Highland Burn: A Steamy, Enemies to Lovers, Arranged Marriage, Highlander Protector Romance Novel: Glen Coe Highlanders

By Michelle Deerwester-Dalrymple

He's been betrothed to a supposed spy. Her safety is at stake because she's aligned with his greatest enemy in the Highlands. An enemy that robbed him of his closest kin.

♥ Can they put their traumas behind them and build something new from the ashes of the past? ♥

From award-winning author Michelle Deerwester-Dalrymple!

Reade MacDonald hates the Campbells and everything they represent. Supporters of a foreign king on the Scottish throne and murderers of his dearest friend, the Campbells are a plague in the Highlands. Brash and thick-headed Highlander warrior Reade does all in his power to subdue the Campbell threat.

Then the widow Blair Gordon enters his life.

The comely widow is caught in a web not of her making, and once again finds herself at the mercy of powerful men who forcibly decide her fate.

Now Blair's fate is to wed Reade, both for her protection and in hopes she might know something of her dead husband's treasonous activities.

But she knows nothing. And Reade doesn't believe her. Yet the more time they are forced to spend together, the passionate desire they can't control becomes louder than any misguided beliefs they have for each other.

The past, however, doesn't like to remain buried, and when the Gordons and Campbells try to use Blair against the MacDonalds, all of Reade's hopes for a future with her come crashing down and puts all their lives as stake.

Can Reade save himself and Blair, and let the ashes of the past remain buried? Or will the conflict in the Highlands wound more than just their hopes for happiness?

A steamy Highlander romance with bold heroes, strong heroines, and packed with passion and adventure. Discover Highland Burn and start this Outlander-styledromance today!

This eBook includes the full text of the novel plus the following additional content: a link to the ebook: The Heartbreak of the Glen, an excerpt of book 1 of The Glen Highland Romance To Dance in the Glen, and an excerpt from book 1 in the Celtic Highland Maidens Series, The Maiden of the Storm.

The novels in this series are each stand-alone stories and can be read individually in any order, if desired. These historical romances are set in Jacobite Scottish Highlands and do not shy away from steamy scenes, occasional archaic curses, and accurate portrayals of historical violence and life!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michelle Deerwester-Dalrymple
• Release date: May 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201702786

Book preview

Chapter one

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Glen Coe Scottish Highlands, Invergarry Castle, Early 1691

King James has given us leave to ignore William of Orange and his absurd request. Glengarry’s hooded eyes shifted back-and-forth amongst the men gathered in the hall.

What does that mean for us? Alexander MacIain MacDonald, the Glen Coe Laird asked, his pale green eyes flashing with an ire that ran deep for every man in the room.

His brother, Alastair MacDonell MacDonald of Glengarry was the powerful Laird of all the Lochaber MacDonalds — a clan so large and influential that they challenged the power of the King himself in the Highlands. He rubbed his hands through his hair, which was starting to thin even more over the MacDonalds’ rising complications between King William of Orange, the Campbells, and this oath of loyalty that meant swift retribution if left unsigned.

We shall wait until the last possible moment to sign the loathsome oath of loyalty to Orange, Glengarry explained as he dropped his hands to his lap and folded them. He behaved as if they had all the time in the world, which was untrue. Time was slipping away far too quickly than any of the MacDonald Lairds cared to admit. If I must wait until the very last day of the year, so be it. I shall not sign any oath of alliance if James holds out hope for reclaiming his throne.

’Tis well and good, Alexander MacDonald responded, but the Campbells, they will no’ like having to wait on that oath. They already nip at our heels, raiding and reiving.

And what of the other clans that follow our lead? Seamus MacDonald inquired. Several other Lairds nodded. What are they to do in the meantime? Most of those clans are not large enough to take on the full brunt of the Campbells and their alliances on their own. They are more exposed than any MacDonald.

They can elect whether or not to sign the other fealty before we do, Glengarry intoned. We are not our enemy’s men. We will not hold what they must do for their own people against them. And if they nip at our heels, we shall return the favor."

