Michelle Willingham - Craving the Highlander's Touch

Scotland, 1306

For Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk, her brutish husband is more of an enemy than the wild Scots she is supposed to hate. Her heart longs to help her husband’s prisoners—especially Finian MacLachor, the intense Highland chief who bears the scars of his own failed uprising, both inside and out. With her help, he has a second chance to make things right for his clan—and and to show Alys the nights of unbelievable pleasure she’s been missing….

Dear Reader:

When I wrote Seduced by Her Highland Warrior, the character of Finian MacLachor stood out to me as a tormented hero. He made some difficult choices on his daughter’s behalf, ones that bothered him deeply. And yet, despite his mistakes, I found myself wondering whether he would have his own happy ending. I wanted him to find the redemption he sought, and when he first set eyes upon Alys Fitzroy, he found his angel of mercy.

Wedded to a man she despises, Alys feels lost and lonely. When she meets Finian, she’s drawn to his haunted strength. In him, she finds an unexpected second chance at love.

Craving the Highlander’s Touch gave me the chance to explore the lives of the secondary characters Finian and Alys. I hope you’ll enjoy their short story and try out the full-length book Seduced by Her Highland Warrior that accompanies it.

You’re welcome to visit my website at www.michellewillingham.com for excerpts and behind-the-scenes details about my books. I love to hear from readers and you may e-mail me at michelle@michellewillingham.com or via mail at P.O. Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662 USA.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

About the Author

Scotland, 1306

Finian MacLachor was slowly freezing to death. Stripped of his outer garments, he wore nothing but his trews, for his clothing had been taken from him. The Baron of Harkirk, Robert Fitzroy, had ordered him whipped, and now Finian was imprisoned within a storage chamber, his back raw and bloody. The heavy manacles enclosed his wrists, the thick chains impossible to escape.

At dawn, he would die.

He knew the baron would not make it a quick death. They would make an example of him, to terrify the other Scots who dared to rise up against the English garrisons.

But just as the freezing air had seeped into his skin, slowly taking away his ability to feel, his mind had settled into calm.

You don’t deserve to live. Because of you, most of the MacLachors are dead.

Including his own daughter.

Finian closed his eyes, the tight knot strangling his heart. He’d been too late to save her. His hands curled against the chains, gripping them hard as he tried to rip them from the stone wall. Had Iliana died believing he’d forgotten about her? She’d just turned ten years old.

On his knees, he uttered a prayer for her soul. He doubted he would live long enough to avenge her death, but he wasn’t going to die quietly. God willing, he would kill Harkirk before that happened.

The sound of footsteps approaching made him wonder if it was already dawn. He rose to his feet and stood, waiting. When the hooded figure emerged, he realized it was a woman. Now why would she enter a place such as this? What did she want?

Finian lowered his head, behaving as though he hadn’t seen her. It was easier to learn about an enemy if the person believed he was unaware. She was still upon the stairs, and he angled his peripheral vision to see her better.

Her light brown hair held glints of gold within it, and she seemed taken aback at the sight of him. Finian said nothing, waiting for her to speak. Her eyes rested upon his chains, and she paused with the keys in her palm for a moment, almost uncertain of what to do now. Was she planning to free him? He doubted if a stranger would show such mercy.

He waited for her to leave, for this was no place for a woman. Instead, her footsteps drew nearer, down the stone steps. Finian remained motionless, and the longer she stood before him, the more he grew conscious of his trembling. The chains shook, despite his clenched fists. Although he’d stopped bleeding, his skin throbbed with a fiery pain.

“If I release you, will you promise not to harm me?” she asked quietly.

He jerked his head up, hope flaring inside. Had she truly offered to set him free? He blinked, and saw her steady green eyes watching him. Like an ethereal angel, her presence seemed conjured from his imagination.

“Who are you?” His voice was rough, edged with cold.

“Alys Fitzroy, Lady of Harkirk.” She shivered, and in her hands she held the key to unlock his manacles. “Don’t even think of using me as a hostage. I want to leave this place, just as you do.”

Strange, to think that his angel of mercy came in the form of the devil’s wife. She wouldn’t dream of releasing him if she knew he intended to kill her husband.

But what did she mean, she wanted to leave this place? Finian stared at her, unable to understand why. But there was genuine unhappiness on her face, which he hadn’t expected.

Her hand touched his wrist, and the sensation of her fingers was warm, like a healing balm. In the darkness, her breath formed clouds, and Finian could smell a light herbal fragrance from her skin. Almost as if she’d bathed last night with petals scattered upon the water, dipping against her breasts.

Against his will, he found himself noticing her as a woman. Likely, it was only the years of celibacy—any man would respond to a beautiful woman touching him. Her features were delicate, with a small nose and lips that held a slight frown. Her hands were shaking as she struggled to unlock the first manacle.

A minute later, the heavy chain struck the ground at his feet. His wrist was raw, but he held steady, waiting for her to release his other hand.

“What is your name?” she asked, as she unfastened the second iron band.

“Finian,” he answered. “I’m the MacLachor chief. Or…I was, before this.” There were hardly any MacLachors left now. Perhaps a dozen or fewer, after they’d attempted to attack Harkirk’s fortress. So many of his men had died…and he should have been among them.

Lady Harkirk folded her hands in her skirts and retreated. “If you follow me, I’ll show you a way outside the fortress. That’s all I can do for you. You’ll have to make your own escape.”

“Why would you offer me help?” Finian asked. He struggled to make his feet move, wincing at the pain as he took one step, then another. “Surely Harkirk would be furious.”

“I’ve been his prisoner for four years now. I don’t need anyone else to endure what I have.” She swallowed hard. “If I could free the others, I would. But he keeps them locked away, nearer to his soldiers. I don’t know why he put you here.”

“Because they caught me trying to escape last night. He intends to make an example of me.” The MacKinloch chief had cut him free, but physical weakness had prevented Finian from getting very far. Even now, the fierce cold made it hard to move. His limbs felt as though they were wooden, and he couldn’t stop himself from trembling as he rested his hand against the wall.

Lady Harkirk removed her cloak and set it around his shoulders. Finian stared at her, unable to understand her kindness. They were strangers, for God’s sake. He was going to kill the man she’d pledged her life to.

But she was looking at him with uncertainty, as though she saw something good within him. As if he were someone worth saving.

She was wrong. There was nothing left of his blackened soul.