Today Roma Cordon, CamCat Books, and Rockstar Book Tours
are revealing the cover for BEWITCHING A HIGHLANDER, her debut Historical
Fantasy Romance which releases June 7, 2022! Check out the awesome cover and
enter the giveaway!
On to the reveal!
Title: BEWITCHING A HIGHLANDER (A Scottish Highland Warriors Novel
#1)
Author:
Roma Cordon
Pub. Date:
June 7, 2022
Publisher:
CamCat Books
Formats:
Hardcover, Paperback, eBook
Pages:
368
Find it: Goodreads, Amazon,
Kindle,
B&N,
iBooks,
Kobo,
TDB,
Bookshop.com
Excerpt:
CHAPTER
1
“You have witchcraft in your lips. . .”
—William Shakespeare, Henry V.
October 28, 1747—Isle of Coll, Scotland
Breena MacRae’s heart beat out of tune from the cacophony of their wagon’s
rattling. Sixteen horse hooves trampled the knurled road, pulling them
southwest toward the Campbells’ keep, a clan she blamed for most of
her childhood miseries. Three weeks ago, she’d awoken from nineteen
years of delusions, yet it was no less painful living the truth. Her
parents had neither died in some horrific accident nor left because of
her. Breena was after all the most deplorable witch the MacRaes and
Maxwells ever had the lamentable fortune to beget.
Uncle Craig leaned over and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. The
clumsy yet affectionate gesture grounded her. It rid her of her
punishing thoughts.
“We aught to go over the plan again.”
She would always be obliged to him and Aunt Madeline. They’d been her
guardians since she was six, although many times since then, despite
the fact that she loved them both with all her heart, they’d made her
want to either scream or blaspheme.
Sometimes both.
His familiar features reminded her of her mother’s, his little sister. “All
right, but understanding the need to lie doesn’t make it any less
difficult,” she said.
“Difficult it may be, but it will keep us alive.”
She huffed. He was too cautious. Or was she not cautious enough? Breena
blinked up as the afternoon sun reconsidered slipping pass horizontal
puffs of clouds.
Mayhap she herself should reconsider her decision to come here. No. Even if
there was a remote possibility her father was alive, she had to
attempt to find him. She had to free him. Her heart ached for all he
must have endured. She’d believed him dead for the past nineteen
years, until three weeks ago, when lovable yet scatterbrained Aunt
Madeline had let slip the truth. After suffering from dysentery and a
bout of guilt, her aunt had blurted out that Ian might still be alive.
Had Aunt Made line known she wasn’t at death’s door, she might have been
more steadfast in her secrecy. Craig and Madeline had insisted her parents
wanted the truth kept from her all this time. The secrecy and
deception might have been the stimulant for her childhood misery, but
it hadn’t been the cause. Nonetheless, it had resulted in long, wasted
years. Her dream from the previous night replayed in her mind.
Beloved Grandmother Sorcha, their majestic matriarch, had told her Ian
had something to reveal. If Breena believed dreams were a sign of
things to come, then it was a sign her father was indeed alive. But
she didn’t know if she believed in dreams. After all, she lacked the
gift of second sight. The revered Sorcha on the other hand wielded her
own gift of sight like a true proficient, when she was
alive.
A chilled hollowness speared her innards, causing a shiver to run up
her spine. It had been her tormentor since she was six. Often she
paused and wondered what had slipped her mind, what she had
forgotten—perhaps she’d missed something. Then it would hit her. She hadn’t
missed anything, hadn’t forgotten anything, nothing had slipped her
mind. It was only that her parents had vanished, without a word,
leaving an acute aching void. She pulled her woolen arisaid tighter around
her shoulders and prayed not only that their scheme would work on the
Campbells but that she could rid herself of this ache in the pit of
her belly, once and for all.
She gazed out the wagon as the panoply that was the Isle of Coll
rolled by. The crisp October breeze swept her cheeks as she eyed the
chestnut-feathered corncrakes scavenging the beachgrass-infested sand
dunes. Nature’s russets, umbers, and olives, always vibrant at home on
the Isle of Skye, were starved for luster here on Coll.
