Highland Rebel

Book 0: A Highland Dream Novel

by Tess Mallory

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

“The Queen of Highlander time-travel romance”(Midwest Book Review) brings you the second in her irresistibly sensual Scottish Highlands series...

Present day: He's music’s hottest pop idol, a Celtic bad boy whose tradition-drenched rock rules the charts. But Ian MacGregor is truly timeless—he hails from 18th century Scotland. And nothing can make him return to the ruthless father who despised him...except going back in time to save a certain blue-eyed lassie for whom he’d risk everything...

1734: Ellie Graham works as Ian MacGregor’s tour manager just to be near the hunky Scottish rock star, hiding her feelings behind a no-nonsense façade. She refuses to love and lose again. But when a magical carving sweeps her almost 300 years into the past and into the treacherous clutches of the Black Watch, Ellie will have to open her heart to save herself, the future...and one dangerously passionate Highland Rebel.

Release date: March 3, 2009

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

 

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

 

epilogue

Praise for Highland Rogue

“Time travel to the Highlands was never so much fun.”

—Fresh Fiction

 

“A wonderfully exciting paranormal romance . . . It’s sure to find a home on your keeper shelf.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

 

“A well-written, entertaining tale . . . [with] great attention to detail and fun dialogue . . . A complete escape from ordinary life.” —Romance Reader at Heart

 

“Quick, light . . . colorful . . . Will satisfy readers.”

—Romantic Times

 

 

Praise for the novels of Tess Mallory

“A delightful tale that her fans will cherish.”

—Midwest Book Review

 

“An enchanting story [with] sharp wit . . . A must-read.”

—The Romance Reader

 

“It’s fairies, fantasy, love, and lust, all gone awry . . . A great book to pack for a vacation . . . The romance is steamy, and the story is intriguing. If you are a Diana Gabaldon fan, be sure to pick [it] up.” —Roundtable Reviews

 

“Very funny [and] unique . . . Have a rollicking good time with Mallory’s latest.” —Booklist

“A wild time-travel ride . . . A romantic Back to the Future.”

—The Best Reviews

 

“I laughed and cried with the characters, and finished the book with a smile. Then I ran out and looked for more.”

—ParaNormal Romance Reviews

 

“Outrageously funny at times, yet sprinkled with poignant moments . . . Will bring you to laughter and tears.”

—Romantic Times

Berkley Sensation Books by Tess Mallory

HIGHLAND ROGUE
HIGHLAND REBEL

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa

 

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

HIGHLAND REBEL

 

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

printing HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / March 2009

 

Copyright © 2009 by Tess Mallory.

 

All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in
violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-01963-4

 

BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

This book is lovingly dedicated to the real Angus, Dennis Thomas, whose generosity of heart and spirit was largely responsible for the completion of this book. Angus, my dear friend, you are so terribly missed, but how lovely to know that where you are now, you are truly “Never better.” Thanks for every kindness and every smile.

acknowledgments

I would like to acknowledge some special people who gave large quantities of love and support during the creation of this book. Thanks so much to: my sister, Jewell Dean, for being my Head Cheerleader; Jan Miller, BFF and Brainstorm Buddy; Sharon Carolan, Coffee Pal and Fwiend for Life; Terry Carolan, All Around Good Guy; Mary Lou DeVriendt, Pom-Pom Girl!; Kathy Mehalko, Queen of Crayons; Denise Broussard, Earth Angel; Roberta Brown, Amazing Agent Extraordinaire; Ellen & Greg, Melissa & Steve, Kerrville Klub; Erin, Heather, Jordan, Mackenzie, Bringers of Joy; and Bill, N.C.M. Hubby I Adore.

 

To all of you, and the rest of my family and friends, near and far, who have rejoiced with me and for me, prayed for me and hoped for me, cheered for me and wept for me, please know that you are the sweet and precious blessings of my life. May the road rise up to meet you, always.

one

Celtic music sensation Ian MacGregor flashed his now-famous smile at the thousand or more cheering fans as he took his place center stage at the Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. He wore a traditional MacGregor kilt, knee-high suede leather boots, and nothing else except a burnished gold band around his upper arm, skimming the lower edge of his Trinity tattoo.

As he grabbed the wireless mike from its stand and welcomed the suddenly hushed crowd, offstage Ellie Graham tossed her dyed black hair back from her shoulders and narrowed her eyes.

