Temptations

By Glynnis Campbell

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From USA Today bestselling author Glynnis Campbell...

TEMPTATIONS
A Historical Romance Sampler
(TEMPTATIONS is a collection of excerpts especially assembled for you, so you can try before you buy.)

Irresistible romance and adventure await. Which will you choose?

TEMPTATIONS offers you a sample platter of delights from each of Glynnis Campbell's stories, mouthwatering tidbits to whet your appetite for more.

Visit Viking-plundered shores and the wilds of the American west, towering Scottish castles and ships on the high seas... Ride with knights in shining armor and maids wielding blades... Gamble with gunslingers in frontier saloons... Match wits with pirate crews and bands of medieval outlaws... Tag along on breathtaking escapades with Pictish royals, Tudor spies, Native American renegades, and Highland lairds.

Who will lay claim to your heart? Will you be charmed by a kilted champion or captivated by an armored foe? Swept away by a dangerous devil or bewitched by a brilliant hero?

The choice is yours...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glynnis Campbell
• Release date: Apr 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781634800631

Glynnis Campbell

To keep in touch—and to receive a free book!—sign up for Glynnis's newsletter at glynnis.net.Glynnis Campbell is a USA Today bestselling author of over two dozen swashbuckling action-adventure historical romances, mostly set in Scotland, and a charter member of The Jewels of Historical Romance—12 internationally beloved authors. She’s the wife of a rock star, and the mother of two young adults, but she’s also been a ballerina, a typographer, a film composer, a piano player, a singer in an all-girl rock band, and a voice in those violent video games you won’t let your kids play. Doing her best writing on cruise ships, in Scottish castles, on her husband’s tour bus, and at home in her sunny southern California garden, she loves to play medieval matchmaker, transporting readers to a place where the bold heroes have endearing flaws, the women are stronger than they look, the land is lush and untamed, and chivalry is alive and well!

Book preview

Glynnis Campbell’s

Temptations

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Irresistible romance and adventure await.

Which will you choose?

TEMPTATIONS offers you a sample platter of delights from each of my stories, mouthwatering tidbits to whet your appetite for more.

Visit Viking-plundered shores and the wilds of the American west, towering Scottish castles and ships on the high seas… Ride with knights in shining armor and maids wielding blades… Gamble with gunslingers in frontier saloons… Match wits with pirate crews and bands of medieval outlaws… Tag along on breathtaking escapades with Pictish royals, Tudor spies, Native American renegades, and Highland lairds.

Who will lay claim to your heart? Will you be charmed by a kilted champion or captivated by an armored foe? Swept away by a dangerous devil or bewitched by a brilliant hero?

The choice is yours...

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The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

The Shipwreck (novella)

A Yuletide Kiss (short story)

Lady Danger

Captive Heart

Knight’s Prize

The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch

The Storming (novella)

A Rivenloch Christmas (short story)

Bride of Fire

Bride of Ice

Bride of Mist

The Warrior Lairds of Rivenloch

Laird of Steel

Laird of Flint

Laird of Smoke

The Knights of de Ware

The Handfasting (novella)

My Champion

My Warrior

My Hero

Medieval Outlaws

The Reiver (novella)

Danger’s Kiss

Passion’s Exile

Desire’s Ransom

Scottish Lasses

The Outcast (novella)

MacFarland’s Lass

MacAdam’s Lass

MacKenzie’s Lass

California Legends

The Stowaway (novella)

Native Gold

Native Wolf

Native Hawk

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

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Damsels in shining armor…riding to the rescue!

Deirdre, Helena, and Miriel, three kick-arse Scots wenches known as The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, aren’t about to become any man’s chattel, until they meet heroes who are strong enough to tame their wild ways and worthy enough to win their wayward hearts.

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Sneak Peek at…

THE SHIPWRECK

The Prequel Novella to

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

Shipwreck350

THE NINTH CENTURY

EASTERN COAST OF PICTLAND

The Viking was staring at her again with his penetrating eyes. Avril didn’t think she’d ever seen eyes so blue—as blue as a summer sky, nay, a robin’s egg. Rattled, she turned aside to add another log to the fire.

I think your arm is broken, she mumbled. Why she’d told him that, she didn’t know. After all, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t about to fix it for him.