The men gathered around the hearth nodded and agreed with the comment. Many of them came from smaller clans or had family in those clans, and they were not prepared for retribution from either the pompous Campbells or the impostor king himself.

The king’s foppish lackey, the Earl of Stair, will no’ like this. And neither will the Campbells, Seamus MacDonald, Laird of the Glenachulish MacDonalds, commented in a low voice. As the son of Laird Alexander MacDonald, his words carried weight.

The room was silent for a few moments as the men digested this information. A few crossed themselves, as if Seamus had spoken the name of the devil himself. The Campbells were not only another large clans in the Glen Coe Highlands, but they also held the power of the impostor King William of Orange behind them and wielded it without mercy. Seamus shared similar concerns with his father as they ruled the Glen Coe MacDonalds lands which bordered the Campbells. This far south, they were an island unto themselves in Campbell land. ‘Twas like having the hand of the foreign king himself knocking at their door.

And they have recently caught a bee in their bonnet, Alexander added as he looked around at the tight faces illuminated by the fire in the hearth. I’m sure ye’ve heard of the supposed letter that’s been rumored to have been written, the one that describes exactly how William of Orange’s legitimacy as the King of England, Scotland, and Wales could be contested.

The men grumbled amongst themselves. Rumors of this letter had increased and grown more wild with each retelling, so much so that Alexander and his son Seamus had come to doubt if such a letter even existed. The power of such a letter, however, of that possibility, remained too great for most to deny. Something that could dethrone William of Orange? Something that could declare his illegitimacy and restore the rightful King James? Oh, but of course the Campbell’s would fight tooth and nail against the discovery of that letter and slay anyone who might come into contact with it.

We must get our hands on this letter, Glengarry proclaimed, his voice carrying over the din of the men’s rumblings. The room quieted. Do ye know where it might be?

His question was directed at his brother Angus, who flicked his gaze to the rafters before answering. Nay. I’ve heard of a lad who somehow snuck into Orange’s court and absconded with it.

A lad? Seamus asked, raising a disbelieving eyebrow. That’s the only description ye have? What lad?

Alexander shook his head. ’Tis all I’ve heard. A lad. I dinna know his clan, his alliances, or his interests. I dinna even know his hair color. I heard he found the letter on a desk at Kensington during its construction, and, seeing what was written upon it, he slipped it into his pocket and departed with nary a God-be-wi’ye to anyone. One day he was there, the next he was gone.

We must find him, anyone who might know him, the Laird of the Lochaber MacDonalds commanded. We have to find this letter before the Campbells or any of their toadies do. Do what ye must to learn the whereabouts of this missive. Keep your ears open, ask discrete questions when ye might, and if anyone hints at knowing, bring them before me. They will answer to the MacDonalds until we learn what might challenge the pretender king.

Chapter two

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Glenachulish, Glen Coe Highlands

Seamus MacDonald stormed through the hall of his keep toward the main doors, the rich baritone of his voice echoing off the ancient stone.

Reade, Maddock! Grab your claymores and attend me. We are riding to your uncle’s near Kinlochleven!

Reade’s wide, muscle-hardened body popped past the wooden door. What are ye bellowing about, old man? Seamus’s eldest son teased.

Seamus pursed his lips, his irritation at Reade’s imprudent words showing, though it was tempered by the pride he held for his son, and joy at an attempt for lightheartedness. Reade resembled him more than his other children and was the portrait of a Highland warrior — well-formed and well skilled, with thick legs that commanded a horse with ease and arms as solid as tree trunks from his practice with his sword. A lot of practice. Sometimes ‘twas difficult to get the grown lad to complete his chores! His rich brown hair flowed in wild waves to his shoulders, like a rampaging burn coursing over the rocks in high spring.

Reade’s eyes, though, hammered a spike of pain in his heart. Those brilliant green eyes, like the most precious of emeralds, used to dance in a light-hearted way. Since the death of Reade’s close cousin, Seamus’s nephew Camden, who was killed during a raid by the cursed Campbells, the easy-going light in Reade’s eyes had diminished.