His bare chest could be seen beneath the bagpipes strapped around his torso, his ragged hair grazing the top of his broad shoulders, his burning gaze promising pleasure to all who gazed up at him.

The pipes’ leather “halter” was Ian’s own creation, fashioned to leave his hands free for grabbing the microphone—or any willing woman who might fling herself in his direction. And there were a lot of willing women in Ian’s life. He was the epitome of a Highland Bad Boy, a Celtic Casanova, a Scottish Scoundrel, a—

Oh, stop, a little voice inside her head ordered. You know that Ian is one of the nicest, humblest guys you’ve ever met. It’s not his fault that he’s gorgeous and, well, a man.

Ellie folded her arms across her chest. It was true. Ian was darn near perfect. Then her mouth went dry and her brain functions faltered as Ian took center stage. Dazed again by the sight of him in action, she watched as he raised both fists into the air and gave the sea of adoring fans what they’d all been waiting for with bated breath.

“Ard Cholle!” he shouted.

The crowd went wild. Hundreds of women rushed the stage, screaming like banshees. Ellie shivered. She couldn’t deny that she still got goose bumps when she heard Ian give the MacGregor war cry. His rough, rich voice resonated across the vast hall and she took a deep, steadying breath.

Ian grinned widely as his backup band, Outlaw, launched into a rock-and-roll version of “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” Ellie couldn’t help but smile. The song was an old one, written as a slur against Scotsmen, but Ian had taken it and made it the national anthem of sexy men in kilts. It had become an instant hit in the United Kingdom.

With a loud whoop, he danced across the wide platform, his kilt whirling above his knees, exposing lean, hard thighs. He sang into the microphone, his deep, rich voice seducing every woman in the hall. He moved his trim, muscular body like a man possessed, working the crowd into its usual frenzy, and Ellie knew, with a sinking heart, that she had made the right choice.

There was no way around it. As soon as this last show on the UK tour was over, she had to dump Ian. Until then, she had no choice but to watch the man she loved do his best to give a thousand other women musical orgasms.

Ian sang. Women screamed. Ian shouted. Men shouted back. Ian rocked the crowd, enticing every person there, daring them to dance, to sing, to lose every inhibition they’d ever had. And as he did, the walls of the auditorium seemed to tremble with an intense, frantic energy, with Ian at the center of the maelstrom, inviting everyone to join him, love him, embrace him, as he reached the last verse of the song.

 

The lassies love me every one
But they must catch me if they can,
Ye canna put breeks on a Highland man, saying,
“Donald, where’s your trousers?”

 

Ellie closed her eyes at the thought of Ian without his trousers. The crowd whistled and cheered as Ian took a bow and gestured to his band; then the mood changed as the music shifted into something soft and mellow.

She opened her eyes, her throat tight, knowing what came next. She steeled her heart not to feel, not to share the stark emotions that slid across Ian’s face as he raised the microphone to his lips once again. It was one of his own songs. One that filled Ellie—and probably every other woman in the hall—with an indescribable longing. He called it, “Lass o’ My Heart.”

“Ah, bonny lass, I dinna know yer name,” he sang, “but someday I will find ye . . . Ye are my heart, though we have never met . . . my love forevermore . . .”

The words swept over Ellie painfully, and when he reached the end of the second verse and slid the mouthpiece of the pipes between his lips like a lover’s tongue, her heart beat faster and she ran her own tongue across her lips. What would it be like to be the woman of Ian’s dreams? What would it take to capture his heart so completely?

A hush fell over the audience as the haunting melody shuddered through the air, bringing first sighs and then tears to those who watched and listened.

Leave Ian. She’d have to be crazy.

Just six months ago Ellie’s visa had expired and she’d started packing her bags to leave Scotland, when her sister Maggie told her Ian was looking for an assistant for his upcoming tour. She’d ignored the idea until Ian had shown up on her doorstep, irresistibly adorable, and she’d found herself agreeing to take the job.

The prospect of touring the UK with the hottest Celtic band on the planet—a combination of bagpipes, bodhran, tin whistle, drums, electric fiddle, and electric guitar, not to mention Ian MacGregor—had seemed like a dream come true. And it had been, for a while. For the first few weeks, Ellie thought she’d died and gone to heaven, if she believed in such things.

Ellie had been a natural at her new job, her ability to shut out any and all emotion turning out to be really helpful in the day-to-day machinations of booking the popular band. It had been a thrill to watch the Scottish lads dazzle their fans and know that she had a large part in making it happen. With Ian as the charismatic lead singer, he and the band had taken the UK and Europe by storm, and now there was talk of a U.S. tour. Ellie would be a fool to turn down the opportunity.

