It was a boastful wager, a bold flirtation meant to win a proposal from the most eligible officer in His Majesty's Royal Dragoons. How was the spoiled and pampered Catherine Augustine Ashbrooke to know the handsome stranger with the brooding midnight eyes would see through her plot and make her the pawn in a dangerous game of his own?

United by a reckless game of chance. . .

Alexander Cameron may have won the highborn English beauty in a duel, but not even the lure of long-forgotten desires could keep him from his meeting with destiny. He had no choice but to carry his reluctant bride off to the Highlands, to a world of ancient blood feuds and a brewing rebellion--a world where fiery passion and breathtaking courage would prove that even legendary warriors could lose their hearts.

Bestselling, award-winning author Marsha Canham sweeps us into the turbulence and romance of Scotland's quest for freedom in a saga of two born enemies whose lives and destinies are irrevocably bound to the fate of an empire.

An excerpt...

"Sweet merciful heavens, where have you been?" Catherine paced back from the window embrasure as Deirdre came through the doorway. "And how dare you leave me to fend for myself while you chase after that...that criminal."

"I’m sorry, mistress," Deirdre said contritely. "But I did check on you several times, only to find you were still asleep. And Mr. MacKail is so dreadfully weak. I...I cannot help but feel responsible for him somehow."

"Responsible? What utter nonsense! You didn’t get him shot." In a bristling temper, Catherine paced to the window again and glared back at the girl, but Deirdre looked so worn and weary herself that the anger turned swiftly to concern. "You haven’t slept a wink all night, have you?"

The dark brown eyes remained downcast. "I...think I did, mistress. Here and there."

Catherine chewed on her lip. "Well? How is he?"

"The doctor had to cauterize the wound to stop it bleeding. He hasn’t wakened but the once, in the middle of it all when it would have been far better for him to have remained unconscious. It took both Mr. Cameron and myself to hold him still so the doctor could finish. I hope to never have to see a sight like that again, mistress. Never."

"Will he live?"

Deirdre looked up. "I don’t know, mistress. The doctor said he is young enough and strong enough to see it through, but..."

"Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. I have come to the conclusion these Highland rogues are too mean to die. They will all live forever, if only to see us perish from sheer frustration first."

Deirdre smiled faintly and, seeing the wild blonde tangle of her charge’s hair, she pointed to the scuffed portmanteau she had left by the armoire. "I managed to save some things from your baggage before it was taken off the coach. Your hairbrushes, your combs, some bath salts..."

"Bath salts? Oh, Deirdre, you are a marvel. I swear the soap they gave me last night was vile enough to scrub pots. I would die for a real bath with real soap and real perfumes. I fear I will never get the smell of blood and dirt off my skin--not that anyone cares, of course. Once again it seems we have been shoved into a corner and forgotten."

"I saw Mr. Cameron this morning," Deirdre said as she fetched the portmanteau. "He did say he came by your room to speak with you, but..."

"He was here? In this room?"

"He asked--and very nicely too, I might add--if we had everything we needed."

"He did, did he. A guilty conscience speaking, no doubt. If not for Lady Cameron he likely would have left me sitting out in the courtyard all night long, although...I warrant if I had wild red hair and breasts spilling out of my bodice he would have remembered me."

"Mistress?"

Catherine shook her head to dismiss the remark and Deirdre added, "He also asked me to inform you that the family will be dining at eight. I gather they have planned some sort of celebration to mark his return."

"What, pray, do I have to celebrate?"

"He said...he expects you to be dressed and ready to accompany him."

"Dressed? In what, pray tell? A nightgown and bath robe?"

Deirdre glanced nervously at her mistress as she walked over to the armoire. She opened one of the doors to reveal several formal gowns hanging alongside shelves filled with neatly folded underthings.

"So." Catherine planted her hands on her hips. "He threw away all my clothes, now he expects me to wear someone else’s castoffs? I should sooner go naked."

"An original idea," a husky baritone said from the open doorway. "Although it might play havoc with the digestion of the other guests."

Catherine whirled around and scrambled to clutch the edges of the red wool robe higher to her throat. Alexander Cameron was standing there, leaning casually against the jamb, one of his infernal little cigars clamped between his teeth.

"Deirdre...in the future, remind me to lock and bolt the door."

"I have never cared much for locks," Cameron remarked conversationally. "Most of the time, when I run across one in my way, I am driven to kick it down just to see what it is I am not supposed to see."

"What do you want?" she demanded. "Why have you disturbed us?"

"Do I disturb you?" His grin broadened and he pushed away from the jamb. He walked into the room and cast a lazy eye in the direction of the bed. "You slept well, I trust? You certainly looked cozy enough--like a little golden kitten all curled up around the pillows."

He came close enough for Catherine to reel from the smell of cigar smoke and raw spirits.