And Seamus despised the Campbells and their allies for that loss of light as much as he hated them for slaughtering his beloved nephew, his brother’s eldest son, and leaving his body to rot on the moors.

Camden’s death had become a battle cry for the MacDonalds of Glenachulish, and one that Seamus’s father and his father’s cousin, the powerful Laird of Glengarry of the MacDonalds, didn’t take lightly.

Of all Seamus’s own children, Reade suffered the most with Camden’s murder. The two lads had been raised together as close as brothers, and Reade took Camden’s death to heart. Though the lad had been put to rest months ago, dark shadows still haunted Reade’s beautiful eyes, even amid his teasing words. This sorrow had tainted his behavior as it had his eyes — Reade had been rash and cocky as a lad, but now he was outright reckless. He needed something to tame him, something to live for since Camden’s death.

Is your brother about? Seamus asked. Something has happened and Kinlochleven has asked for our help.

Reade glanced over his shoulder. Maddock is in the barn. I’ll have him saddle our horses.

Seamus gave his son a curt nod and slung his claymore sheath over his shoulder, so it settled across his back. Then he laid a hand on Reade’s arm before he could turn to leave.

First, I must speak with ye. Join me in my study.

Reade’s brow furrowed at his father, but he grabbed his own claymore and followed his father to the study.

Seamus had kept the reason for their journey vague intentionally. If everything was as he believed in Kinlochleven — his own sister’s husband, Ranulf had been light on detail when he delivered the message, but Seamus read between the lines with ease — followed by the knowledge of the life-changing demand he was about to make of his son. One that he’d bristle against, complain about, and reject outright.

But his reaction didn’t matter. Reade would do as Seamus asked. For the good of the clan. For the good of Scotland. He was a good Highland son that way.

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Father, ye canna be serious. I have a life, with privilege, praise the Lord, and my birthright. I may have a wife of my choosing. Ye canna shackle me to a woman who may well be aligned with the Campbells. The very men who killed Camden! Reade slammed down the chair in his father’s study, where the resounding clang echoed off the bare stone walls.

Camden MacDonald, his cousin who had been like a brother to him. They had shared everything, from meals to bedding to mischief to women. And if his father mourned the death of Camden, Reade was devastated.

There had been times when he’d felt closer to Camden than to his own brother Maddock, who was but a year younger. Similar in coloring, he and Camden were oft taken for brothers by those who passed through the village at Glenachulish, merchants and artisans and wrights.

Those thoughts brought a striking pain to Reade’s chest, as raw as if Camden had only passed a moment ago, and he grimaced at his father’s nonchalance in his command. Had his father taken to snuff? To drink? Had the devil himself entered his body? What made the man say such a thing so suddenly?

A muscle in his father’s jaw flexed, barely visible under the gray-brown scruff of his father’s beard. That twitch meant only one thing – his father wasn’t joking. Reade stilled and his own jaw set.

First, ye ken that marriages are oft arranged to benefit kin and clan. His father began his lecture. ’Tis is no different now. Much has transpired this past year, Reade, not the least of which is the oath of alliance that Orange has commanded, Seamus MacDonald said as he settled into the familiar creaking chair, leaning forward to accommodate the claymore at his back. He wrapped his hands around the arms of the chair where the exquisite wood had worn down to a smooth sheen over time. The Jacobite Highland clans were given leave until the end of this year to sign, with a flimsy threat of reprisal if we don’t. King James plans an invasion, and we yet await news of that.

Reade sat down hard in the abused chair, his sword by his feet and his face screwed up at his father. Then why –

There’s more. A possible letter disavowing and potentially challenging Orange’s claim as King. The problem is, we dinna know where the letter went or who has it. Until then, we need to do what we can to keep Breadalbane, the Campbells, and Orange in check.

Reade leaned back in the chair, the folds of his muted red plaid falling between his thick thighs.

Ye think this lass has the letter? The one ye desire I wed. That her husband got his hands on it?