That was the problem. She was a fool.

About a week into the tour she had fallen, flat-out, face-down, slam-bang in love with Ian. She’d hid her mounting frustration, along with her growing love, as best she could, cloaking it with an aloof negativity that generally kept Ian at arm’s length. Before each show they met to go over the details of the gig, but that was thankfully the extent of any personal time she spent with Ian.

Oh, they had traveled together in the tour bus, Ellie hidden behind her book, seemingly oblivious to the playful banter around her; they ate together sometimes, and went to after parties held in his honor. But she was always careful to keep everything professional between them, never personal. Which was hard, because Ian had such an easygoing, flirty, likeable nature. He had made her smile more in the last six months than she had in the last six years.

He was dangerous.

Ellie took a deep breath and tried to slow the pounding of her heart. On the other side of the stage, his current girlfriend—Tiffany? Brittany? Something with an ee sound—stood, looking bored and impatient.

One thing about Ian, he had a knack for picking the most vapid, selfish, shallow women for his arm candy, which had helped Ellie harden her heart toward him as the tour continued. The sight of Ian with his arms slung around two European models, or groupies, or actresses, had made her realize, again and again, that her crush on the piper was absolutely ridiculous.

Then, to her horror, Ian had actually turned his attention to her, teasing and flirting with her, insisting on talking to her into the wee hours after a gig, alone in his or her hotel room. He’d even taken her hand at times and kissed it. She’d almost fainted.

Terrified that she would succumb to his charm, Ellie knew she had to switch gears and move from being standoffish to becoming completely cold. Once she’d overheard one of the musicians in the band call her the Ice Queen. At the ripe old age of twenty-four she’d been easing out of the goth persona that had protected her from the world since she was twelve. She’d kept her hair dyed black, if only to keep her separate from her twin, but had mostly given up the layers of black she’d worn through high school and college, and toned down the harsh makeup. But as soon as there was a chance her heart might be in danger, Ellie ran back to the shelter of that disguise as fast as she could.

It was easy to revert. Even easier to send Ian careening for the nearest supermodel. Clad in her favorite black clothing, black boots, wearing lipstick so dark it looked black, with her dyed black hair and heavily outlined eyes, Ellie knew she looked fairly formidable. Not that Ian knew a war was going on. He’d just shaken his head at her “new” style and, as she had intended, retreated from the fray. Oh, he was still sweet to her, but the flirting had stopped . . . just in time.

Ian began to sing again and glanced offstage, his face brightening at the sight of her. Then he tossed her that rakish grin she had come to both love and fear, and her face grew warm as she fought to keep from smiling back.

Her fingers tightened in the pocket of the overly large black sweater she wore. Paper crackled. Her resignation letter was short and concise. It didn’t give away even one little bit of her true feelings. If she let down her walls for one instant, Ian would use that amazing smile and those burning eyes to convince her to stay. She would give in and go on loving him from afar, a little bit of her heart shattering daily like the last note of a faulty pipe. Better to fake disdain than to take such a risk.

The lush, poignant notes skirled from Ian’s pipes as if they had a life of their own, and Ellie clasped her hands together, caught in the magic only Ian could create. Tears threatened to fill her eyes and she took a deep breath and willed them away.

She didn’t cry. She hadn’t cried when her parents died, so she sure wasn’t going to cry over a song, even if this was the last time she would ever see Ian like this—eyes closed, face radiant, caught in the throes of the love that meant more to him than any woman probably ever could.

Then he opened his eyes and Ellie’s throat tightened. He was looking at her again, his gaze tender as he sang the last lines of the song directly to her.

“And when the lass o’ my heart I find . . . in the heather soft, in yer arms entwined . . . I will love ye, lass, ’til the end of time . . .” He held the note, his liquid voice hovering in the air above a dazzled audience as Ellie held her breath, the ache in her chest almost unbearable. Then he turned away, and she felt the loss down to the core of her soul as he sang again to his audience.

“Och, my bonny lass, my bonny lass . . . oh, the bonny lass o’ my heart . . .”

The final note filled the auditorium like the swelling breath of an angel, and she inhaled sharply as the crowd went crazy and their roar filled the auditorium. Ian spread his arms and faced his fans, his eyes closed, as if he would take them all into his arms, if only he could.

