Warlord

By Jaid Black

In the year 1052...

Euan Donald rules the Highlands with an iron fist. When a rival clan chieftain fails to deliver his betrothed to him, Euan decides to take matters into his own hands and acquire a bride the old fashioned way—he’ll go steal one.

Present day...

Janet Duval is in Scotland on business. One minute she’s leaving the local pub after having dinner and drinks with a friend, and the next she finds herself being chased—1000 years in the past—by a heavily muscled, grim-faced warrior hell-bent on possessing her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jaid Black
• Release date: May 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463270349

Jaid Black

Jaid Black is the founder and driving force of Ellora's Cave Publishing, the award-winning online source for erotic literature. She is also the founder and publisher of Lady Jaided, a sexy new magazine for women. Her novella "Hunter's Right" appears in the collection Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down, and her novel Deep, Dark & Dangerous is forthcoming from Pocket Books in March 2006. Vistit her on the web at www.jaidblack.com.

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Copyright © 2001 by Jaid Black.

Republished February 2017 & May 4, 2020.

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WARLORD

By Jaid Black

Prologue

The Isle of Skye in the Scottish Highlands, 1052 A.D.

Euan Donald watched dispassionately as the decapitated body of the Hay fell lifelessly at his feet. Blood oozed out from where the laird’s severed head had been but moments prior, pooling around him in a river of dark red.

Sheathing his sword, the Donald’s dark head came up, his black eyes boring holes into the anxious faces of those Highlanders surrounding him. None would rebel. None would second-guess his decision to execute the Hay chieftain. None would dare.

’Twas not bravado on his part, not even ego. Not really.

’Twas simply the way of things, the territory that came with being the Lord of the Isles, the king of the Highlanders, a god unto himself. Euan’s word was law, as it had always been, as had the word of his father, as had the word of his father’s father, and so on.

At the age of five and thirty, Euan had been chieftain to the Donalds and Lord of the Isles for over fifteen years. The price of being the master of all he surveyed had been paid in full.

His six foot six inch body was heavy with muscle and riddled with battle scars. The harsh angles of his face were chiseled into a stone-like façade and hinted at no compassion, no mercy for any who would come up against him. His eyes were as black as his hair, calculating pools of obsidian that broached no argument and conveyed no emotion at all.

To come up against the Donald was to die. This fact was one that kinsmen and Outlanders alike understood well.

Today as he did on most days Euan wore his plaid of muted blue and green, a large emerald brooch holding the material together at his shoulder. ’Twas a fitting banner for the man that ruled the Highlands with an iron fist and who dwelled on an island many said was close to the heavens themselves for it was surrounded on all sides and in all views by a formation of impenetrable clouds.

’Tis done then. Graeme Donald, youngest brother to Euan, nodded toward a bevy of soldiers, indicating ’twas time to remove the Hay’s bloodied carcass from the great hall. Turning to scan the nervous faces of the clan chieftains behind him, he waved a hand toward them and bellowed. Will another amongst ye dare tae steal from the Donald?

Murmured nays floated throughout the great hall, all eyes shifting from the Hay’s remains to Euan’s stoic form.

Graeme’s upper lip curled wryly. Weel then, ’tis time tae make merry, aye? Ye came fer a feast and a feast ye shall have.

Oppressive silence filled the chamber for a suspended moment. None were certain what to make of such an odd declaration. They had come for a wedding feast, every last one of them. They had journeyed from the protection of their respective keeps to witness marriage rites betwixt the Lord of the Isles and the first-born daughter of the Hay.

Not a one amongst them had ever fathomed the possibility that Tavish Hay would refuse to deliver the Donald’s betrothed to her own wedding. Not a one amongst them would have credited the notion that the Hay would have been daft enough to allow Moira to break her scared agreement and run off to the northlands with the brother of a Viking jarl.

For that matter, not a one amongst them would have been lackwitted enough to deliver such news to the Donald himself. Nay. They would have run hightail in the opposite direction. But then the Hay had never been renowned for his thinking abilities.

At last the laird of the lesser MacPherson clan broke the uncomfortable spell with a forced chuckle. I will drink tae that. He lifted his goblet toward Euan. Tae the Donald, he toasted, and tae, err… He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, the color in his face heightening. Tae…

Swallowing roughly, the MacPherson met Euan’s black gaze. Weel… He lifted his goblet higher. Tae the Donald.

Tae the Donald.

The others were quick to chime in, all of them lifting their ales and meads in toast to the Lord of the Isles. Graeme’s brow shot up, forming a bemused slash over his eyes as he cocked his head to regard his brother.

Euan smiled humorlessly as his dark gaze flicked from Graeme to the men standing behind him. Saying nothing, he stalked toward the dais that had been prepared for him in a slow, methodical stride. The great hall was so silent that each of his footfalls could be heard effortlessly, rushes on the ground or no.

When at last he reached the raised dais, he lifted the goblet that had been prepared for him and turned on his heel to face his rapt audience. Nodding once, he prepared to down the honeyed mead. Aye, he rumbled, I will drink tae that.

* * * * *

What will ye do now, brother?

Euan lifted a curious brow but said nothing. Standing atop the battlements, he scanned the outside perimeter below their position and absently awaited Graeme’s meddling. His youngest sibling was the only in God’s creation that could get away with such. ’Twas mayhap because he had raised him and felt him more a son than a brother.

Graeme waved a hand absently through the air. Aboot getting wed, aboot siring an heir, aboot—

Graeme, Euan said quietly. I’m no’ lackwitted, mon. I ken your meaning.

Graeme nodded. Then what will ye do?

Euan shrugged. He had known three wives and had lost all of them to laboring his bairn. Out of all three pregnancies and subsequent fatal deliveries there had been but one survivor and that was his six-year-old daughter Glynna. After losing so many wives and babes, ’twas nothing really to lose a betrothed.

He turned his head to look at his brother, his facial features