Her dead husband, Seamus corrected. Nay. I dinna believe she knows of the letter’s existence, much less has it in her possession. Blair Gordon, nee Hamilton, was practically sold off to the Gordon’s as a way to make an alliance with the Hamiltons, to force their hand in signing the oath of allegiance and pay off a gambling debt, of all things. However, ‘tis rumored her dead husband had his grimy paws on the letter and was holding it for extortion. Even then, ‘twasn’t a success, since the Campbells obviously came to believe Mungo Gordon a traitor and sought to get the letter by more deadly means.

Obviously, Reade repeated. The air in the room was thick and heavy. Spring had been slow coming, but even in the cooler air, a heat pressed down on him like a thick tartan blanket, and an irritating trickle of sweat rolled down his back. Reade shifted in his seat and ground his teeth, waiting.

His father leaned his elbows onto his neat desk – his father had always been a rather neat man – and rested his forehead in his hands. Reade, the Highlands are in an uproar. We dinna know if the widow is a spy, as her husband might have been. In truth, we dinna know if she’s for the Campbells or no’, if she knows of the letter or where ‘tis. What we do know, Son, is the Campbells are hard men who care little for those under their charge. The lass needs the protection of the MacDonalds more than anything. If she does no’ have the letter, the Campbells will kill her just for spite.

And if it turns out she had information ye or grandda might use?

Alexander lifted his tired eyes to his son. Had Reade ever seen his father’s eyes so weary? The conflict with the Campbells was taking its toll on his father as much as it had robbed Reade of his kin. Another reason to despise the Campbells.

And ye want me to wed a lass I’ve never met, never seen, who may be a spy and aligned with the Campbells? Reade stated flatly, trying to control his rising ire which was difficult enough when he wasn’t watching his life unravel. What’s in this for me? What do I get for taking on this burden?

Seamus gave his son a wry side-grin. A grateful clan and laird. A pleased mother and father. A wife. A pretty and compliant one I’ve heard. And she’s from a fine family, the Hamiltons. Surely ‘tis enough?

Reade stood without answering and strode stiffly from the hot room. He had no answer, and any protests he made regarding this horrid arrangement would fall on deaf ears.

His father, his laird, had commanded, and Reade, ever the obedient son, would do as he commanded.

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Reade escaped his father’s study in a deep sulk and stormed from the keep. He found Maddock by the stables, flinging hay into the horse stalls with an unwieldy pitchfork. But Maddock handled it easily. A few inches taller than Reade but less bulky, most farm implements looked small in his brother’s long-fingered hands. Slender threads of hay wove into his sun-kissed hair, making it look lighter in the dim aspect of the stables.

Yet, Reade saw none of this. Fury at his father’s asinine plan coated everything in shades of red. Surely his father would come to his sense by the time they reached Kinlochleven. How could a man who claimed to love his son make such a demand?

Maddock noticed his brother as he entered and dug the pitchfork into the peat where the handle leaned against a wooden post.

What ails ye, brother? Ye look as if ye’ve seen a spirit! Maddock’s voice was light, teasing, and Reade cursed him silently for his inability to see the ire burning from his skin.

Then again, Maddock wasn’t known for his ability to read people. His curious gaze remained on Reade as he slipped his plaid back up and over his shoulder. Reade thrust his chin at his amiable brother.

Father needs us. We are to ride to Kinlochleven and retrieve a potential spy. We are meeting Uncle there, I presume. Help me saddle the horses. Father should be here promptly.

Och, a spy. Are we taking him to Glengarry?

Reade’s lips worked hard against his teeth before he spoke. No’ quite. Father, Granda, and Glengarry have other plans for this spy. It seems she’s coming here.

Maddock stiffened, making him appear even taller, and his easy-going expression slipped. She?

He grinned at his brother. Reade, however, frowned harder at his brother’s good-natured response.

Let it rest. I dinna ken the details. Ye can ask Father, if he’s up for talking. Come on, dinna dally. It’s a long ride, and the sooner we get there, the sooner we can get home.

