Fans of historical romances can rejoice with the release of this time travel romance that perfectly balances the sensual and suspenseful interactions of two opposites attracting. Keep reading to get a tempting glimpse of Every Time with a Highlander by Gwyn Cready, and its battle of a strong-willed woman allying herself with an unexpected hero, then add it to your bookshelf. In honor of this third installment in the Sirens of the Scottish Borderlands series make sure to fill out the form below for the chance to win a print copy of the first book in this series too!
She can work her magic on any man
In a quest to bring peace to her beloved Scottish borderlands, fortune-teller and spy Undine Douglas agrees to marry a savage English colonel. Desperate to delay the wedding long enough to undermine the army’s plans, Undine casts a spell to summon help and unexpectedly finds herself under the imperious gaze of the handsome and talented Michael Kent, twenty-first century British theater director.
But in this production, he commands the action
Though he abandoned acting years ago, Michael will play whatever part it takes to guard Undine’s safety—he’s used to managing London’s egocentric actors and high-handed patrons, after all. But not even Shakespeare could have foreseen the sparks that fly when the colonel’s plans force Undine and Michael into the roles of their lifetimes.
"Where am I, and what the hell am I doing here?"
Undine stood arrow straight against the closed door, hands behind her on the knob, unmoved by his demand. “Keep your voice down,” she said in a heated whisper.
“Keep my voice down?! I’m trying to keep my lunch down."
“He’s just outside the door."
“Good, because if you try anything else, I’ll want help. What is this? Where am I?"
She sighed. “You’re in the home of Colonel Lord Bridgewater."
“Colonel Lord Bridgewater?” For an instant, a potential explanation appeared in his head. “So this is a costume party?"
“A masque?” She chuckled. “No, but the metaphor is apt. No one here is who they truly seem."
“Do you mind telling me what I’m doing here?"
“I’ve told you,” she said. “You are here to prevent him from marrying me?"
“Have you considered just saying no?"
“Aye,” she said archly. “I have."
The woman was infuriating. “And?"
She shifted. “This is what needs to be done."
“Oh, well, if this is what needs to be done, then by all means, make use of me however you see fit. Your wish is my command."
“Sarcasm is not an attractive quality in a priest."
“You have nothing to be angry about,” she said. “You’ll perform your duty to me, which is to say not performing your duty at the altar, and you shall be returned unscathed."
“I have already been ‘scathed,’ madam. What was in the potion?"
“’Tis of no concern to you, and I warn you not to repeat the word."
“You’re quite the taskmaster. I think I like my odds with the cravat guy better.” He reached past her for the knob.
She jerked backward, trapping his hand against a captivating bottom.
They stood eye to eye. “I suggest,” she said, unblinking, “you move that."
He considered several responses—verbal and isometric—before tugging his arm free. He adjusted the burlap of his sleeve. “You do realize, I hope, I am entirely capable of moving you from the door."
“The Barbary sun is a hot one."
A knock sounded, and she started. If it was Bridgewater, she didn’t just dislike the man. She was afraid of him.
“Undine,” a voice called. It was Bridgewater.
She looked at Michael, and neither replied.
“How long does he think a confession takes?” Michael said under his breath. “Sixty seconds?"
“I’m sure the only times he’s confessed, it’s been a lie."
“Undine?” Bridgewater repeated. “Are you there? Undine?"
“Jesus,” Michael said, “what is his problem?"
Undine rolled her eyes. “Love."
“Undine.” The knob rattled harder. “Answer me."
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Michael lifted her by the waist and placed her to the side. Then he opened the door, blocking Bridgewater’s entry with his body. “The walls of the confessional may not be breached, sir,” he said hotly. “What do you want?"
Bridgewater looked as if he’d been slapped. Michael wished the man felt as if he’d been slapped as well.
“I beg your pardon.” Splotches of indignation appeared above his lordship’s cravat.
“’Tis not my pardon you must beg but the Lord’s! We are deep in the work of unblackening her soul. Pray give us the time we require.” Michael shut the door with a bang.
“Well done,” she said when the footsteps faded. “Though ‘unblackening’ was a bit much."
“Says the woman threatening Barbary dehydration. I could have invited him in."
“There’s no need to be rude."
“Rude? You think I’m being rude? I have no idea where I am or why I’m here."
“Are you a bit slow?” she said. “We’ve covered this ground before."
“Yes, I know I’m somehow supposed to keep you from your fiancé, though why, I have no idea. And I know you drugged me with the”—she gave him a piercing look—“liquid. But I don’t know why you picked me for this or where we are or—most important—why I should put up with any of it."
“Father, this will no doubt violate every belief you have about the world, but I offer no apology for upending those narrow-minded views. I am a naiad—to the simpleminded, a witch—though if you repeat that to anyone, you’ll regret it."
Michael needed to sit, but his legs wouldn’t bend. His only experience with witches was with the perennially overacted ones in Macbeth and the hay fever–suffering Corelza in Tre
vor Quince, Boy Wizard, the movie franchise which had funded his early retirement. None of them looked like a Greek fury crossed with Grace Kelly.
He rubbed his forehead. “A witch?"
“Naiad, if you please. And you are in 1706."
He felt as if he were standing on a spinning carousel with no pole to cling to. The world spun with stomach-churning speed, and no matter how he turned, he couldn’t find a way to get his feet under him. 1706? 1706 was Congreve and Queen Anne, garters and frock coats--
Oh God, I am in 1706.
Gwyn Cready is a writer of contemporary, Scottish, and time travel romance. She’s been called “the master of time travel romance” and is the winner of the RITA Award, the most prestigious award given in romance writing. She has been profiled in Real Simple and USA Today, among others. Before becoming a novelist, she spent 25 years in brand management. She has two grown children and lives with her husband on a hill overlooking the magical kingdom of Pittsburgh.
a Rafflecopter giveaway