Her Highland Laird: The Logans of Lastalrig, #1

By Debbie Mumford

Edinburgh delights Cat Logan. The musical lilt of the inhabitant's speech. The easy juxtaposition of ancient and contemporary architecture.

But on the third day of her visit, a previously undiscovered lane beckons. Though narrow and deeply shaded, the lane pulls her to a shabby little shop.

What hides behind the grimy windows and tarnished silver door knocker of the ancient thrift shop?

An unforgettable tale of a powerful compulsion that draws a young woman inexorably to an unimaginable destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WDM Publishing
• Release date: Nov 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393731399

Debbie Mumford

Debbie Mumford specializes in speculative fiction—fantasy, paranormal romance, and science fiction. Author of the popular Sorcha’s Children series, Debbie loves the unknown, whether it’s the lure of space or earthbound mythology. Her work has been published in multiple volumes of Fiction River, as well as in Heart’s Kiss Magazine, Spinetingler Magazine, and other popular markets. She writes about dragon-shifters, time-traveling lovers, and ghostly detectives for adults as Debbie Mumford and contemporary fantasy for tweens and young adults as Deb Logan.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Cat Logan wandered through Edinburgh in a dreamy glow. The musical lilt of the inhabitants’ speech delighted her almost as much as the easy juxtaposition of ancient and contemporary architecture. Everywhere she turned, she discovered new reference points for her recently acquired degree in medieval literature, as well as her clan heritage. The Logans of Lasterrick had left an indelible mark on Edinburgh.

Each day brought new revelations, and she blessed Gran Da for his extravagant graduation gift. Life had been hard for both of them since her father’s death, but Gran Da had been determined to celebrate Cat’s achievement in style.

I’m so proud of you, Cat, he had said, draping an arm around her shoulders. I only wish your mother and father could be here to share this day.

Me, too, Gran Da. Cat nestled into her grandfather’s embrace and blessed the fates who had given her into this dear old man’s care. Gran Da had welcomed her father and his infant daughter home after Cat’s mother had died. Complications from Cat’s entrance into the world had robbed her father of his wife and Cat of her mother, but she’d never felt any stigma of blame. Gran Da had been there for them. He had provided warmth and stability in Cat’s life while her father had pursued his military career.

But David Logan, a high-ranking air force pilot, had died in a training accident last year. Cat and Gran Da had both been devastated by his loss.

As if to punctuate Cat’s need for a European vacation, her ex-fiancé Brent Myers had chosen the night before graduation to announce he’d fallen out of love with Cat and into bed with Ariana Davidson.

She’d given that scumball four years of her life. Why had he asked her to marry him if he hadn’t been certain she was the woman he wanted to spend his life with? Why had she accepted? How could she have missed a character flaw that allowed such blatant disloyalty and unfaithfulness? Obviously, her judgment sucked when it came to good-looking men.

Gran Da had taken the defection in stride.

I’m sorry, love, he said quietly when Cat informed him of the broken engagement. "I won’t discuss it further, if that’s yer wish, but ye need tae ken I’m nae surprised. I’ve a bit o’ the sight, an’ I’ve always known ye were destined for an unexpected path. Nothin’ about Brent was unexpected.

Go tae Scotland, darlin’ girl, an’ if opportunity arises, ne’er look back. I’ve a feelin’ in me bones ... Scotland holds yer future.

On her third day in Edinburgh, a previously undiscovered lane beckoned. She hesitated. If the most ancient byways were also the narrowest, allowing the least penetration of the summer sun, this one qualified as the oldest of the old. The narrow passage drew her, the near-compulsion reminding her of Gran Da’s remarks about second sight. Curiosity won out over caution, and she followed her instincts to a shabby, little establishment near the midpoint of the narrow lane.

Cat studied the grimy window of the ancient thrift shop. The interior appeared as black as the tarnished silver door knocker. Did she really want to push past the door and breach the musty interior? She’d passed a reputable-looking antique shop two blocks back; perhaps she should browse there.

Yet, the same indescribable something that had pulled her past the clean, well- kept shop and into this narrow lane prompted her to linger.

Follow your heart, her grandsire’s voice whispered in her mind. But why would her heart lead her to a second-hand junk shop in a forgotten district of Edinburgh?

She’d never learn the answer if she was too cowardly to cross the threshold. Expelling a sigh, she straightened her shoulders, grasped the doorknob, and turned.

An old-fashioned bell tinkled, and she stepped into the little store. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, barely lighting the dark recesses of the room. Shelves towered against the walls, and stacks of shabby furniture obscured the floor. Cat wended a careful path between tottering stacks of rubbish.

She lingered over a yellowing baptismal gown for an infant, fingering the fine lace and admiring the tiny, precise stitches of the hand-sewn seams. Hard to imagine that all clothing had once been sewn by dedicated women. And men. Mustn’t forget the tailors of the world.

May I help ye fin’ somethin’, miss?

Cat gasped and dropped the gown. She hadn’t noticed anyone in the gloom of the shop. An elderly man with stringy, grey hair and stubbly jaw stood behind a sturdy wood counter — the only flat surface in the shop not covered with a jumble of knick- knacks.

No thank you, she said with a little smile. I’m just looking.

Nae many Americans stop to browse in my wee shop.

My accent gave me away?

Aye, lassie. Nae a body will mistake ye for a Scot.

She sighed and turned back to the baptismal gown. That’s too bad because my roots are here.