Debbie Mazzuca: Lord of the Isles

LORD OF HER HEART

He kissed the tears from her cheeks. “I do love you, Aileanna, and I’m no’ marryin’ Moira. I wil na’ go through with the betrothal, no’ now.”

“Don’t . . . don’t lie to me. Lust isn’t love —that’s what you said, didn’t you? I won’t come second to anyone, Rory, not even your dead wife. I deserve more.”

He gave her a slight shake. “Stop. Why wil you no’ try to understand? Aye, I desire you as I never have another, in cluding Brianna. But I do love you, Aileanna, more than I should. And I canna’ let you go. I wil na’ let you go.”

“Did you just say you aren’t marrying Moira?”

“Aye, ’tis what I said,” he growled.

She hesitated then asked, “And you love me?” She low

ered her eyes and her cheeks flushed. “As much as you loved your wife?”

“The love I feel for you is no’ the same as my love for Bri

anna was. Canna’ you understand that?”

“Aye, I can.”

He blinked, then grinned. “I’l make a Scot of you yet, mo chridhe.” His eyes darkened. “But now al I want is to make you mine . . .”

ZEBRA BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

This book is dedicated to the

memory of my father, Norm LeClair.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about you.You are my hero, and always will be.Thanks . . .

To my amazing husband Perry, and our three incredible children, April, Jess, and Nic. Your love, encouragement, and support, mean the world to me. I love you very much. To my mom, my sister, and brother, for their enthusiastic support. No one could ask for better cheerleaders. I love you. To Ludvica, my adopted daughter, for being the best reader a writer could ever hope for.

To my friends and mentors in ORWA. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you, especial y Coreene, Vanessa, Teresa, and Joyce.

A special thanks to my dear friend and critique partner Lucy. To my agent Pamela Hardy for believing in me, and making my dreams come true. You’re the best!

To my editor John Scognamiglio for taking a chance on me, and for your patience while guiding me through the publish

ing process. You’ve been a pleasure to work with. To my many family and friends. I can’t name you al , but you have my deepest gratitude and love.

Chapter 1

The red hatchback came to a grinding stop at the bottom of a desolate gravel road, and the driver flipped off the meter. Wide-eyed, Ali stared at the back of the bald man’s head.

“You’re kidding, right?”

The cabbie shrugged. His eyes meeting hers in the rear

view mirror. “I canna’ make it up the hil , lass, on account of al the rain we’ve had. My car’s too heavy you ken, but Dunvegan’s just up the road a bit,” he said in his thick brogue. Ali leaned forward, peering past the rhythmic swipe of the windshield wipers to the mist-shrouded trees and the faint outline of a stone tower just beyond them, and released a resigned sigh. She shouldn’t be surprised. Lately, where she was concerned, if something could go wrong, it did.

“Okay then, what do I owe you?” she asked as she dug her wal et from the bottom of her black leather satchel.

“Two hundred pounds,” the older man answered as he opened the door and heaved himself off the front seat. Ali let out a soft whistle before she fol owed after him, her low-heeled shoes sinking in the mud. “Can you give me a receipt, please?”

Her agent and best friend, Meg Lawson, had told her the magazine would pay al her expenses and Ali wasn’t about to 2

Debbie Mazzuca

argue. It meant more money to go toward the hefty student loans she’d accumulated while going to medical school. And the sooner they were paid off the better. It was one of the rea

sons she’d agreed to take the modeling job in the first place. The money was great, and she’d get a chance to see some of Scotland—at the very least Skye, where the photo shoot was taking place. She just wouldn’t think about why she had the time to take the job. If she did, she’d cry, and she’d done enough of that already.

“Aye.” He lifted her luggage from the trunk and settled the strap of her carry-on over her shoulder. “I wish I could help with yer bags, lass, but I have a bum knee and wouldn’t be much good to you.”

“No problem.” Ali managed a tight smile as she dragged the heavy suitcase around the back of the car, its wheels get

ting stuck in the mud. She thanked the man and shoved the receipt he handed her into her bag before heading out on what she hoped would be a short walk to Dunvegan Castle. The trek was slow going, with the wheels of her suitcase getting stuck in every rut on the narrow, unpaved road. Her mud-splattered black shoes were waterlogged from the puddles she couldn’t seem to avoid. In an attempt to save her jeans from ruin, she bent down and rol ed them several inches above her ankles. She buttoned the navy blazer she wore over her white blouse—a blouse that had been crisp and clean when she left New York twelve hours earlier, but now was as limp and dirty as she was, or would be, after her little adventure.

Five minutes later she had to admit it wasn’t so bad. The air was fragrant with the heady aroma of flowers, the misty rain warm and gentle on her face, and the scenery amaz

ing. Some of the tension eased from her shoulders, and then she heard an ominous rumble, and a bolt of light ning crackled across the gloomy afternoon sky. Within sec

onds the clouds opened up and the rain came down in

LORD OF THE ISLES

3

buckets. Ali shook her head and laughed. What else could she do—cry?

Rounding a bend in the road, a massive gray stone edi

fice came into view, and she felt an unexpected spurt of excitement. It looked like something out of a fairy tale with its majestic towers reaching toward the sky. Maybe Meg was right—the change of scenery would do her good. Gripping the suitcase with two hands, she hauled it onto the pavers of the long driveway. The mud from the wheels on her suitcase splattered her legs, but at least it no longer felt like she was dragging a hundred-pound weight behind her. Hiking up the strap of her carry-on, she dashed toward the massive oak doors. When she received no response to her first tentative knock she rapped harder, relieved when the door creaked open. She’d begun to think the place was deserted. A tal , elderly man stood framed in the doorway, staring at her, his bright blue eyes wide in his grizzled face, his mouth hanging open. Ali didn’t blame him. She could only imagine what she looked like with her long hair plastered to her head, and mascara no doubt running down her cheeks. “Hi, I’m Ali Graham.” She offered her hand, but he didn’t take it. Ali didn’t think he even noticed—his gaze was riveted on her face.

Splat.

She glared up at the offending carved overhang from which the water had cascaded to land on her head, then back to the man blocking the entrance. “Uhmm, do you mind if I come in?” She didn’t want to be rude, but she was drenched. With a brief shake of his head the befuddled look left his eyes. “Sorry, lass, please . . . please come in.”