Thunder on the Moor
Thunder on the Moor - Book 1
Andrea Matthews
Publication Date: 30th October 2019
Publisher: Inez M. Foster
Page Length: 430 Pages
Genre: Historical Romance / Time-Travel
Blurb
Maggie Armstrong grew up enchanted by her father’s tales of blood feuds and border raids. In fact, she could have easily fallen for the man portrayed in one particular image in his portrait collection. Yet when her father reveals he was himself an infamous Border reiver, she finds it a bit far-fetched—to say the least—especially when he announces his plans to return to his sixteenth century Scottish home with her in tow.
Suspecting it’s just his way of getting her to accompany him on yet another archaeological dig, Maggie agrees to the expedition, only to find herself transported four hundred and fifty years into the past. Though a bit disoriented at first, she discovers her father’s world to be every bit as exciting as his stories, particularly when she’s introduced to Ian Rutherford, the charming son of a neighboring laird. However, when her uncle announces her betrothal to Ian, Maggie’s twentieth-century sensibilities are outraged. She hardly even knows the man. But a refusal of his affections could ignite a blood feud.
Maggie’s worlds are colliding. Though she’s found the family she always wanted, the sixteenth century is a dangerous place. Betrayal, treachery, and a tragic murder have her questioning whether she should remain or try to make her way back to her own time.
To make matters worse, tensions escalate when she stumbles across Bonnie Will Foster, the dashing young man in her father’s portrait collection, only to learn he is a dreaded Englishman. But could he be the hero she’s always dreamed him to be? Or will his need for revenge against Ian shatter more than her heart?
Excerpt – Thunder on the Moor
They’d just crossed the Border when they stopped to water their horses. Maggie flopped down on the bank of a small burn and gave a weary yawn, but Alasdair stood erect, his eyes searching the fading darkness for any unusual movement. He may have only been sixteen years of age, but his demeanor made it clear he was already well aware of the dangers lurking beyond his own walls and had acquired a skill far beyond his years. With a sudden start, he grabbed Maggie’s arm, yanking her up sharply.
“We have to go . . . now!” But it was too late. Three slovenly looking men were upon them, their clothes torn and their long hair dirty and disheveled. “Broken men!” Alasdair whispered.
They were outlaws, men who no clan claimed as their own. Vicious men who gave allegiance to no one. Alasdair looked from one to the other, his sword held ready.
“Stand firm, Maggie, and close behind me.”
As if she might develop an urge to do anything else.
“Well, what have we here, laddie?” One of the men brushed the tip of his pike along Alasdair’s cheek.
“Two fine specimens of Scottish youth, I’d say.” The second man snickered, his voice cold and sinister as he came up beside Maggie. “And look, he’s set himself to protect his mistress.”
“Let’s see how fine a treasure he guards, eh.” The third one grabbed Maggie and pulled her to himself, causing all three creatures to cackle with laughter.
“No!” Maggie screamed, forgetting everything her cousin had told her. A prisoner of her twentieth-century instincts, she lifted her knee and slammed the scoundrel in the groin, causing the stunned man to double over in pain.
“Run, Maggie!” Alasdair yelled, his hand around her arm, tugging her from the outlaw’s grasp.
For once, Maggie did just as she was told, sprinting away from the men. Her cousin followed close behind after slicing one of the villains across the face with his sword. She could hear his breath in the crisp night air, feel the gentle nudge of his hand against her shoulder. Then, all at once, he was gone.
She stopped, frozen in her tracks, listening for any sign of their pursuers. But it all sounded so strange. No fire engines or car horns broke the silence, just the sound of nature . . . predawn’s nature.
“Alasdair!” she whispered so low even the hushed tones of the breeze could be heard above her, but no answer came. What would she do? She dared not call out any louder for fear of her cries alerting the outlaws to her whereabouts. And she was no match for such men. Still, she needed to remain calm. It would do neither herself nor Alasdair any good if she panicked. Perhaps if she could make her way to the village. Someone there would be able to help her. Of course, that would mean she’d have to move.
