Read The Striker by Monica McCarty for free with a 30 day free trial. Read unlimited* books and audiobooks on the web, iPad, iPhone and. The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(29) read online free by The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(14) by Monica McCarty When the tears at last. Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Monica McCarty to HJ! New York Times bestselling author Monica McCarty continues her Highland Guard series in .
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Get Download eBook The Ranger: A Highland Guard Novel (The Highland Guard Book 3) By Monica Mccarty [PDF EBOOK EPUB. KINDLE]. Monica McCarty is the bestselling author of the Highland Guard series, the MacLeods of Skye trilogy, and the Campbell trilogy. Her interest in the Scottish clan. Mccarty. Highlander Untamed Macleods Of Skye Trilogy 1 Monica Mccarty - [Free ] Highlander. Untamed Macleods Of Skye Trilogy 1 Monica Mccarty [PDF].
She grinned. Brigid laughed. This is why they would be happy. Lamont gave him a long, knowing look. Her legs could no longer hold her up; they started to wobble. I have no idea what I would do without you. Margaret walked past the wooden screen of the dais into an antechamber.
Why did the very proper wedding, with the seemingly perfect man, feel so different from the improper one, with the wrong man that had come before it? But she would. By all that was good and holy in heaven, she would! This time it would grow, rather than wither on the bone of neglect to die. She was being given a second chance at happiness, and she would take it, blast it! She drew a deep breath and smiled—this time for real. I was too excited to eat anything this morning.
Or will be, as soon as we get to the feast. Sir John returned her smile, she thought with a tinge of relief. Then we must not delay another moment. He leaned down and whispered closer to her ear. Her eyes shot to his. She caught the mischievous twinkle and laughed. I would consider it the highest compliment if you would. He nodded to indicate the soldiers behind him. How else am I to impress the men over a tankard of ale? You are horrible.
But she said it with a smile. This was why she was marrying him. This is why they would be happy. His humor was just as wicked as hers had been. Following the direction of his gaze, she scanned the large group of mail-clad soldiers. Is that what you talk about when you are all together? A chill ran down her spine.
Her gaze snagged on something in the crowd. Her skin prickled, and the hair at the back of her neck stood up for a long heartbeat before the sensation passed. Pain that not even six years could dull stabbed her heart. God, how could she have been so foolish? The priest and her father, who had been talking, were both now staring at her, the priest questioningly, her father with a dark frown. Ignoring them both, she turned to Sir John.
Then let us begin. Side by side, they stood before the church door and publicly repeated the vows that would bind them together. If memories of another exchange of vows tried to intrude, she refused to let them. Of course it was different this time. This time she was doing it right. The banns. The public exchange of vows outside the church door. As she was a widow, it was not permitted. She would never give Sir John a reason to be ashamed of or embarrassed by her.
When the priest asked if there was anyone who objected or knew of a reason why these two could not be joined, her heart stopped. The silence seemed to stretch intolerably. Surely that was long enough to wait—.
The crowd parted, revealing a soldier—an exceptionally tall and powerfully built soldier. Strangely, the visor of his helm was flipped down.
He took a few steps forward, and Margaret froze. Stricken, her breath caught in her throat as she watched the powerful stride that seemed so familiar. Only one man walked with that kind of impatience—as if he was waiting for the world to catch up to him. She sensed the movement of a few other soldiers, circling around the crowd in the churchyard, but paid them no mind. Like everyone else, her gaze was riveted on the man striding purposefully forward.
He stood motionlessly, his head turned in her direction. It was ridiculous—fanciful—his eyes were hidden in the shadow of the steel helm, but somehow she could feel them burning into her. What is the meaning of this, Conyers? Speak, the priest said impatiently to the man. Is there an impediment of which you are aware?
The soldier flipped up his visor, and for one agonizing, heart-wrenching moment his midnight-blue eyes met hers. Eyes she could never forget. Pain seared through her in a devastating blast. White-hot, it sucked every last bit of air from her lungs. Her head started to spin. She barely heard the words that would shock the crowd to the core. Oh God, that voice. A low, gravelly voice with the lilt of the Gael.
Oh God, Maggie, that feels so good. The lass is already married. To whom? Margaret was already falling as he spoke. Margaret took that as a rhetorical question.
She was sure about everything, as her oldest friend well knew. Have you ever seen anything like this, Brige? A place that was so far away it seemed almost another world. If she was successful— when she was successful—she might not be going back at all. It was her job to win over the young lord and make him eager for the match.
Margaret spun around. Look how high the rafters are! How do you think they built it to stay up there like that?
I can stand up inside! Brigid laughed as she peeked back under. Careful, her friend warned, suddenly sober.
The embers are still glowing from this morning. Margaret said with an impish smile. No one would forget me then. The girl who caught her skirts on fire. No one will forget you anyway, Brigid said with a fond—if slightly exasperated—shake of the head.
They could rest tonight. Margaret put her hand on one of the walls. The painting of the arms is so exquisite I thought it might actually be a shield! Can you believe they painted the whole room with this brick and vine pattern?
