Page 1 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

A t the hall of a Scottish chief deep in the western Highlands, a bard entertains those gathered, singing and telling tales while accompanying himself on the harp.

He weaves his tales in praise of his host’s ancestors, with a rare talent that keeps his listeners enthralled from the highest to the lowest. Amid the leaping torches and the flickering candles, there is magic encircling the great chamber this night.

He has told two tales of love lost and love found in far-off times. Surely his audience must have had their fill of his words and his music. But the hall still quivers with expectation. He is a skilled raconteur, and he knows his story full well.

His graceful fingers brush the strings, and a glimmer of bright notes pierces the air.

So beautiful are they, he feels them as pain.

His listeners catch a collective breath, and the great wheel that holds captive his heart makes a half turn.

Blessed be those who hear my tale, he says in his voice like music.

For to them will come the knowledge of the gods.

The third tale he tells begins:

Once long ago when Scotland was still full of magic, there was a princess. A Caledonian princess she was, born of the ancient people who walked this land before even our Celtic ancestors came, and her heart was a great prize. Listen now, while I sing ye a song for a wild woman’s heart.