A lone angler in the distance slumped his shoulders in a small skiff,
then gazed up at the sky as if beseeching heavenly bodies for a boon be fore
casting a net onto the surface of the ocean. The earthiness of the
damp ground below mingling with the briny sea air and the pungency of
kelps filled her nostrils as she inhaled a cleansing breath. She was
well acquainted with the pain of unanswered pleas. Well, mayhap the
tide was changing for them both.
When she caught the incessant tapping of her fingers on the side of
the wagon, she pulled her hand back into her lap.
“I’ll wager they don’t even remember the name Beth MacRae after nineteen
years.” Breena fought against the agonizing emotions that flooded her
every time she said her mother’s name.
Craig’s brown eyes looked back at her from beneath shaggy brows, the
slight impatience that twitched his cheek muscles highlighting
his wrinkles. “That’s a wager I’ll not be taking, for the price of
losing is finding our necks at the wrong end of a noose.”
George, her uncle’s worker, flipped the reins up ahead with a sharp,
practiced snap. A throaty intake of breath escaped his mouth. “Holy
Saints. It looks haunted.”
Breena’s head snapped up to follow his gaze. The back of her neck
prickled. Castle Carragh loomed grim on the horizon. George was as
strong as a feral goat but simpleminded.
“There are no such things as ghosts, she said.” But from her sudden
inability to swallow, she wasn’t sure she believed her own attempt to as
suage his fears.
If the builders of this castle had meant to strike terror into its
visitors, they’d carried out their goal to perfection. The shadows cast by
Carragh against the backdrop of the setting sun stretched out toward
them like crooked talons, warning them to keep away.
She ignored the warning and said a silent plea that they were not too
late, that her father was still alive.
As they approached the castle’s outer gates, Breena made out two
menacing sentries dressed in threadbare tartan trews of blue and
green, the colors of the Campbell clan. They were each outfitted with
a sword, mace, and a flintlock rifle; were they preparing for war?
George pulled their wagon up closer to the gate, reined in the horses,
and lowered his head, awaiting instructions. It always caused Breena
such disquiet to see such a large man lower his head like that. She
had known George for close to a decade, since he’d come to work for
Craig, and despite his broad, hulking body he was the gentlest person
Breena had ever met.
When one of the sentries at the gate brandished his sword, Breena’s dry
gulp refused to be suppressed. His flared nostrils and squinting eyes
made his pugnacious expression more acute. Did he wish to intimidate them?
If so, he’d gotten his wish. The other sentry snarled, exposing crooked
incisors, as he scratched his crotch. Breena eased the tension in her
face into what she hoped was a pleasant smile, even as her fingers curled
against her damp palms. The squinty-eyed sentry scowled. “What’s your
business here?”
“I’m Craig Maxwell. I’m a healer and spice merchant. May we be of
service to your clan?”
Neither Squinty Eyes nor Crooked Incisors was impressed by her
uncle’s request. Squinty Eyes spat on the ground, his scowl deepening.
He sauntered to the back of their wagon and started sifting through
their supplies.
All of a sudden he lifted his sword high in the air and brought it
down in an echoing crash on the lock of a trunk. Breena gasped out
loud in surprise.
Craig jumped down from the wagon and stumbled toward Squinty Eyes.
“I’ll show you whatever you wish, but there’s no cause to break our
trunks.”
Squinty Eyes raised his hand, still gripping the sword and slammed
the hilt down, with a dull thud, into Craig’s jaw. Breena’s body froze
with horror. Her uncle teetered backward and fell to the ground,
landing on his rump.
“Unc—Father!”
Dread rose up her gullet as she jumped down from the wagon, almost buckling
at the knees, landing with more force than anticipated. She ignored
the approaching thunder of hooves and rushed toward Craig. She
couldn’t lose him too. She just couldn’t. She took hold of Craig’s
arms and helped him from the ground.