Ellie took a step back, feeling stunned. She’d made the right decision. She had to get out while she was still alive.

But everybody has to die sometime, right? The thought danced through her mind and she pushed it brusquely away.

As soon as the show was over, she’d give him the letter and leave. She’d head back to Edinburgh, to the cozy little apartment she shared with her twin sister, and forget the last six months had ever happened.

Suddenly Ellie realized the music had stopped and the crowd was going wild again. She looked up, aghast to see Ian running toward her, his face alight with happiness.

“Ellie, d’ye hear that?” he cried, grabbing her by the shoulders and jarring her out of her reverie. “Isn’t it grand, lass? Och, to think this could happen to me—to me!”

Before Ellie could speak, Ian lifted her into his arms and with a cry of joy, spun the two of them around in a circle. The unexpected movement made her clutch at his shoulders as her heart pounded in her chest, and when her feet touched the floor again, he grinned down at her, the way he always did. She gazed up at him, absolutely terrified.

Something quickened in Ian’s sky blue eyes and his smile faltered as his gaze searched hers. Then the smile was back and he stepped away from her, accepting the towel she automatically handed him. He wiped the sweat away from his face as he continued to look at her, his expression gentle, quizzical.

Ellie tried to turn and walk away, but he held her with his eyes, motionless, frozen. Her throat tightened as need and desire swept over her, and to her horror, tears burned into her eyes. Ian frowned in concern and slid his hands up the sides of her arms. She shivered. From far away the sound of the crowd in the auditorium screaming and shouting for an encore could be heard, but the two of them stood there, oblivious to their demands.

“Ellie, darlin’,” Ian said, his hands moving to caress her shoulders, “what’s wrong?”

She closed her eyes, lost for a moment in the warmth of his voice.

“Ian!” His lead guitarist cried from onstage. “Get back out here afore they tear the place apart!”

Ellie’s eyes flew open. She took a step back. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, her voice cool, collected. “I’m fine. You’d better get back out there.”

One corner of Ian’s mouth lifted in a quizzical half smile and he shook his head. “Aye. Wait for me. We’ll ride to the party together.” He touched the end of her nose with one finger and then turned and ran back onstage. The rising shouts of the audience coalesced into one gigantic roar, and she watched Ian take another bow, his blond hair illuminated in the spotlight.

The party. Her sister Maggie was hosting an end-of-tour party at her cottage in Drymen, not too far from this last concert in Glasgow. The thought of riding with Ian alone for even as long as it would take to reach the party suddenly overwhelmed her. Gritting her teeth, Ellie jerked the letter from her pocket and crushed it between her hands. It dropped from her nerveless fingers as with one last desperate look toward the stage, she turned, and ran.

 

 

Outside his posh hotel in Glasgow, Ian MacGregor got into the plush interior of the limousine and leaned his head back against the seat. Dragging one hand through his hair, still damp from a quick shower, he tried to convince himself that he wasn’t upset at all about Ellie’s letter crumpled into a ball and left backstage where she’d been standing. She had every right to quit being his manager. Lord knew she hadn’t seemed happy during the last few months.

He checked his cell phone, half hoping she’d left him a message, but there was only a text from Maggie and Quinn asking where in the world he could be and why wasn’t he at the party yet? He quickly texted back, asking if Ellie had arrived yet, explaining he’d stopped at his hotel to take a quick shower. Maggie answered within seconds, her message back to him short and succinct.

“El here. U smell fine. Hurry up!”

Grinning in spite of himself, Ian closed the phone, and then frowned as the strange sensation that always hit him when he used modern technology swept over him. He’d been in the future for almost a year now, and he still couldn’t believe, not fully, that he had traveled with Quinn and Maggie from his own time of 1711, ending up in the year 2008. The thought of the three “magical” spirals in the floor of the cairn near Drymen, and the dead man he and Quinn had left behind in the past, was always disconcerting, but Ian pushed that memory away in favor of others less disturbing.

After their arrival in the twenty-first century, Quinn had introduced him as an old friend, and Maggie’s family had opened their arms to him as easily as they had her new fiancé. The couple’s wedding had followed before long, and now his best friend and his wife were expecting their first child. He was glad he’d been able to plan the end of the tour to coincide with the delivery date of the bairn. Somehow they already knew the baby would be a boy. More technological wonders that he didn’t understand.

