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Time After Time Series, Book 2
Digital Re-release, 2011
Original paperback, 2003 (Leisure Books)

About the Book

Marjory Macpherson felt rebirth at hand. She'd known fifteen years of winter since her parents' brutal murder at the hands of the rival Cameron clan. But now Ewen-the enemy son she'd been forced to marry-was dead, perished in a rockslide. Marjory rejoiced. She could shed her thorns...at least, until her husband's father returned.

Yet, was her husband dead? When Marjory went to retrieve Ewen's body, she found instead a living breathing man, covered in blood, talking strangely but very much alive.

Though he wore her husband's face and kilt, Marjory recognized salvation. Whether he was a kinder Ewen or another who, as he claimed, had been transplanted from the future, the man she'd found was the key, a strange twist of fate that reseeded Marjory's future. It was finally time for Crannag Mhór to bloom again: a rebirth that brought with it the promise of true love.


“Ms Davis is an author that does not disappoint and keeps the reader hungry for more of her wonderful work.” —A Romance Review, 5 roses

"In this reviewer's opinion, a talent like Dee Davis has neither boundaries nor genre constraints; this lady can captivate the reader with a modern day romantic thriller or a centuries old time travel." —Reader to Reader

"Taking a break from contemporary suspense, Ms. Davis has penned a highly enjoyable time-travel romance. Dee Davis never fails to delight me with her writing." —Old Book Barn Gazette


Scotland, 1460

“Hold your tongue.” Marjory Macpherson shot a look at the door to the solar, expecting the worst. When the shadows remained unchanged, she allowed herself to breathe, but still kept her voice a whisper. “The walls have ears, and well you know it.”

“Allen is far into his cups by now.” Fingal worked to speak softly, but the resulting growl carried easily across the room. Her captain was not a subtle man, preferring confrontation to diplomacy no matter the cost. “He’ll no’ act until his father arrives.”

“Then we canna wait that long.” Marjory crossed her arms with a firmness she didn’t feel, but there was no time for hesitating. Torcal Cameron would arrive before the next moonrise, and she intended to be ready. “You’re certain Ewen’s dead.”

“I saw it with my own eyes.” Fingal’s eyes narrowed at the memory. “There was a rockslide. The entire cliff collapsed. Before I could reach him, he was gone. No one could have survived.”

“Where was Allen?” The two brothers had gone hunting, Fingal accompanying them to make certain that it was game they sought, and naught else.

“He’d gone ahead, around the bend. By the time he got back it was all over.” Fingal tightened his hand on the dirk at his waist. “He blamed me. But there were witnesses, some of his own men. It took some convincing, but eventually he backed down.”

“For now.” Marjory exhaled slowly, her brain still trying to grasp the concept that her husband was dead. “Once his father arrives, there will be more accusations.”

“Then they’ll come to naught. Make no mistake, were it no’ for your grandfather, I would have cheerfully skewered the man long before now, but the rockslide was an accident.”

“How many Camerons are within our walls?” Since the marriage, despite her protest, Torcal had insisted upon leaving a force of his men at Crannag Mhór. Most times they numbered less than her own clan, but with the recent return of Ewen there were more.

“No more than fifty.” Fingal scratched his chin in thought. “But Torcal will bring more. And even were we to be matched in number, there’s the question of age. Torcal’s kin are young and well trained.”

“Aye,” Marjory nodded, “But Macpherson men are wily.”

Fingal allowed himself a smile, the gesture only making his warrior’s countenance appear more fierce. Fingal Macgillivray had fought for Chattan alongside her father, and then followed him deep into the mountains helping to build Crannag Mhór.

And he had stayed to rebuild it after Torcal Cameron had destroyed her family. Hate curled in her belly, white hot, twisting her gut into a still tighter knot. There was a part of her that relished the fact that Ewen was dead. An eye for an eye.

But even as she rejoiced, she was filled with fear. Crannag Mhór was her home. Its inhabitants her people. She was responsible for their well-being, and that meant protecting them from the likes of Torcal Cameron. Her grandfather, head of Clan Chattan, would eventually sort out the situation. There would be meetings between the Camerons and Macphersons. The outcome carefully orchestrated to maintain peace. But Torcal Cameron wouldn’t wait, preferring justice with a claymore, his hatred burning as brightly as her own.

Long before her grandfather ever learned of the day’s events, Torcal would exact his revenge. And truth be told, she wasn’t at all sure that she could stop him. Tears filled her eyes, and she angrily pushed them away, lifting her chin to meet Fingal’s somber gaze. “I will protect Crannag Mhór. And if that means groveling before the likes of Torcal Cameron, then so be it.”

“You can grovel before me.” Allen Cameron stood in the doorway to the solar, a tankard in his hand, a licentious smirk on his face. “Now that Ewen is dead, perhaps you’d prefer a real man in your bed.”

Marjory took an involuntary step backward, Allen moving forward with a grace that belied his bulk. She forced herself to stop, to hold her ground. She’d not bend to the will of a Cameron. “Your brother is dead, Allen.” She made no effort to contain her scorn. “And here you are already claiming what was his. Have you no honor?” It was a rhetorical question, but she didn’t bother curbing her tongue.

Allen clenched his fist, heated red staining the parts of his face not covered with his beard.

Fingal drew his dirk, the deadly blade shining in the sunlight. “You’ve no business here, Cameron.”

“And you do?” His eyes narrowed, and he, too, drew the knife at his waist. “Are ye bedding the wench then? I’d have no’ thought it possible.” His lips curled into a sneer, and Fingal took a menacing step forward.

“This isn’t the time.” Marjory’s voice cut through the tension in the room. “We need to find Ewen’s body and bring it here. As much as I loathed your brother, I’d not leave him to the predators of the mountain.” Actually were it not for Torcal, that’s exactly what she’d do, but there was no sense in adding fuel to an already raging fire.

Fingal’s stance relaxed. “The lass is right. And we’ve only a few hours left before nightfall.”

Allen eyed them both, as if doubting their sincerity, and then apparently satisfied with what he saw, he sheathed his weapon. “I’ll gather my men.”

Marjory nodded once, and watched him turn to leave with something akin to giddy relief. There was so much at stake, so much to lose. It was like walking across a vast chasm on nothing more than a fine linen thread.

“Well played.” Fingal’s words were high praise, but Marjory took no comfort. Ewen’s death had upset a delicate balance, one she wasn’t entirely certain could be repaired. Had she the forces, she’d see to it that Ewen Cameron wasn’t the only member of his clan to die this day.

But she hadn’t that luxury.

Torcal was coming, and even without blame, there would be hell to pay. Ewen had been his father’s cherished son, the pride of his existence, and Marjory had no illusion as to his reaction. He’d want blood. Hers and the rest of her kin.

A Cameron had died this day, and in so doing, had unleashed the wrath of her enemies.

But Torcal Cameron would be wise to consider that her hatred was as strong as his own. And as long as she had breath, she would not surrender Crannag Mhór.

Aye, today an enemy had fallen. An enemy -- and a husband. The carefully woven strands of her grandfather’s whimsy unraveled with a single fall of rock.

Excerpt from WILD HIGHLAND ROSE by Dee Davis, Copyright ©2003 by Dee Davis. All rights reserved. Reprint only with permission from author. Please contact .

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