In this scene, our intrepid heroine Emmaline Marlowe is
about to wed the laird of the Hepburn clan when her
betrothed's sworn enemy Highlander Jamie Sinclair comes
bursting into the abbey on horseback...

Emma turned back to her bridegroom, squaring her shoulders.
Despite what the onlookers might believe, she had no
intention of weeping or swooning. She had always prided
herself on being made of sterner stuff than that. If she
must marry this earl to secure the future and fortunes of
her family, then marry him she would. And she would strive
to be the best wife and countess his wealth—and title—could buy.

Emma was opening her mouth—fully prepared to promise to
love, cherish and obey her bridegroom, for better or worse,
in sickness and in health, till death did them part—when the
double doors of iron-banded oak at the rear of the abbey
came crashing open, letting in a blast of wintry air and a
dozen armed men.

The abbey erupted in a chorus of startled shrieks and gasps.
The men fanned out among the pews, their unshaven faces grim
with determination, their pistols held at the ready to quell
any sign of resistance.

Instead of fear, Emma felt a ridiculous flare of hope ignite
in her heart.

As the initial outcry subsided, Ian Hepburn boldly stepped
into the center aisle of the abbey, placing himself between
the forbidding mouths of the intruders' weapons and his
great-uncle. "What is the meaning of this?" he shouted, his
clipped tones ringing from the vaulted ceiling. "Have you
savages no respect for the house of the Lord?"

"And which lord would that be?" a man responded in a Scots
burr so deep and rich it sent an involuntary shiver down
Emma's spine. "The one who formed these mountains with His
own hands or the one who believes he was born with the right
to rule them?"

She gasped along with everyone else as the owner of that
voice rode a towering black horse right through the doorway
of the abbey. A shocked murmur went up as the wedding guests
shrank back into their pews, their avid gazes reflecting
equal parts fear and fascination. Oddly enough, Emma's gaze
wasn't transfixed by the magnificent beast with its gleaming
barreled chest and flowing ebony mane but by the man
straddling the steed's imposing back.

Thick sable wings of hair framed his sun-bronzed face,
presenting a startling contrast to the frosty green of his
eyes. Despite the chill of the day, he wore only a green and
black woolen kilt, a pair of lace-up boots, and a sleeveless
vest of beaten brown leather that exposed his broad, smooth
chest to the elements. He handled the beast as if he'd been
born to the saddle, his powerful shoulders and well-muscled
forearms barely showing a strain as he guided the horse
right up the aisle, forcing Ian to stumble backward or be
trampled by the animal's deadly hooves.

From beside her, Emma heard the earl hiss, "Sinclair!"

She turned to find her elderly groom's face suffused with
color and twisted with hatred. Judging by the ripe, purple
vein pulsing in his temple, he might not survive the
wedding, much less the wedding night.

"Forgive me for interrupting such a tender moment," the
intruder said without so much as a trace of remorse as he
reined his mount to a prancing halt halfway down the aisle.
"Surely you didn't think I could resist dropping by to pay
my respects on such a momentous occasion. My invitation must
have been lost in the post."

The earl shook one palsied fist at him. "The only invitation
any Sinclair is likely to receive from me is a writ of
arrest from the magistrate and a date with the hangman."

In reaction to the threat, the man simply arched one bemused
eyebrow. "I had such high hopes that the next time I
darkened the door of this abbey, it would be for your
funeral, not another wedding. But you always have been a
randy auld goat. I should have known you couldn't resist
buying another bride to warm your bed."

For the first time since he'd muscled his way into the
abbey, the stranger's mocking gaze flicked toward her. Even
that brief glance was enough to bring a flush stinging to
Emma's fair cheeks. Especially since his words held the
undeniable and damning ring of truth.

This time it was almost a relief when Ian Hepburn once again
sought to impose himself between them. "You may mock us and
pretend to be avenging your ancestors as you always do," he
said, a sneer curling his upper lip, "but everyone on this
mountain knows that the Sinclairs have never been anything
more than common cutthroats and thieves. If you and your
ruffians have come to divest my uncle's guests of their
jewels and purses, then why don't you bloody well get on
with it and stop wasting your breath and our time?"

With surprising strength, Emma's groom shoved his way past
her, nearly sending her sprawling. "I don't need my nephew
to fight my battles. I'm not afraid of an insolent whelp
like you, Jamie Sinclair," he snarled, marching right past
his nephew with one bony fist still upraised. "Do your worst!"

"Oh, I haven't come for you, auld mon." A lazy smile curved
the intruder's lips as he drew a gleaming black pistol from
the waistband of his kilt and pointed it at the snowy white
bodice of Emma's gown. "I've come for your bride."