It’s a wonder my head isn’t broken, he said with a humorless smirk.

She blushed at the reminder of her unchivalrous blow and picked up the poker again, eager to change the subject. How is it you know my language?

I learned it from a Pict slave.

She clenched her teeth. A slave? She jabbed at the glowing coals, but refused to rise to the bait. Maybe she should turn HIM into a slave.

As if he’d read her mind, he asked, What do you intend to do with me?

She’d been asking herself that same question all morning. For the moment, she’d hold him hostage. If any of his men turned up alive, she might be able to bargain for her safety with his life. But she wasn’t sure there were survivors. Even if there were, there was no telling whether he was of any value to them. The Northmen didn’t seem to have the same regard for life as her people did.

I haven’t decided yet, she said.

If you’re going to kill me, he growled, get it over with.

She frowned. Kill him? In cold blood? Obviously, he knew nothing about chivalry. She straightened with pride, planting the poker between her feet like a blade.

I can’t do that. Unlike you, my sense of honor prevents me from slaying unarmed men.

He lifted a brow in mockery. Give me a blade then, he suggested.

Avril gave him a sardonic smirk. She wasn’t so foolhardy as to think she could easily triumph over a gargantuan Northman. But she didn’t appreciate his insulting attitude. I may be honorable, but I’m not soft in the head.

He half-smiled. You look soft to me.

Her composure slipped, but only for an instant. I assure you, you wouldn’t be the first man I sent limping from the field of battle.

His eyes narrowed suggestively. And you wouldn’t be the first woman I laid out flat on her back.

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A YULETIDE KISS

The Prequel Novella to

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

YuletideKiss350

PICTLAND

9th CENTURY

The way the harlot had burst in, as if chased by demons, made Brude think his brothers had forced the woman to do their bidding. And that he couldn’t allow.

Then, when she turned and he saw her delicate features—her fair and beautiful face, framed by the soft gray of her hood, her wide and innocent blue eyes, her tender pink lips—he knew this had been a mistake.

Now that she’d laid eyes on him, she would surely run in horror from the room.

But she didn’t.

In fact, after she’d given him a cursory glance from head to toe, as if she were sizing him up for a coat of chainmail, she gave him a fearless nod of approval.

For an instant he was stunned.

Then a loud banging against the door made her curse in surprise.

He clapped a hand to the hilt of his sword.

But before he could draw steel, the lass threw herself at him.

She was stronger than she looked. His shoulder blades hit the wall with a thud as she knocked him backward, clinging to his hauberk. He raised his hands defensively, not wishing to do her harm.

When another pounding broke the latch on the door, he expected his brothers to come charging in.

His first instinct was to protect the woman.

But he was prevented when she seized the back of his neck and pulled his head down to hers, pressing her lips against him in a forceful and demanding kiss.

At first, he was too shocked to move. Her mouth felt soft and foreign, inviting and compelling. For an instant, nothing else seemed to matter.

But the commotion of the intruders crowding into the doorway finally won his attention. As he pulled away and peered over her hood, he saw several blond giants mixed in with his brothers. Vikings. Perhaps they wanted the beauty for themselves.

He glanced down at her hooded face, which she was keeping carefully concealed from the others.

She looked up at him with beseeching blue eyes, wordlessly begging him not to give her to them.

At that moment, his brother Taran growled at the Vikings, How dare you interrupt a man at his bed sport.

Bed sport? Bed sport! one of the Vikings exclaimed. That is no harlot!

Galan argued, Indeed? Well, she took our coin readily enough!

The lovely blue-eyed maid suddenly hissed a whisper at Brude, Kiss me!

A second blond warrior crossed his arms over his chest. If she’s a harlot, I’ll eat my helm.

If she isn’t a harlot, Galan said, standing nose-to-nose with the Viking, I’ll eat your helm, and I’ll take my coin back.

The lass in his arms skewered Brude with a poisonous glare and bit out words in a harsh whisper. Kiss. Me.

She wasn’t the first woman to look at him with such viciousness. He was used to hateful leers. The few women who weren’t terrified of him despised him.

What he wasn’t prepared for was the sharp point of the woman’s dagger pressing against his ballocks.

Needing no more convincing, he lowered his head and gave her what she demanded. She withdrew the dagger.

