A day in Scotland: Rainbows and Clouds
I can thank Julie Garwood and Diana Gabaldon (of Outlander fame) for seducing me with all things Scotland nearly twenty years ago. Kilts, burly men with brogue-accents, castles, moors, and majestic mountains…ah, so very romantic and rich in history! The setting in A Hundred Kisses takes my hero and heroine on a journey across the Isle of Skye and the sea separating the Hebrides and mainland, and then on to the Isle of North Uist. I was fortunate enough to visit Scotland in September, 2008, which I’d expected to be a blissful, sunny month. Mmphmm. Nope! Those majestic Cuillin I reference in the book? Yeah, they were shrouded by rain – thank goodness for internet research, right? It was no wonder the Bonnie Prince Charlie hid here – I could barely see the road, let alone the rugged landscape.
However, Alasdair and Deirdre’s journey begins at the signature castle, Eilean Donan, originally built in the 6th century but fortified circa 1300s. Remarkably, sunshine visited me on that day (it was a very wet September when I visited Scotland). Like many castles, it’s steeped in a colorful history of feuds, disputes, ownerships, destruction, and restorations; and there are even claims that Robert the Bruce stayed here during the Scottish Wars of Independence. This castle is as resplendent and utterly dreamy as all the pictures portray. It’s situated on a small isle, surrounded by three lochs, and stands guard over the Kintails. I managed a solo visit with my husband right before a tour bus arrived. We were gifted with a bowing rainbow over the breathtaking mountain and loch.
Even though Skye and the isles eluded me, there were plenty of windswept moors, lochs, meadows, stone-topped crags, and green rolling hills. And rain. Plenty of rain to inspire. Scotland’s rugged enchantment did not let me down. And I hope I did it justice in A Hundred Kisses.
Two wedding nights. Two dead husbands.
Deirdre MacCoinneach wishes to understand her unusual ability to sense others’ lifeblood energies…and vows to discover if her gift killed the men she married. Her father’s search for a new and unsuspecting suitor for Deirdre becomes complicated when rumors of witchcraft abound.
Under the façade of a trader, Alasdair Montgomerie travels to Uist with pivotal information for a Claimant seeking the Scottish throne. A ruthless baron hunts him and a dark past haunts him, leaving little room for alliances with a Highland laird or his tempting daughter.
Awestruck when she realizes that her unlikely travel companion is the man from her visions, a man whose thickly veiled emotions are buried beneath his burning lifeblood, Deirdre wonders if he, too, will die in her bed if she follows her father’s orders. Amidst magic, superstition, and ghosts of the past, Alasdair and Deirdre find themselves falling together in a web of secrets and the curse of a hundred kisses…
She sensed no colors in the murky, lifeless water, and it was freeing. All breath escaped her. Muted visions passed before her eyes—her mother, her father, Gordon, and Cortland. Just a moment longer, she thought…
Suddenly, a burst of warm light invaded her thoughts as air filled her lungs. Red-hot hands burned her shoulders and ripped her from her icy grave. She breathed life into her body. She coughed, gagging on the change.
Muffled words yelled at her.
Oh, God, so hot. His fingers were like hot pokers. Her head pounded as she slowly returned to the present. Heat radiated from her rescuer. Somebody had pulled her from the water.
“Hush, lass. You nearly drowned.”
His voice was as soothing as a warm cup of goat’s milk on a winter’s day. A red-hot glow emanated from his body. Never before had she felt such a strong lifeblood, and it nearly burned her. She struggled in his arms to get free. She blinked, only seeing a blurry form before her. “Release me!”
She splashed and wriggled, and he did as told. She clambered to the shoreline. Numb and shaken, she began to dress. It wasn’t easy as she fumbled with slick fingers to put dry clothes over wet skin. She instantly regretted her naked swim. She pulled on her long-sleeved white chemise first.
She faced the forest, away from her rescuer. He quietly splashed to shore. His lifeblood burned into her back. He wasn’t far behind, but he stopped. She refused to look at him until she was fully clothed, not out of embarrassment of her nudity, but for what had just happened. He released a groan and mumbled under his breath about wet boots. His voice was not one of her father’s soldiers.
When she put the last garment on, her brown wool work kirtle, she squeezed out her sopping hair and swept her hands through the knotty mess. She fastened her belt and tied the lacings up the front of the kirtle. Blood returned to her fingertips, and she regained her composure. Belated awareness struck her, and she leaned down and searched through her bag for her dagger. She spun around.
She gasped as she saw the man sitting on the stone-covered shoreline, his wet boots off. Confusion and the hint of a scowl filled his strong-featured face. She staggered back, caught her heel on a stone, and fell, dropping the dagger. Dirt and pebbles stuck to her wet hands and feet, and she instinctively scrambled away from him.
His glower, iridescent dark blue eyes, and disheveled black hair were not unfamiliar. Staring at her was the man she had seen in her dream—it was the man from the wood.
Links on TWRP:
|Jean M. Grant|