Isn’t it wonderful when a book and its cover actually mesh perfectly? IMHO, I think that’s happened with Amanda Forester‘s latest, The Highlander’s Heart.

And when an author entertains you with a sassy heroine and a very patient hero, with some humor thrown in and an adventure to liven up things even further, you just have to sit up and take notice. Ms. Forester has done that and then some.

So have some fun with Isabelle and David this evening. Pull up a chair, a cup of hot chocolate with a Snickers bar, and enjoy! And leave a meaningful comment or question for Amanda and we’ll toss your name into the hat for a copy of The Highlander’s Heart. Not a bad way to pass the evening, is it?

Summary:

Lady Isabelle escapes her murderous English husband only to be abducted by a Highland warrior and held for ransom.  Her determination to break free from captivity is exceeded only by the passion growing between her and the Highland Laird.  David Campbell plans to hold Isabelle for ransom as an easy way to line his pockets and return her back where she belongs, but he is unprepared for a feisty English lass with a penchant for finding trouble.  Caught between rival clans bent on claiming the throne of Scotland, Campbell must choose a side, and a bride.  Standing on the brink of war, Isabelle may be his only hope to save his clan, and his heart.

Here they are:

Scottish border, 1355

Isabelle stared at the barbarian before her. These would surely be her final moments on Earth. She tried to think of something worthy of her last thoughts. I can see his knees. Isabelle groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. This would never do. Thoughts like that would send her straight to purgatory. She put her hands over her eyes and tried to think of something pious. Nothing but a mental vision of his thighs came to mind.

“No, no, no.” She looked up pleading. “Do not kill me yet, I am not ready.”

“Sassenach,” said the shadowy figure with disgust. “Get up English, I will no’ be killing ye.”

He lifted his sword over his head. Isabelle cringed, but the man only re-sheathed it in the harness he wore on his back. The action should have been comforting, but she could not overcome the shock of his appearance.

He was a tall man with a muscular body, around which he wore some kind of woven blanket. It was belted around his waist and thrown over one shoulder, pinned to a thick shirt. He wore large black leather boots but between the top of his boots and the edge of his blanket he was naked. She stared at his bare legs. Strong, hairy, man legs. She had never seen the like. She swallowed hard.

“I…you…perhaps you require time to finishing dressing?” She cringed at her inane babbling.

The stranger sighed and glanced toward the heavens. “I am fully dressed.” It was more of a growl than a statement.

“But I can see your legs,” she blurted, wishing she had held her tongue.

“And I can see yers,” he retorted.

“Oh, merciful heavens!” Isabelle realized her gown had been rucked up to her thighs. She pushed down her skirts and struggled to stand. Her face burned from being caught in such a compromising position and from the memory of what had almost happened.

“I should thank you,” Isabelle stammered, focusing on smoothing her ruined gown.

The stranger shook his head. “I kenned ye were a Douglas lass or I woud’na troubled myself. Well, good day to ye English.”

“Wait! If you please, where am I?”

“You are in Ettrick forest and the land of Sir William Douglas.”

“The Douglas?” Isabelle gasped. She had been raised in fear of the Black Douglas. She could still hear the hushed voice of her nurse threatening the Black Douglas would come for her if she did not go to sleep or eat her porridge.

“Aye.” The man frowned at her, his eyes piercing into hers until his face softened. He looked away and shook his head. Muttering something to himself, he turned and walked down the road from where he had emerged.

“Wait!” called Isabelle, hobbling after him on sore feet. She did not wish to be left alone again. “I am a bit lost. I…please sir, could you help me?”

Struggling around the bend in the road, Isabelle saw that the man had reached his horse, which, unlike her own, was standing still, placidly waiting for his master to return.

“Go back to your men folk, English. And tell them to get off Douglas land. I have no time for trouble today but if I come across them, they shall no’ be spared my blade.”

Isabelle stammered, trying to find the right words, unsure what to do. He was a Scot. Worse yet, she strongly suspected him of being one of those Highlanders, a wild race of barbarian warriors. Yet he was also the only human being she had seen all day that was not trying to return her to her husband or molest her. She was hungry, lost, and the sun was low on the horizon.

“I have become separated from my party and have walked all day. I would greatly appreciate your assistance.”

He pointed toward the dark forest. “England is that way.”

“Would you consent to escorting me home?”

“Ye would have me set foot on English soil?” He snorted. “Nay, I winna be throwing away my life just because ye got yerself lost.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Och, come on then. I’ll see ye to the next burgh.”

“But, please sir, I wish to be returned home. I assure ye that ye will be well compensated for your time and effort if you would but consent to see me safely home to… um that is to Bewcastle.”

“Have ye a husband in Bewcastle?”

“No!” It was spoken with a bit too much emphasis, but she certainly hoped she would not find her husband there.

“Yer father then?”

“No.”

The man sighed as if trying to maintain his patience. “Where is yer father?”

“Resting with the Lord.”

“Have you any man to care for ye?”

It was a question she had never been asked. Standing lost in a strange forest before a strange man she realized how alone she truly was. She shook her head. “My uncle recently passed away and…” Her voice broke and she pressed her lips together trying to get control of her emotions.