Somewhere, distantly, as he reveled in the sensual pleasure of her kiss, he heard the Vikings deciding they’d made a mistake, that she couldn’t possibly be the woman they sought after all.

But Brude scarcely noticed when they closed the door. Nothing could distract him from the intriguing sensation of the woman’s yielding mouth, the fresh fragrance of her skin, the warm caress of her gentle breath on his face.

Kimbery meant to end the kiss as soon as she heard the door close.

She just never heard it close.

Instead, a hot and sultry wind rushed through her ears, swirling around her head, blocking out all other sound, blowing through her soul with devastating force.

The kiss went on and on—gentle, searching, sweet. The warmth of his flesh thawed her winter-chilled face. The masculine rasp of his beard against her skin excited her. The unexpected suppleness of his lips made her ache with tenderness. It felt like she’d waited all her life for this.

Her head spun.

Her breath quickened.

Her heart melted.

Then the dagger dropped from her limp fingers and hit the floor.

The sound split them apart faster than an axe.

She staggered back, blinking as if awakening from a dream.

The man looked just as astounded. There were still stern creases in his forehead, but the dark fire in his eyes had softened to smoldering coals. His jaw, unyielding before, was now relaxed, and his mouth—his delicious, warm, supple mouth—was open in wonder.

Flustered, she averted her gaze.

He bent down slowly, intending to retrieve her dagger.

Panicked that he might confiscate it, she dove for the weapon and rose, brandishing it before her.

Backed against the wall, he had nowhere to go.

She licked her lips. Now what was she going to do?

For a long while they only stared at each other. Finally, he narrowed his gaze at her, drilling into her with his night-black eyes.

You’re not a harlot, are you? he asked.

She stared back at him, working out the best reply.

If she said nay, he’d call the Vikings back and turn her over to them.

If she said aye, he might be more willing to assist in her escape. Of course, saying aye also came with the risk of certain entitlements he might expect.

On the other hand, how much could he do while she held a dagger on him?

Aye, of course I am, she said, challenging him with a lift of her chin.

You’re here of your own free will?

Aye.

And you were paid?

That’s right, she said. At least, she thought that was right. That was how it was usually done, she assumed. A harlot would be paid before she… Kimbery gulped.

Then why are you holding a dagger on me? he asked.

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LADY DANGER

The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch

Book 1

LadyDanger350

THE BORDERS, SCOTLAND

SUMMER 1136

"So. Where is the third wench?" Sir Pagan murmured casually, feeling far from casual as he and Colin du Lac hunkered behind the concealing cloud of heather, spying upon the two splendid maids bathing in the pond below.

Colin almost strangled on his incredulity. God’s breath, you greedy sot, he hissed. Isn’t it enough you have your choice of the pair of beauties yonder? Most men would give their sword arm to—

Both men froze as the blonde woman, gloriously drenched in sunlight, sluiced water up over a creamy shoulder, rising above the waves enough to bare a pair of perfect breasts.

The blood drained from Pagan’s face and rushed to his loins, making them ache fiercely. Lord, he should have swived that lusty harlot in the last town before he came to negotiate such matters. This was as foolish as shopping for provender with a full purse and an empty gut.

But somehow he managed an indifferent grunt, despite the overwhelming desire disrupting his thoughts and transfiguring his body. A man never purchases a blade, Colin, he said hoarsely, without inspecting all the swords in the shop.

"True, but a man never runs his thumb along the edge of a sword presented him by the King."

Colin had a point. Who was Sir Pagan Cameliard to question a gift from King David? Besides, it wasn’t a weapon he chose. It was only a wife. Pah. He swatted an irritating sprig of heather out of his face. One woman is much the same as another, I suppose, he grumbled. ’Tis no matter which of them I claim.

Colin snorted in derision. "So say you now, he whispered, fixing a lustful gaze upon the bathers, now that you’ve laid eyes on the bountiful selection. A low whistle shivered from between his lips as the more buxom of the two maids dove beneath the glittering waves, giving them a glimpse of bare, sleek, enticing buttocks. Lucky bastard."

Pagan did consider himself lucky.

When King David first offered him a Scots holding and a wife to go with it, he’d half expected to find a crumbling keep with a withered old crone in the tower. One glance at the imposing walls of Rivenloch eased his fears on the first count. And to his astonishment, the prospective brides before him, delectable pastries the King had placed upon his platter, were truly the most appetizing he’d seen in a long while, perhaps ever. His stirring loins offered proof of that.

