Beyond A Highland Whisper

by Maeve Greyson

Synopsis

The last time Latharn MacKay walked among his kinsman was in Scotland of 1410. Sensuous and charismatic, all the women wanted him, but none could capture his heart. Latharn's charm became his curse when a dark sorceress didn't take rejection well. She snared his soul into a crystal globe until the one woman destined to be his love whispered his release. Now all Latharn has to do is find her and guide her to him without speaking a word.

One of the youngest archeologists in St. Louis of 2010, Nessa credits one thing for this achievement: the recurring dream of a heart-stopping Highlander since the summer she turned eighteen years old. Little does she know, he's not some fantasy cooked up by her subconscious. He's a trapped soul determined for Nessa to end his six centuries in hell. Can love prevail over the dark magic of a woman scorned?

Release date: February 14, 2011

Publisher: The Wild Rose Press

Print pages: 260

Sample

With a crazed laugh, the shriveled old woman transformed before his eyes. Her dry, tangled hair lengthened into flowing black tresses. Her sallow, wrinkled skin smoothed into creamy silk. Her bent frame straightened, blossoming into a shapely woman, breasts full, hips round and firm.

Her eyes remained black as the darkest obsidian, and full red lips curled into a seductive, malicious smile. Her voice became a throaty, honey-laced melody, deadly in its hypnotic tone. “Do ye remember me now, my beautiful Highlander? We were together once, you and I. We were lovers, but now I come here as your judge and jailer. And I have found ye guilty of withholding your heart from the only one who truly deserves your love.”

“Deardha?” Latharn recoiled from the seductress bearing down upon him.

As she thrust the deep violet globe into his face, Deardha’s voice echoed across the hall. “Aye, Latharn. Ye remember me now? Listen closely to my words. I condemn ye to this eternal prison. I banish ye to this crystal hell. Ye are far too powerful a charmer of magic to be toying with women’s hearts. No longer will I allow ye to sow your seed with any poor fool who warms your bed. If ye willna pledge your heart to me, then ye shall wish that ye were dead.” As Deardha uttered the spell, blinding white energy swirled from the tips of her long pale fingers. The shimmering tendrils flowed and curled, constricting around Latharn’s body.

With an enraged scream, Rachel broke free of Deardha’s binding spell. Forcing her way between Latharn and the witch, she clawed at Deardha’s face.

“Mother, no!” Latharn roared, fighting against the tightening bands of the curse meshed about his body. “Ye must get away from her. Save yourself!” He couldn’t breathe. His heartbeat slowed and the room darkened around him.. This must be what it felt like to die. Latharn struggled to focus his eyes.

The conflicting forces threw Rachel across the room as Deardha’s field of malevolence blasted against the walls. The winds howled and roared as the demonic chaos ripped throughout the castle. Then all fell silent just as swift as the storm had risen and a fog of sorrow settled over the room. Latharn shuddered awake to an icy smoothness pressed against his spine. Finding his arms freed, he flexed his hands, wincing as he rolled his bruised and battered shoulders. Where was he? He lifted his head, staring about in disbelief at the see-through globe enclosed around his body.

Everyone eased their way out from where they’d taken cover: they crawled out from under tables, from behind overturned benches. Eyes wide with fear, they glanced about the room to see if the attack was over.

Latharn spread his hands on the curved, cold glass. What were they doing? Why did they mill around him like he wasn’t there? It was as though he sat among their feet on the floor. What the hell were they doing?

The serving lads rushed to re-light the torches lining the walls. The scattered clansmen and villagers rose from the floor, checking each other for injuries. Tables and benches lay about the room like scattered rushes strewn across the floor. Tapestries and tartans hung in tattered strips, nothing left on the standards but bits of colored shreds.
Laird MacKay shoved his way through the wreckage to his wife. Rachel lay in a crumpled heap beside the hearth, her weakened breath barely moving her chest.

“Mother!” Latharn shouted against the glass. If she was dead it would be no one’s fault but his own. Standing, Latharn stretched to see if Rachel would move.

Laird MacKaycradled her against his chest, pressing his lips to her forehead until she opened her eyes.

Rachel struggled to lift her head, her eyes widening with disbelief as she looked across the room directly toward Latharn. Lifting her hand, her voice cracked with pain as she keened her sorrow to all who remained in the great hall.

“My baby!” she sobbed. Waving her trembling hand toward her son, she buried her face in Caelan’s chest.

Latharn closed his eyes against the sight of his mother rocking herself against her pain. As her wails grew louder, he covered his ears and roared to drown out the sound.