The man’s face grew softer. He stepped toward her, assessing her person. His gaze traveled down her body and back up, lingering on her face, his eyes catching hers and holding them. He stepped closer until he stood directly before her. Isabelle’s mouth went dry.

He was a large solid man, with a sword as long as she was tall. He reached out to touch her shoulder, stroking his hand down the length of her arm, her skin burning at his touch. “Let me hazard a guess. Ye were distraught. Ye had no one to care for ye. Some ne’er-do-well came along, made a lot of promises, gave ye this hand-me-down gown, and ye took up wi’ him, but it dinna go well.”

“No!” Isabelle recoiled with indignation. “I am not… I would never…”  I am the Countess of Tynsdale!

Isabelle held her tongue to consider the outcome of her confession. First, he would probably not believe it, considering her state. Second, if he did believe her, he would most likely do what any Scot would do, hold her for ransom and return her to her… husband.

“I did not…” Isabelle struggled to find some explanation for her being in the woods alone that did not make her a countess or a woman of ill repute. “Whilst I was traveling, my horse bolted, and I got lost.”

“Where is yer horse?” He folded his arms in front of him, clearly not believing her.

Isabelle focused on smoothing her ruined velvet riding gown once more. It had been a beautiful deep wine red; it wasn’t any more. “I lost that too.” She dared to glance up at the stranger once more and found him staring at her intently.

“I want the truth. Who waits for ye in Bewcastle?”

Isabelle tried to think of a suitable answer. “I… my…er….”

“Stop wi’ yer lies, Sassenach.”

“I have an aunt in Bewcastle! I am going to see my aunt!” exclaimed Isabelle, relieved to have blurted out something sensible.

He leaned closer, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. “Tell me the truth for I will ken if ye speak to me false.”

Isabelle nodded, her heart thumping hard. What was he going to do?

“Ye dinna have an aunt in Bewcastle, do ye?”

Isabelle hesitated for a moment and shook her head, fearful of what he might do if he knew she was lying.

“Ye are here because of the wrong doing o’ some man.”

Isabelle nodded furiously. “’Tis all his fault!”

“I am sure it is. Come wi’ ye then, I will drop ye at the next burgh. Mayhap they can find a suitable arrangement for ye.”

Isabelle was not sure what kind of ‘arrangement’ he had in mind, but she was certain she did not wish to discover it for herself. “No! Please, I must get to Bewcastle. Someone awaits me there.”

“Going from one man to another?” The man shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. “I can take ye to the next burgh, but I winna a stand here all night. Ye can come wi’ me or take yer chances on the road, English.”

“I must return to England!”

“Sorry, but I dinna care to have my neck stretched.”

 

“But it is imperative I get to Bewcastle!”

The man shrugged. “Good luck to ye then. I’m sure yer next conquest will enjoy ye.”

Isabelle put her hands on her hips, a hot wave of righteous indignation washing over her. Did he not know that a knight should always help a damsel in distress? He was devoid of all proper feeling. This is what she got for asking a barbarian for help.

“I thank thee for your kind offer to find me an ‘arrangement’ – is that the word you used?” Her tone was hardly polite but she gave herself some latitude considering the circumstances. “But I prefer to walk back on my own.” With as much dignity and poise as she could possibly muster, she walked past him into the forest.

“England is the other way.”

Isabelle stopped short. She balled her hands into fists and slowly turned around. Her tall, not so heroic Highlander had the audacity to look amused. She hated this man. Clenching her jaw, she walked with false confidence to the other side of the road. She held her head high, her back straight, but feared her cheeks burned in evidence to her embarrassment.

“’Tis getting dark, lassie. Night will be upon ye soon.”

Without looking back, Isabelle walked with determined defiance into the forest. She had made it this far, she could make it back.

“There be all sorts of beasties in this forest at night,” he called after her.

Now that did make her pause, but the thought of being taken further into Scotland to be settled in an ‘arrangement’ got her feet moving again. She had wished to escape her husband, not the whole of England. True, she had evaded her husband’s guards, but being dragged into Scotland by a half-dressed barbarian was little improvement. Even if he did have  striking green eyes and long eyelashes. Not, of course, that she’d noticed.

A rustling sound in the brush ahead of her gained her attention. She froze, hoping whatever it was would go away, but luck had utterly abandoned her this day. Concealed by the dense foliage, something snorted and pawed the ground. With a high pitched squeal, a wild boar emerged from the brush.

Isabelle gaped at the beast, her heart pounding in her chest. The beast was covered with coarse black bristles and had two sharp tusks curving out of its pointy snout. Prior to this unfortunate day, the only boar she had ever seen had been as God intended, dead and roasted with an apple in its mouth.

Isabelle swallowed hard, as if some of those sharp bristles were lodged in her throat. This angry pig was far from being supper. The beast pawed the ground and snorted, steam rising from its warm breath in the cool dusk. Isabelle stood as still as a statue, hoping it would not notice her. Those sharp tusks could tear a person to shreds. The boar grunted again, lifting its snout to the wind.

Suddenly the beast squealed, lowered his head, and charged.