And look at these curtains. She moved toward one of the windows and pulled the heavy scarlet velvet around her. Glancing down at her plain dark brown wool kirtle, she grinned. What do you think? Will someone notice if we take it? Brigid shook her head with amazement. Can you imagine using fabric as fine as that for curtains? Suddenly, her face drew tight with consternation.
Do you think our gowns will be very different from the other ladies? I should hope so, Margaret said with a proud squaring of her shoulders. We are wearing some of the finest wool in all of Scotland. There are no finer weavers than from Galloway. I should think the other ladies will be very envious indeed. Brigid bit her lip, not looking convinced. This time it was Margaret who shook her head. Her friend worried about the silliest things.
Margaret walked past the wooden screen of the dais into an antechamber. Look at this, Brigid. Holy cross! Do you see these candlesticks? They must be solid gold! She plopped down on one of the benches around the edges of the room. Margaret replied to this minor detail with a stuck-out tongue. Leave it to Brigid to point out the realities.
Brigid was the riggings to her sail. Well, too carried away. As for the blasphemies, her brothers said far worse. If anyone was going to hell, it was them. She stood and walked over toward a table. On it was some kind of checkered board arranged with tiny carved pieces. She picked up one of the figures to examine it, noticing that it appeared to be made out of ivory. There were all kinds of different-sized figures in two colors.
Some were arranged on the board, and some were off the board on opposite sides of the table. Maybe this room is for the bairns, she said. It looks like some kind of a game. Brigid frowned when Margaret picked up another piece. Do you think you should be touching that, Maggie? What if someone gets upset? Margaret looked at her friend as if she were daft. Why would anyone care about that? She picked up two of the biggest pieces.
Look at these—they are adorable. It looks like they have crowns. They must be a king and queen. Margaret shook her head. They should go in the middle. Well, the queen will go in the middle and the king will have to stand to her left. She grinned and moved the pieces around. With all these men on horses around them. I take it the queen is you? Brigid laughed. Ruling over the men like you do at Garthland? Well someone needs to, Margaret said matter-of-factly. They looked at each other and burst out laughing, knowing that Margaret handled far more than the minor details for which her father liked to give her credit.
It had something written on it. Not knowing how to play the game, they giggled as they took turns arranging the pieces in humorous formations. Do you hear something? Brigid said. I think someone is coming. She gasped in horror. Margaret stopped, turning as a group of men walked into the antechamber. There were at least a half-dozen of them, but they seemed to be following one man. Probably a good ten years older than her eight and ten, he wore a dark green velvet mantle lined with fur, secured by an enormous jeweled brooch of silver.
His surcoat was so richly embroidered it also looked jeweled. He was tall—about six feet—and sturdily built with dark hair and a neatly trimmed short dark beard. Friends of yours, Carrick? He gazed at Margaret with unabashed interest, his eyes lingering over her hair. She was too surprised to hear the identity of the young nobleman. The man was older than the earl, shorter, and not nearly as handsome, although there was a brute strength to him. His eyes were fixed speculatively on her chest.
He did! The man thought they were bawds! She almost burst out laughing. Wait until her brother Duncan heard this! He was always telling her she was as wicked as a French strumpet. Carrick shot his companion a quelling stare and turned to Margaret and Brigid. Are you lost, lasses? Did you become. One of the ladies, by chance? Obviously the young earl was just as surprised to find them in here, but more subtle in his wondering of who they were. The MacDowells were one of the oldest clans in Scotland.
They been ruling this country—at least the southwest part of it—before these Norman lords crossed the channel to England. We are not lost, my lord. We were exploring the castle before the feast. We just arrived this morning with my father. Dugald MacDowell, Chief of MacDowell of Galloway, she said proudly, knowing exactly what kind of reaction that would provoke.
More than one man swore at the revelation that she was the daughter of their enemy. The earl hid his surprise well, though she could tell he was. Lady Margaret, he said, with a short bow. His mouth seemed to twitch, as if he were fighting a smile. Margaret frowned. When he pointed in the direction of the game, and all the men started cursing, Margaret suspected Brigid had been right about something else, too.
For two days he had been locked in a fierce battle of wits with Robert Bruce, the young Earl of Carrick, over a chessboard, but the answer had come to him last night, and victory would soon be his.
A secret, highly specialized elite guard used for reconnaissance, intelligence, strategy, and special—in other words, the most dangerous—missions?
For a man who had lived, breathed, even slept pirate warfare since he was seven years old and had helped his older brothers get back some fishing nets stolen by lads from a neighboring clan after the lads had been good enough to fill it for them, of course , the prospect of bringing that style of warfare to a war against the most powerful.
This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue? Upload Sign In Join. Home Books Romance. Save For Later. Create a List. The Striker by Monica McCarty. His clan is nearly destroyed by the Campbells for harboring her kinsmen, he is outlawed, and the woman he loves has been brutalized.
But Annie is a MacGregor, and if there is one thing the persecuted clan knows how to do, it is fight. Forgiveness, however, is another matter, and Niall begins to wonder if some wounds just might be too deep to heal.
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