Still, the idea of marriage unnerved Pagan like a cat rubbed tail to whiskers.

God’s eyes, I can’t decide which I’d rather swive, Colin mused, that beauty with the sun-bleached locks or the curvy one with the wild tresses and enormous… He released a shuddering sigh.

Neither, Pagan muttered.

Both, Colin decided.

Deirdre of Rivenloch tossed her long blonde hair over one shoulder. She could feel the intruders’ eyes upon her, had felt them for some time.

It wasn’t that she cared if she was caught at her bath. The sisters suffered from neither modesty nor shame. How could one be ashamed or proud of having what every woman possessed? If a stray lad happened to look upon them with misplaced lust, it was no more than folly on his part.

Deirdre ran her fingers through her wet tresses and cast another surreptitious glance up the hill, toward the thick heather and drooping willows. The eyes trained upon her now were likely just that, belonging to a couple of curious youths who’d never seen a naked maid before. But she didn’t dare mention their presence to Helena, for her impetuous sister would likely draw her sword first and ask their business afterward. Nay, Deirdre would deal with their mischief later herself.

For now she had a grave matter to discuss with Helena. And not much time.

You delayed Miriel? she asked, running a palm full of sheep tallow soap along her forearm.

"I hid her sais, Helena confided, and then told her I’d seen the stable lad skulking about her chamber earlier."

Deirdre nodded. That would keep their youngest sister busy for a while. Miriel allowed no one to touch her precious weapons from the Orient.

Listen, Deir, Helena warned, I won’t let Miriel sacrifice herself. I don’t care what Father says. She’s too young to wed. Too young and too… She sighed in exasperation.

I know.

What they both left unspoken was the fact that their youngest sister wasn’t forged of the same metal they were. Deirdre and Helena were their father’s daughters. His Viking blood pumped through their hearts. Tall and strong, they possessed wills of iron and skills to match. Known throughout the Borders as the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, they’d taken to the sword like a babe to the breast. Their father had raised them to be fighters, to fear no man.

Miriel, however, to the lord’s dismay, had proved as delicate and docile as their long departed mother. Whatever warrior spirit might have been nurtured in her had been quelled by Lady Edwina, who’d begged that Miriel be spared what she termed the perversion of the other two sisters.

After their mother died, Miriel had tried to please their father in her own way, amassing an impressive collection of exotic weapons from traveling merchants, but she’d developed neither the desire nor the strength to wield them. She’d become, in short, the meek, mild, obedient daughter their mother desired. And so Deirdre and Helena had protected Miriel all her life from her own helplessness and their father’s disappointment in her.

Now it was up to them to save her from an undesirable marriage.

Deirdre passed her sister the lump of soap. Trust me, I have no intention of leading the lamb to slaughter.

The spark of battle flared in Helena’s eyes. We’ll challenge this Norman bridegroom then?

Deirdre frowned. She knew that not every conflict was best resolved on the battlefield, even if her sister did not. She shook her head.

Helena cursed under her breath and gave the water a disappointed slap. Why not?

To defy the Norman is to defy the King.

Hel arched a brow in challenge. And?

Deirdre’s frown deepened. One day Helena’s audaciousness would be her undoing. "’Tis treason, Hel."

Helena puffed out an irritated breath and scrubbed at her arm. "’Tis hardly treason when we’ve been betrayed by our own King. This meddler is a Norman, Deirdre…a Norman. She sneered the word as if it were a disease. Pah! I’ve heard they’re so soft they can’t grow a proper beard. And some say they bathe even their hounds in lavender." She shuddered with distaste.

Deirdre had to agree with her sister’s frustration, if not her claims. Indeed, she’d been just as outraged upon learning that King David had handed over Rivenloch’s stewardship, not to a Scot, but to one of his Norman allies. Aye, the man was reported to be a fierce warrior, but certainly he knew nothing about Scotland.

What complicated matters was that their father had launched no protest. But then the Lord of Rivenloch hadn’t been right in his mind for months now. Deirdre frequently found him conversing with the air, addressing their dead mother, and he was ever losing his way in the keep. He seemed to live in some idyllic time in the past, where his rule was unquestioned