a glance at Alex’s sword, his sneer indicating without words that he’d not missed that the great brand’s tip had snapped off.

  “Drop your blade, man. It’s now as useless as your life,” he scoffed, nodding approval when his henchmen advanced on Alex, pike-shafts lowered, swords at the ready. “A pity you didn’t know better than to come riding hotfoot into our territory.”

  Tight-lipped, Alex scowled defiance. They could slice him to ribbons before he’d reveal he’d known indeed. It was his king, the Good Robert Bruce, who’d hoped for the MacDougalls’ honor. A forgiving monarch, he’d trusted the querulous clan to grip a hand extended in peace and put an end to the long-running feud between the two great houses.

  “Your error in judgment has cost your men’s lives,” Colin taunted him. “Your own as well.”

  “You shall suffer for your treachery, that I promise you!” Alex jerked, well aware of the growing silence and its foul portent.

  There would be no winning away, no unexpected turning of his fortune, and, all the gods as his witness, no yielding, either.

  A Douglas stood until he fell.

  “‘Tis you who shall regret!” One of the lance bearers urged his horse closer, jabbed his spear tip into Alex’s thigh.

  Ignoring the pain, Alex focused on their leader, meeting Colin’s glare with a scalding stare of his own. A circular ruby brooch gleamed at the man’s shoulder, its glittering gemstones the same deep red as the stain spreading down Alex’s leg.

  “With such fine plunder lying about, I dinnae think we’ll suffer much.” Colin gestured at the blood-soaked hillside, the deep ravine now littered with the corpses of Alex’s men, the shattered remnants of his baggage train. “Aye, right good pickings.”

  Alex bristled, swallowed the bile in his throat. “Too good for the likes of you.”

  Already men scavenged, bands of them moving amongst the fallen to search for spoils worth harvesting. Rich booty indeed, much of it gleaned from the unwieldy cargo Alex had insisted on bringing despite the perilous journey.

  The greatest prize, a magnificently carved four-poster bed, carefully dismantled for the journey and packed with all its luxuriant trappings.

  His wedding gift to a bride he’d never see.

  A token offering of goodwill for a wife he hadn’t wanted but had given his oath to claim.

  Gall near choking him, he flung away his tipless brand and made to hurl himself upon the MacDougall. He ached to curl his hands around the fiend’s neck, but a ringed phalanx of steel-headed pikes stopped him. In particular, the one pressing into the hollow of his throat.

  He drew himself as upright as the thrusting spearheads allowed. “Your Lady Isobel sought this union,” he called, his voice hard, anger burning hot within him. “She wished to see your house in the king’s good graces.”

  The men encircling him smirked.

  “Say you?” Colin raised his brows. “It was her father who favored such an alliance and he, God rest his soul, is no more. Truth is, Lady Isobel has been sweet on me since we were both in swaddling. She sent us to intercept you.”

  The back of his neck blazing, Alex fought to keep his wits. A near impossibility with the twisted body of his youngest squire sprawled not far from the MacDougall’s feet, the poor lad’s eyes staring unblinking at the sky.

  Others of his retinue lay nearby, some heaped in mounds, all equally still. Good and proud men, slain in their dozens.

  Alex shuddered, his stomach churning. “King Robert will see you swinging from the nearest gibbet,” he swore, his voice sharp enough to cut granite. “Every last one of you.”

  Colin gave an exaggerated shrug. “That remains to be seen, but I think no’. See here, this is the Bloodstone of Dalriada,” he boasted, rubbing his knuckles over the brooch at his shoulder. “A sacred relic passed down from Kenneth MacAlpin, first King of Scots, and wrest from your own Bruce’s cloak in a struggle at Dalrigh. Its possession is the pride of all MacDougalls.”

  Alex narrowed his eyes, his gorge rising. “I have no interest in your brooch, however it came into your hands.”

  “Och, but you should.” The other’s lip curled with malice. “With you dead and no witnesses to naesay us, we will claim you absconded with the Bloodstone of Dalriada on the eve of your wedding. Not even your upstart king will avenge a man who’d so shame his bride.”

  “The gods’ curse on you!” Alex roared, knowing the truth of the craven’s words.

  Colin barked a mirthless laugh, waved a hand at the growing pile of plunder. “Ahhh, Lady Isobel will be mightily pleased with your bride gifts,” he jeered, a wolfish smile spreading across his face. “Yon bridal bed looks to be a fine piece. We shall use it well.”

  “You will not spend a single night in my bed,” Alex hissed, rage surging in his chest. “Not in bliss. That I swear on my mother’s grave.”

  Unfazed, Colin removed his brooch and tossed it to Alex. “Something better than a light-skirted bitch to swear upon.”

  His fury now white-hot, Alex snarled, “Were you man enough to fight me one on one, I’d tear out your tongue for that, MacDougall.”

  “The Bloodstone of Dalriada is magical,” Colin declared, clearly enjoying himself. “Some say it contains the blood of Saint Columba. Others swear the brooch came to MacAlpin by way of the fey ones. Faery folk, who promised to grant the bearer three wishes so long as a year and a day passed between summons.”

  Alex stared hard at the man he knew to be his murderer. A red haze clouded his vision and his fingers clasped so fiercely around the brooch, its pin sank deep into his palm.

  Colin rumbled on, his tone almost jovial, “If the tradition is true, you might attempt a last wish of your own.”

  “I’ll see you in hell first,” Alex growled, struggling against the men forcing him to the ground. But all his might and anger proved no match for the jabbing spearheads.

  “Devils,” he seethed, casting a furious look around him. “You’ll not get away with this.”

  “Some would say we already have.” Colin raised his sword. “I shall pray for your soul before I take Isobel to your bed this night.”

  “You will rue the hour you e’er laid eyes on my bed,” Alex vowed, glar
ing at his death. “I shall haunt you and your issue until the end of all days, that I swear.”

  “We will see,” Colin said, and took a swinging blow.

  “Bluidy MacDougall bast--” Alex began, before sinking down beneath a hail of flashing steel, his last mortal words forever silenced.

  His curse on the MacDougalls etched onto eternity.

  Chapter One

  London, The Present

  Bluidy MacDougall bastards.

  Mara McDougall jumped at the angrily voiced slur. Her pulse racing, she spun around, and saw no one. Nothing but clutter and dust stared back at her. A musty shop room brimming with other people’s cast-offs, each supposed treasure silent as the grave.

  Yet she would’ve sworn someone had snarled the words just behind her ear.

  A masculine someone with a very deep voice.

  A voice with a rich, curl-a-girl’s-toes accent she couldn’t quite place.

  Pressing a hand to her breast, she strove for calm. Hopefully she wasn’t becoming as unhinged as the characters she’d been escorting all over the English countryside for the past two weeks.

  The longest fourteen days of her life.

  With a fortitude she hadn’t known she possessed, she’d herded the group of would-be ghost hunters through more castles, stately homes, and supposedly haunted pubs than she could count. She’d sat through nonsensical discussions about cold spots, grey ladies, and things that go bump in the night. For the sake of her business, she’d even feigned interest.