Gildevon Chronicles

Touch Not a Wilde Scottish Cat


   Journey to 15th Century Highland Scotland—a land of frigid lochs and rugged bens—a land as old as time itself. A Scottish chieftain rides from the mist. “Ah,” you say. “Let me see the hero.” Squinting through the gray veil, you search for a tartan-clad brute. Instead you see a tiny woman, a Pictish princess, with fine, dark hair and flashing azure eyes. She is Anna of Gildevon, daughter of the Sliochd-Ghill-iosa, Clan of the Cat.

   Raised in the idyllic wilds of the Highlands, adored by her family and her clan, Anna knows little of the brutal and treacherous medieval world. Betrothed to the mysterious Welsh squire, Gwydion of Gwynedd, she believes her life is perfect, and she believes she can love no other. But, the winds of change blow from the North Sea, and when Anna's father, the warrior chief, declares she will succeed him, Anna's castles of faerie disappear beneath a fiery rain of revenge.

   Plots to overthrow her appear on crumbling parchments, sinister forces from the mysterious mountains of Wales materialize from nowhere. Raw initiation truly begins when Anna's destiny collides with Braddon of Blackfell. With the face of a Greek god and the physique of an Italian statue, the future leader of Clan Armstrong is desired by all women and feared by all men. The massive warrior asks her to heal his hunting dog-a seemingly innocent request. But, this initial encounter opens the portals to a darker world, where Anna must learn to wield a chieftain's sword against brutal men who lust for land and power and will stop at nothing to achieve it.

   A novel dripping with romance, vengeance, and lust, Touch Not a Wilde Scottish Cat will capture you at midnight and release you at dawn.

   As they walked silently through the maze of pavilions, Braddon’s words troubled her. Strong she was, cunning she was not. Was she fit to lead her tribe? She tried to push the Border reiver and his troubling thoughts away, but to no avail—His arm encircled her waist.

   They reached the sleeping Gillis camp and stopped outside her tent. A night bird’s call joined the laughter of straggling, late night revelers. A soft breeze stirred her hair.

   A question scrambled across her mind. “Braddon?” The name came softly—a prayer upon her lips.

   “Yes, my Lady.”

   “How did you know my clan?”

   He spun her around to face him. “That is my secret, Little One. And now, it is my turn to tell you a story, albeit brief and brisk. When the night is bright, and the blood is high, the Armstrongs gather atop the windswept Border fells. Swords gleaming, horses pawing the turf, we make ready to go ‘a reiving—to burn, spoil, and take whatever we please. As we pick up our reins and spur our horses forward, my clansmen raise their voices in a mighty yell. Do you know what they shout, Little One?” He gripped her shoulders.

   “No, I do not know the battle cries of the Border clans,” Anna squeaked. Under his bold gaze, her usual mettle took wing and fluttered away.

   “ ’Tis not a battle cry my lady, but a saying...quaint, but powerful. Four words, my Lady. Four words so formidable, when they echo across the dales, the English bolt their doors and pray we do not come visiting. ‘Pray to your archangels,’ we laugh, as we thunder down upon them—‘nothing short of the devil himself, can stop an Armstrong from reiving.’ My story is over, but listen well, my Lady, for I speak the words of the Borders.” He brought his lips close to her ear and whispered seductively,

“There’ll be moonlight again.”

   Lifting his head, he smiled down on her, eyes filled with cunning confidence. “Emblazon them upon your memory, Lady Anna, for between you and I, most assuredly, there will be moonlight again.”

   He loomed over her. Powerful arms crushed her, swept down her back, grasped her buttocks. Lightning twinges swept through her body. “Love is conquest, my Lady,” he murmured huskily. He brought his mouth hard against hers—split her lip. She tasted blood, but it did not matter, for his searing kiss and bold, probing tongue brought far more pleasure than pain.

Gildevon Chronicles I :

Macatty Publishing