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His Magick Touch – Kimberly Killion
On Sale: January 4, 2011
Running Press, 512 pp
ISBN-10: 0762440031
The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance
This collection of 20-plus romance stories will traverse the rolling hills of Scotland, including both contemporary and historical settings, time travel, ghosts, and plenty of fantastic and paranormal elements.
First edition of His Magick Touch appears in print in The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance
Sorcha’s husband is easily the meanest cur alive. He blamed her for every misfortune that befell his clan since he took her to wife four years past. And now the bastard is determined to kill her. If she were half the witch he accused her of being, then she might possess the power to save herself, but Da had ousted her grandmum from the clan before she taught Sorcha the Pagan ways. She is certain of only one thing—if she lives long enough to become a widow, she will never take another husband.
Keiran, the Falconer of Barra, knew he and Sorcha were worlds apart in station—he, the son of a crofter, and she, the eldest daughter of the chieftain—but he’d spent the past seven years of his life trying to change his stars. Everything he’d done had been for her. He’d fought and killed for the clan and learned the Pagan ways, for her. And now that he’d saved her life and took her pain away, the foolish wench accused him of doing it all for the chieftainship.
Will Keiran’s gentle touch crush the last of her resistance? Or will Sorcha’s husband hunt her down and kill her before she discovers the depth of Keiran’s love?
Read an excerpt
The bastard was finally going to kill her.
Sorcha trembled inside her wool mantle as icy wind thrashed strands of brown hair over her face. The rope binding her wrists stung, and her battered legs ached where Hector had pushed her down the steps of the keep. But none of it compared to the fear clutching her insides. She craned her neck over her shoulder and gawked wide-eyed at the white waves pummeling the base of the cliff.
“Ye destroyed my crops with hail, infested the clan’s meat with maggots, and set the outbuildings afire. ’Tis August, yet snow blankets my land.” Hector pressed her closer to the pebbled edge with his dark glare and intimidating size. He stood a full head taller and easily outweighed her by ten stone. “And now this.” He held up his sword arm covered with lesions of oozing puss. “Ye give me a whore’s disease!”
“I did naught, m’lord. I swear it,” Sorcha pleaded between chattering teeth. She considered reminding him that he hadn’t come to her bed in over two years, but knew ’twas useless to defend herself. Hector had blamed her for every misfortune that befell Clan Ranald since he’d taken her to wife four years past.
“Ye lying bitch!” He struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand.
Sorcha twisted at the waist and landed on her knees and elbows. The pain stinging her cheek was soon forgotten when Hector kicked her in the side. She heard her rib crack just before an unbearable streak of pain shot through her very core. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The coppery tinge of blood spread over her tongue as she rolled onto her stomach. She spit a string of crimson and pulled herself forward by her bound hands.
“Think ye I dinnae hear ye chant your spells in the old language?” Hector wrenched her back to her feet.
If she were half the witch he accused her of being, then she might possess the power to save herself. She wished Da hadn’t ousted Grandmum from the clan before she taught Sorcha the Pagan ways.
“Ye have cursed me and my clan for the last time,” he bellowed over the howling wind.
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