The first months in this world had been strange, but with Quinn and Maggie there to guide him, he’d found his way. Falling in love with modern music had led to the creation of his own sound, a blend of traditional bagpipe music with added instruments that gave it a decidedly modern sound. The formation of a band of musicians with the same fervent passion for performing had followed. Ian’s sudden rise to fame had caught him off guard, but he had plunged into the opportunity with both feet, grateful for something he could understand in this strange new world.

Quinn had found his own niche, giving private lessons on the bagpipes, as well as aiding Alex MacGregor, head of the excavation of the Drymen Cairn, where the tri-spirals were located, by researching Scottish history. Ian smiled, wondering what Ellie would think if she knew her sister’s husband and Ian himself were both throwbacks from a distant time.

Ellie. The girl was a mystery; that was for certain. During the first couple of weeks of the tour, she’d seemed thrilled to be his manager. In fact, for a time he’d thought she fancied him. He had been attracted to her from the moment they first met, her blue gray eyes like a cod, fathomless ocean beneath long black lashes, mesmerizing and intriguing him in the best possible way. Ian often wondered what her real hair color looked like. Red, perhaps, like Maggie’s.

Still, the shoulder-length, straight black hair falling loosely to her shoulders, curving in places against her creamy complexion, gave her an exotic look that had immediately sent a surge of heat through him, and continued to do so every time he glanced her way. Besides the physical attraction, he felt he’d really begun to know her in the first weeks of the tour, had made her laugh, had found her to be good company.

He had approached her gently, flirting innocently enough, kissing her hand in thanks for bringing him a beer, simple things. But before he could take it any farther, the camaraderie between them had turned suddenly cold, with Ellie becoming aloof and distant. Her looks had changed as well. The trendy clothes she had begun to wear had disappeared, replaced by loose, black clothing, and her blue eyes, newly lined like Cleopatra’s, seemed to grow icier with each new layer she donned.

From that point on, Ellie had avoided him as much as possible, still doing her job with excellence, but treating him as if he were a stranger. When his attempts to bridge the gap were met with stony indifference again and again, he finally decided that somehow he had hurt her feelings. He’d approached her, armed with an apology, but she cut him off midsentence, bluntly stating that he had done nothing to offend her but she simply wanted to keep their relationship on a strictly business basis.

When he asked cautiously if they couldn’t be friends as well as business associates, she had stared at him with her blue gray eyes for a long moment before shaking her head.

“I don’t need friends,” she’d said shortly, and walked away.

Confused, Ian had nonetheless honored her wishes, though it had been hard to tour with a beautiful woman who so obviously didn’t want to be in the same room with him. Not only did he regret the loss of their budding friendship, but her rejection had actually made a dent in his admittedly healthy ego. He was used to the lassies throwing themselves at his feet, and here was one who wanted nothing to do with him.

Until tonight. Tonight, Ellie had stood in the wings, her eyes huge in her face as she stared up at him, the black eye makeup she wore slightly smeared beneath her eyes and her usually porcelain skin flushed. She looked like she was about to cry. Ian couldn’t imagine Ellie crying. After spending six months on the road with her, he was sad to say he couldn’t imagine that she could feel anything deeply enough to weep.

And when he’d rushed offstage and encountered the soft and wistful look on her face, he’d felt something stir inside of him. Some need that he hadn’t really known was there. There hadn’t been time to examine the unexpected feelings, and when he returned from doing his encore, she was gone, a wadded-up envelope left where she’d been standing.

Ian glanced down at the paper he held. He’d pulled it from the envelope, smoothed out the wrinkles, and then stared in disbelief. Ellie’s resignation. He read it again, now, still dismayed at the succinct two lines that said so little, but said so much. She’d quit. Quit the tour. Quit him.

The limousine was making good time out of the city, headed for Maggie’s party, but Ian tapped his fingers against his thigh, wishing the car could go faster. He’d called Ellie’s hotel room, and her cell, but there was no answer at either number. Would she still be at the party? And if she was, should he try to talk her out of her decision? He shook his head. Why should he bother? If the lass didn’t like him, why should he care?

But he did. Maybe it was time he let her know just how much.

two

Ellie reached for another brownie and leaned back against the headboard of one of the twin beds in Maggie’s guest room. She held the brownie up to make sure this one had plenty of pecans in it. The last one had only had two. Stupid brownies.

When she’d fled the auditorium after that strange moment with Ian, she’d slammed into her rented car and driven the thirty or so miles straight to Maggie’s cottage. She wasn’t surprised to find Allie already there. Being on time was just one of her annoying habits.