Maddock didn’t move. Rather, he looked down his fine patrician nose at his brother. Seems ye are a bit perturbed about this task. Is there something more to this spy?

Reade turned away from him with a wave of his hand. Never ye mind. Just get the horses.

Christ’s blood, Reade cursed to himself. If his addle-pated brother didn’t keep his mouth shut, his father would never change his mind.

And by the time this lass reached Glenachulish, that would be the outcome, Reade promised himself.

He was not going to wed a possible treasonous Campbell spy, no matter how bonnie the widow might be.

Chapter three

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Kinlochleven, Glen Coe Highlands

Blair gathered her woolen skirts, slid off the bed, and shook the wide iron door handle again.

Nothing. The door hadn’t moved all day, not since the nervous kitchen maid had crept in like a timid church mouse, dumped the silver platter on her rickety table, and departed as if the hounds of hell were chasing her. Blair had sat on her bed and watched the lass’s antics from under hooded lids.

She might be stuck in this room, a locked-up prisoner, but she’d not let on to anyone that it irritated her. Not even a lowly kitchen maid.

The iron bolt didn’t budge as she wiggled it, and not for the first time, or the second, she cursed her dead husband for his asinine behavior and foolish decisions. His choice to walk the fine line between the Campbells and the MacDonalds got him killed, and her imprisoned.

At least it was the MacDonalds who detained her. She shuddered under her tattered plaid wrap at what might have happened if she’d fallen into the same hands as her husband, that of John Campbell the 1st, the Earl of Breadalbane and the symbol of King William in the Highlands who had sworn his alliance to William of Orange. In doing so, John fell in with the King’s agent in the Highlands, the snobby Secretary of State, John Dalrymple, 1st Earl of Stair, and between the two of them, they preyed upon the MacDonalds and their allied clans.

And upon anyone they believed to be traitors, like her dead husband.

Though the clans were required to agree to the royal proclamation by the sunset of this year, the Earl of Breadalbane and the Earl of Stair had their own agenda against those aligned with Lochaber, Chief and Laird of Clan MacDonald entire.

Blair had warned her fool of a husband, but as usual he ignored her, claiming the mind of a woman wasn’t worth that of a dog. Rather he continued to play both sides, and it had gotten him drawn and quartered by the Campbells. Locked in this room, her innards were still intact, and Blair considered herself fortunate. The MacDonalds hadn’t decided her fate yet, so that was a token in her favor.

Unlike her traitorous husband, she might get out of this fiasco alive.

Those thoughts brought back the memory of that dismal day when she was called into the small salon of the decaying Gordon manse. Her husband had been absent for days, claiming work, but she knew that his work oft involved visits to the loose women at Mary MacMunn’s house of ill repute near Inverness. He needn’t have lied to her. In truth, she relished those days of peace and quiet, where she didn’t have to hear his grating, drunken voice or be the sounding box for his strange ideas. Or worse, when he was in his cups, suffer the indignities of his pathetic cock and heavy hands.

She rubbed her arms where the bruises of their last interlude yet remained. And the footprint-sized one on her back from where he’d kicked her to the floor? That one would be black for a fortnight, and God himself only knew when it would heal. She had loosened her stays so they wouldn’t press against the irritated wound.

Yet days when he was gone, those were days she spent drinking spiced red wine by the hearth with a beloved book in her hand, of wearing her burnished, oak-brown hair waves loose, and sewing in the dappled morning light that settled through the windows in her salon and provided the perfect place to sew her tapestries or gowns with her ladies.

Blair’s hand few to her neck. Her ladies! What had happened to them? Oh, she prayed the MacDonalds were more civilized than the blasted Campbells, who had sent her husband’s head, with his tongue cut out to her wrapped in a dark blue Campbell plaid, stained vermilion with his blood. She had screamed and dropped the barbarous gift as her mind spun and her knees went weak. Her maids had caught her, and one of them told her a tenant farmer ran to Hughie Lamont for aid.

Lamont was a Cameron, and the Camerons were staunch Jacobite allies of