"You have been drinking," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"I have indeed, madam. Everyone from the smithy to the lowliest gillie has offered to share a toast to my new bride and wish me lifelong bliss and prosperity."

"Added to my hopes that you endure everlasting hellfire, sir, you should have an interesting future."

"Ah, the sweet sentiments of marital euphoria. It is no wonder I have avoided the ensnarement for so long." He winked in Deirdre’s direction, earning a blush and a curbed smile in response. A scathing glance from Catherine drew a hastily murmured excuse to see to the bath water, and a quick retreat from the room. When the maid was gone, the hot violet of Catherine’s contempt was concentrated on Cameron.

"What do you want?"

"What I want" --he let his eyes rake downward over her body-- "and what I can hope to get are obviously two very different things...unless, of course, you feel inclined to join me in a few hours of relaxation before we have to prepare for our performance tonight?"

"What performance?" she asked warily.

"Why, that of the loving husband and wife, naturally. The entire household is priming itself for the unholy inquisition; they have been sharpening their teeth all morning on vestal virgins. I trust you will be equal to the task."

Catherine narrowed her eyes. "You are more than simply drunk, sir. You are delirious if you think I have any intentions of continuing this farcical charade. I do not intend to join you in any performance tonight--or any other night, for that matter. I shall remain in my room behind locked doors until such time as you see fit to honor your end of our agreement."

He swayed slightly and frowned to keep his eyes in focus. "Our agreement?"

"You promised to send me home if I co-operated."

"Ahh...that agreement. Yes, well, I shall certainly see what I can do."

"What do you mean, see what you can do?

He stared thoughtfully at the glowing tip of his cigar and shrugged. "These things take time to arrange, you know. It could take weeks--"

"Weeks!"

"Months, even."

Catherine’s jaw dropped open. "But you promised! You gave Damien your word of honor! You pledged the fate of your soul!"

"I seem to recall some promises and oaths you made that you conveniently elected not to keep."

"Once," she gasped. "I tried to run away once! It was no more and no less than what you would have done had you been in my position. Since then, I have done everything you asked--more than what you have asked, or have you conveniently forgotten about Gordon Ross Campbell?"

"I haven’t forgotten," he said lightly. "Self-preservation is a strong instinct in all of us; I’m sure you were glad to discover you could call upon it when it was needed."

Catherine backed up a step, the fury blazing from her eyes like darts of fire. "Haven’t you a single shred of common decency in your entire body? How can you expect me to attend something as...as frivolous and...and as ludicrous as a dinner party after everything I have been through?"

"I have been through exactly the same things, madam, only without the luxury of a bath and twenty-four hours sleep. And the longer you stand there arguing with me, the less likely it appears I shall get to indulge in either."

Catherine set her teeth on edge. "You can sleep until next year for all I care. I have no intentions of accompanying you anywhere. Not to dinner, not to breakfast...not anywhere!"

"You were the one who announced before God and man that you were my wife," he reminded her coldly. "You were also the one who insisted on being treated accordingly--for however long we are forced to endure the indignity. Those were your exact words, were they not?"

"That was yesterday. I was angry and frightened and..."

"Yes?"

She squared her shoulders. "And today I have a terrible headache."

"I’m sure it will feel better when you have something to eat."

"I am not hungry. I do not feel well enough to eat."

He arched the slash of his eyebrow. "If you are ill, then it is my husbandly duty to remain here and offer you what comfort I may."

"I plan to go directly to bed."

His grin turned wolfish. "I have no objections to comforting you there."

"You are bovine and disgusting."

"And you, madam, are coming to dinner with me if I have to strip you and dress you myself...and we both know the consequences if you call my bluff."

She clutched the edges of her robe tighter. "Get out. Get out of my room, get out of my sight at once or I swear I shall scream the roof down."

"Scream away. The walls are ten feet thick, the floors six. I doubt if anyone but the ghosts will hear you."

"If you force me to go to supper with you," she warned venomously, "I will tell anyone who will listen how you kidnapped me and held me hostage; how you hid behind my skirts so that you and your fellow criminals could sneak back into the country like the true cowards you are."

He folded his arms across his chest and smiled. "Is this before or after I tell them you are an English spy who duped me into marriage so you could come north and send detailed information back to your dragoon lieutenant?"

"No one will believe that for a minute," she countered hotly.

"No? They know me a fair sight better than they know you, and they are already splitting at the seams to know what would have inspired me to take another wife. Being compromised and forced to do so at gunpoint would explain a great deal. And if they needed any more proof of your devious nature, I could produce the dozen or so furtive little notes you left behind at every tavern and inn we passed. Notes in which you sought to leave a message in one form or another to help your lieutenant find us."

The blood drained from Catherine’s face in a rush. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. As you said, I likely would have done the same thing in your position."