Taking a deep breath, she inched her way forward, walking deeper into the forest, its moonlit path giving way to the blue-gray light of the approaching day. More than once, her heart nearly stopped when a twig snapped beneath her foot or a small creature scurried across the path. Breathless, her knees quivering beneath her linen petticoats, she closed her eyes and rested against the trunk of a large oak. The mist had grown heavy, and she could barely see what lay ahead, but she knew she had to move on, for she was determined to get help for her cousin.
It was all her fault, after all. If she hadn’t been so insistent on seeing Dylan, Alasdair would be safe at home, but now . . . She could hear harsh voices whispering off in the distance. What if they’d captured him? They would kill him for sure, just for the sport of it.
Picking up her step, she continued down the moon-drenched path. Misty clouds danced before her, and their shadowy movements confused her senses, making it all the harder to stay on the narrow trail. Something wet crawled up her leg, but she held her breath to keep from screaming, for off in the distance she spied a shadow moving far too quickly to be the fog.
Knowing they might confront her again at any moment, she bent to pick up a stone, her hand trembling with such force she failed twice before securing a rather large one.
“If ye ever be attacked, aim for the temple,” her father had instructed her. The memory of his steady voice calmed her enough to quell the nauseous ache in her stomach. She stood, lifting her chin in defiance. With her breath as still as a sleeping babe’s, she reached for a low-lying branch, hoping to get a better view. At least, she thought it was a branch until it grabbed her wrist and yanked her to the ground. A scream burst from her lips, and a strong hand covered her mouth, almost smothering her in the process. Squinting in the glow of a small, shuttered lantern, she made out a slender face. Behind him, sprawled unconscious on the soft moss-covered ground, lay Alasdair.
Maggie’s eyes filled with fury as the man pressed his knee into her shoulder.
“Be still, lass, elst I’ll break it in two,” he hissed. “I dinna wish to hurt ye, but I will if need be. I’m going to take me hand away now, aye.”
Though against her better judgment, Maggie did what she was told, her cousin’s words echoing deep within her consciousness. In truth, there remained little else she could do, given her current position. And at least this one didn’t reek of whisky, wet dogs, and urine.
He turned his head to peer through the bushes, the faint light illuminating his features, and she bit her lip to keep from gasping. It was him: the young man in her father’s painting, the one she’d seen on the side of the road the day they’d arrived—the Foster lad.
Alasdair groaned, and Foster turned back, holding his sword to her cousin’s throat.
“Leave him alone, you thug.” Maggie couldn’t help herself. The words just seemed to pop out of her mouth.
The young man smiled, the lantern light reflecting off those beautiful slate-blue eyes. “I told ye once, lass. I’m no’ of a mind to hurt ye, being ye do as I say. Now haud yer wheesht, would ye, elst ye’ll have the lot of them down on us.”
Maggie breathed a bit easier. Clearly, Mr. Foster, if indeed that was his name, didn’t belong to the band of broken men they’d just run into. And he didn’t seem inclined to rape her, though she still wasn’t sure about his intentions concerning her cousin.
Alasdair stirred once more, but this time he opened his eyes. Spying the fair-haired young man who knelt over him, he gave a sudden start.
“Calm yerself, Alasdair Armstrong,” Foster said. “I’ve nae intention of harming ye or yer lady, so long as ye speak true of yer reason for being here.”
Maggie didn’t think it an unreasonable request, but much to her surprise, Alasdair spit in the young man’s face. Though the Englishman’s hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, he managed to retain his composure.
“But for the lass, I’d run ye through here and now, Alasdair. Ye’re on Foster land, and I’d every right to do so.”
“Foster land!” Maggie gasped, unable to conceal her excitement.
“Aye, and what of it, lass?”
The words had no sooner left his lips, than his body stiffened. His eyes grew wide, and his breath came in quick, shallow bursts.
At first, Maggie thought he’d taken a seizure of some sort, but when an obscure figure loomed above him, its identity lost in the shifting mist, she knew the young man’s reaction could mean only one thing. They’d been discovered.
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