AN ELITE FIGHTING FORCE UNLIKE THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN . . . Scouring the darkest corners of the Highlands and Western Isles, Robert the Bruce handpicks ten warriors to help him in his quest to free Scotland from English rule. They are the best of the best, chosen for their superior skills in each discipline of warfare. And to lead his secret Highland Guard, Bruce chooses the greatest warrior of all.   The ultimate Highland warlord and a swordsman without equal, Tor MacLeod has no intention of being drawn into Scotland’s war against the English. Dedicated to his clan, the fiercely independent chief answers to no one—especially not to his alluring new bride, bartered to him in a bid to secure his command of the deadliest fighting force the world has ever seen. The treacherous chit who made her way to Tor’s bed may have won his hand, but she will never claim his heart. Although her husband’s reputation is as fierce as his manner, Christina Fraser believes that something softer hides beneath his brutal shell. But the only warmth she feels is in their bed, in glorious moments of white-hot desire that disappear with the dawn. When Christina’s reckless bid to win her husband’s love goes awry and thrusts them into danger on the eve of war, Tor will face his ultimate battle: to save his wife and to open his heart—before it’s too late. Monica McCarty is the bestselling author of the Highlander trilogy ( Highlander Untamed, Highlander Unmasked, and Highlander Unchained ). Her interest in the Scottish clan system began in the most unlikely of places: a comparative legal history course at Stanford Law School. After a short but enjoyable stint practicing law, she realized that her legal vocation and her husband’s transitory career as a professional baseball player were not exactly a match made in heaven. So McCarty traded in her legal briefs for Scottish historical romances with sexy alpha heroes. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and their two young children. Chapter One   “The “greatest hero of his race” —I. F. Grant, on Tormod MacLeod   Dunvegan Castle, Isle of Skye, Michaelmas, 1305   He was going to kill him. Slowly.   A sharp hush fell over the hall, like the expectant quiet following a loud crack of thunder, as the clerk finished reading the missive. The score of warriors gathered around the great hall of Dunvegan Castle stood stone still, awaiting his response. In their fierce visages he saw the outrage and shock that he shared but masked beneath a stony façade.   Alone on the dais, Tormod MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, leaned forward in his seat, his gaze piercing the unfortunate man before him. “He did what?” The dead calm of his voice did nothing to dispel the tension.   The clerk startled, emitting what could only be described as a squeak. The missive flew out of his hand and floated through the smoky air to land on the rush-strewn floor. Tor clomped his foot down on the offending scrap of parchment. As he reached down to pick it up, beneath his heel he could just make out the familiar scrawl: Torquil MacLeod, his younger-by-two-minutes twin brother.   Barely had the fires died from the recent attack on the village, and now his brother did this? Slowly, he vowed again, crumpling the missive into a tight ball.   The clerk managed to find his voice, though it shook as he answered Tor’s question. “Y-y-your b-brother states that he cannot ab-b-ide the Nicolson chief’s refusal of his daughter’s hand in marriage and has been forced to take matters into his own hands.” The young churchman paused, wiping the sweat beading from his brow with the back of his hand. “He s-says his love—”   “Enough!” Tor’s fist landed with a resounding thud on the arm of the carved wooden throne, in a rare break of temper. His eyes blared red as rage surged through his veins. “I’ve. Heard. Enough.”   Love. Of all the most asinine justifications for acting like an idiot. He would rather Torquil use the excuse that Margaret Nicolson was a great heiress—which she was—and that he’d carried her off for the betterment of the clan; at least then Tor might attempt to comprehend this egregious lapse in judgment.   With one rash act Torquil was going to start a war, jeopardizing all that Tor had fought to achieve over the past twenty years. Twenty years ago, his clan had been on the brink of destruction—first from the massacre that had claimed the lives of many of his clansmen, including his parents, and then from years of famine. But with hard work and determination he’d brought them back. The clan was once again strong and prosperous. The last thing he wanted was to see it all destroyed by war. An odd position for a man who knew nothing else—who’d made his name and fortune from it—but his clan deserved peace and he intended to give it to them.   The recent spate of attacks was bad enough. Twice in the last year men had come at night to reive cattle, plunder the crops, and burn the fields. It was