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trickling down his arm.
    Liana’s blood.
    “Nae!” He held her from him, his heart splitting when her head lolled to the side. He stared at her, looking closely, seeing what he’d missed before.
    There was a large crimson stain at her middle, dark, glistening wet, and deadly.
    It was then that the madness seized him.
    He threw back his head and roared, allowing the pain to rush in. Blackness filled him and his vision blurred to a burning, red haze. But he kept his hands steady as he lowered her onto the plaid that someone had spread out for her beside the old woman, who—he saw at once—had also taken her last agonizing breath.
    Soon, he would see them buried. He’d put them, and all the others, to peace as best as possible in such a fouled and heinous place.
    But for now, he gave in to his rage and leapt to his feet, a beast unchained. He ran to the water’s edge, where he whipped out his sword and plunged it deep into the wet sand beneath the cold and swirling surf.
    He clenched his hands, glaring through the smoke to the now-empty horizon. “Sword Breaker, hear me!” he bellowed, yelling with all his lung power. “There is no rock large enough to hide you! No shadows black enough to keep you and yours safe from me, Magnus MacBride!”
    He strode into the water, shouting the same words again and again as he glared out to sea. He shook his fists at the rolling waves, ranting until several of his men came for him. They took him by the arms, dragging him back to shore.
    Back to a life that was forever changed.
    The Magnus MacBride who stood on the strand—his heart turned to stone and his blood boiling with rage—was a different man from the one who’d wakened that morn, eager and joyful to ride out and fetch his bride.
    From this day on, he would live only for vengeance.

Chapter 1
    Ye Olde Pagan Times
    New Hope, Pennsylvania
    The present
    Margo Menlove was born loving Scotland.
    She lived, breathed, and dreamed in plaid. At the ripe age of sixteen, she’d single-handedly convinced nearly all the girls in her high school—and even a few of the female teachers—that there was no man sexier than a Highlander. In those heady days, she’d even founded the now-defunct Bucks County Kilt Appreciation Society.
    Now, more than ten years later, locals in her hometown of New Hope, Pennsylvania, considered her an authority on all things Scottish.
    And although she was officially employed as a Luna Harmonist at the town’s premier New Age shop, Ye Olde Pagan Times, advising clients according to the natural cycle and rhythm of the moon, many customers sought her assistance when they wished to plan a trip to Scotland.
    Sometimes when one of those Glasgow-bound Sometimes when one of those Glasgow-bound travelers consulted her, she’d surprise herself with how well she knew the land of her dreams.
    She really was an expert.
    She knew each clan’s history and could recognize their tartan at a hundred paces. She prided herself on being able to recite all the must-see hot spots in the Highlands in a single breath. Her heart squeezed each time she heard bagpipes. Instead of ballet, she’d taken Scottish country dance classes as a child and could dance a mean Highland fling before she’d entered kindergarten. Unlike most non-Scots, she even loved haggis.
    And although she didn’t wish to test her theory, she was pretty sure that if someone cut her, she’d bleed tartan.
    She loved Scotland that much.
    Her only problem was that she’d never set foot on Scottish soil.
    And just now—she tried not to glare—a problem of a very different sort was breezing through the door of Ye Olde Pagan Times.
    Dina Greed.
    Margo’s greatest rival in all things Scottish. So petite that Margo secretly thought of her as Minnie Mouse, she was dressed—as nearly always—in a mini tartan skirt and incredibly high-heeled black boots that added a few inches to her diminutive but shapely form. The deeply cut V neckline of her clinging blue