“Are you hurt?”
Her uncle’s mouth was open, his gaze flat. She took some of his
weight as he leaned against her. He was in shock. There was blood at
the side of his mouth, at the end of an ugly cut, where he’d been
struck. A sharp pang of fear speared her midriff as she reached into
her pocket for a clean square of linen and, with a gentle touch,
dabbed the blood away. Her uncle’s worker approached them with
hesitant steps. Breena sent him a cursory glance, noting the fear in
his bulging eyes when he saw Squinty Eyes.
“George, why don’t you remain with the horses?” Breena said. His head
bobbed. “Yes, mistress.”
George understood horses, but he had difficulty with people. She returned
her attention to Craig. She took hold of her uncle’s chin, avoiding
the darkening bruise that was now a stark contrast to his pale skin.
She inspected the wound as she gently followed his jaw line with her
fingers all the way to his neck. Nothing broken. She closed her eyes
and exhaled a breath of relief.
Craig was a graying man of eight and fifty with a slim build, whereas
Squinty Eyes was younger and more than twice the size of her uncle.
Breena ground her teeth when another drop of blood fell from Craig’s
mouth. Her pulse raced with heated indignation. How dare this barbaric
bully strike Craig? How dare he block them from entering this
atrocious castle? It’s not as if there were endless visitors clamoring
for entrance. Losing her parents and years of this aching void pushed
her to retaliate. But she couldn’t. They were at the utter mercy of
this insolent sentry to gain entrance to the Campbells’ keep. He held
their fate and her father’s life in his hands, a fact he was utterly
unaware of.
As she tended to Craig, a loud snigger pierced the air. She swung
around to see Squinty Eyes dangling a gossamer shift off the tip of
his sword, right above the now-broken trunk. He jutted his flaccid
chin in Breena’s direction as he addressed Craig.
“You let me have a roll in the hay with the lass and I’ll let you in.”
Breena’s eyes narrowed at the crude proposition. The insult dug in.
Her heart rate quickened as self-preservation and a survival
instinct unfurled inside her. The heat of it spread throughout her
entire body like a wave of sickness, making her shake. “You
bastard.”
Rationality went out the window as she took two steps forward and
dealt a resounding slap across the sniggering face of Squinty Eyes. He
was caught off guard, judging by the way his mouth fell open and his
head jerked back. His odious stench made Breena want to pinch the tip
of her nose shut and breathe through her mouth.
But then, coldness sank into her stomach. Oh no. No. What had she
done? She blinked, trying to swallow against the rising bile, and
stepped back.
She would never forgive herself if they were barred entrance because
of her foolhardy actions. She’d never done anything like that before.
What was the matter with her? The earlier mention of a noose burned
her ears.
Squinty Eyes recovered. He grunted and swore as he grabbed her. His
grip, like cold steel, dug into her soft flesh. He wrenched her right
arm forward. Her mouth tightened with defiance as she glared at him.
Even as her right shoulder was at risk of dislocating under his
granite hold, she held her chin high. She would not give this bully
the satisfaction of seeing her cower.
“You brazen wench, how dare you strike me?”
His eyes bulged, and spittle escaped from his mouth. She tugged and
pulled to no avail as the pounding of horses’ hooves reverberated in
the air around them. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a towering,
broad-shouldered Highland warrior dismounting from the blackest
stallion she’d ever seen.
He stormed Squinty Eyes from behind.
About Roma Cordon:
Roma Cordon was introduced to romance novels in her teenage years and
instantly became a voracious reader of the genre. In the 1990s, she came to
live in New York where she earned her undergraduate and graduate degrees.
After taking a writing course at New York University with Anne Rice, she
dived into the world of writing while testing the waters at public speaking
at her local Toastmasters club. By day, Roma works in the finance industry;
in the evenings and weekends, she is a passionate romance writer. She also
writes on her blog romacordon.com.
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Giveaway Details:
1 winner will win a $10 Amazon GC, International.
I enjoyed reading the first chapter, thanks for sharing!
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