Her knees faltered and she had to grasp the back of a chair to keep from falling. He said it so casually, so coldly, mocking her even as he shattered whatever hope she may have had that her family would not think she had simply vanished off the face of the earth.

"Why did you not say something?"

"It hardly seemed important. Annoying, perhaps, but not important. And it was a useful diversion. It kept you happy and out from under my skin by letting you believe you were being so very clever."

His arrogance warmed her cheeks and in a move so swift and unexpected, she swung her hand up and slapped him squarely across the face. His head remained turned to the side for almost a full minute, and when he finally did turn slowly back to face her, the dull red imprint of her hand was staining his cheek, glowing through the ruddiness of anger.

"By Christ, woman," he said softly, "you have more spirit than I would have credited to you. Far, far more than is healthy or wise to keep throwing at me."

"What would you have me do? Throw it under your feet to be trampled upon and ground into the dirt? Is that how you prefer your women: grovelling and spineless, so frightened of your bullying ways that they shrivel and turn to dust before you?"

Cameron flung his cigar aside and wrenched her forward into a crushing embrace. "Since you ask, madam, I like my women with fire and spirit. I like them blonde. I like them slender and willowy and soft in all the right places. I like them with eyes the color of wildflowers and an insolent little pout of a mouth that begs to be kissed--kissed so thoroughly there isn’t the breath or wit left for words."

His mouth, hot and possessive, flavored with the musky sweetness of whisky, came down on hers, forcing her lips apart without any pretense at civility. His breath was fierce where it rasped against her skin, his tongue demanding as it invaded her mouth, thrusting and probing with a boldness that sent shocked reverberations through her body, even to the soles of her feet. One of his hands twisted itself in the tangled mane of her hair, the long fingers insuring she could not pull away or avoid the relentless plundering. His other hand moved to her waist and started tugging at the ends of her belt, loosening the wool enough to insinuate itself beneath the robe and seek the rounded swell of her breast.

Catherine’s smothered cry was ignored, as was the barrier posed by the cambric nightdress. One swift, savage tug tore the ribbon fastenings and his hand was there, holding the cool heaviness of bare flesh, his fingers kneading and shaping the velvet-soft nipple into a hard, ruched peak.

She groaned again and this time her knees did give way, but he was there to support her, deepening his kiss, teasing her flesh until she could scarcely breathe, scarcely think beyond the waves of hot shame that engulfed her.

"Why don’t we stop playing games, Catherine," he muttered coarsely, his mouth spreading the flames along the slender arch of her throat. "You want me to honor my promises? So be it. I will honor them...starting with the ones I made in your father’s study...to take you as my lawfully

wedded--and bedded--wife."

"No," she gasped. "No..."

"Your lips keep saying no, Catherine, but your body wants more. Much more."

"I want nothing from you," she cried weakly. "Nothing..."

He pushed aside the offending layers of wool and cambric and his lips closed around her breast, suckling it hard and deep into the heated wetness of his mouth. She tried to scream, but the breath was not there to do it; she tried to push against his chest, but her fingers betrayed her and curled around the silk of his shirt instead, clinging to him through wave after wave of dark, throbbing pleasure. Her mind was fighting the conquest, but her body was revelling in the possession, shuddering with the raw desire to feel the roving heat of his mouth elsewhere, everywhere, scorching a trail of shocking caresses over flesh that had never known such intimacy.

She heard a sound, a deep, ragged groan and realized it came from her own throat. Her eyes fluttered open to find his darker ones staring down at her, studying her with an intense stillness she dared not challenge. She could feel his every muscle tensed and straining; she could see in his eyes that he wanted her, that he was fighting a similar hunger in his own body even as he fought to deny its existence, and, far from frightening her as it should have done, it made her feel more like a woman than she ever had before. A single stroke of his hand had rendered her past flirtations infantile and meaningless, her profound insights into passion as feeble as the breath wasted in uttering them.

Alexander Cameron was passion, raw and primitive, and she knew full well she would be lost to the power of it the instant his flesh touched hers again.

But he did not touch her again. He lowered his hands by his sides and took a precisely measured step back.

"You will oblige me by dressing for dinner," he said tautly. "You will accompany me to the party later this evening and you will be on your very best behavior or so help me God" --he waited until the shimmering liquid in her eyes was blinked free-- "I shall assume you have no further desire to see your England or your precious Lieutenant Garner ever again."

Catherine tilted her head defiantly upward. "At the cost of your own soul, Mr. Cameron?"

"I have no soul, madam. It died in my arms fifteen years ago."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "Then you are indeed a loathsome creature. You have no scruples, no morals, no faith, no conscience...not one single redeeming quality that should permit you walk upright on two legs."

Alex stared a moment, then offered a sweeping bow. "A man always appreciates knowing where he stands in a woman’s estimation."

"You stand, sir, with one foot on the road to hell and I do not envy anyone who chooses to stand alongside you."