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Monday, June 6, 2022

Blog Tour- BEWITCHING A HIGHLANDER by @CordonRoma With An Excerpt & #Giveaway! @CamCatBooks, & @RockstarBkTours 

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the BEWITCHING A HIGHLANDER by Roma Cordon Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About the Book:

Title: BEWITCHING A HIGHLANDER (A Scottish Highland Warriors Novel #1)

Author: Roma Cordon

Pub. Date: June 7, 2022

Publisher: CamCat Books

Formats: Hardcover, Paperback, eBook

Pages: 368

Find it: GoodreadsAmazon, Kindle, B&N, iBooks, Kobo, TBD, Bookshop.com

Defying all for the love of a bewitching lass.

Breena MacRae, a healer from Skye with a touch of witchery in her blood, embarks on a dangerous search for her missing father. She arrives on the Isle of Coll, seat of the vile Campbells. There, she encounters the debonair future chief to the Dunbar Clan, Egan, who rescues her from a Campbell sentry.

Egan Dunbar is on Coll to keep the peace between the feuding Campbells and Dunbars. But when he catches Breena in a lie, he agrees to help her find her father to pay back an old debt and get to the bottom of the secrets she's hiding.

As their attraction for each ignites like a firestorm, Breena and Egan realize a future together could trigger deadly consequences—a clan war between the Campbells and the Dunbars. Is Egan willing to betray his clan for love, even though he knows Breena is keeping secrets from him? Can Breena trust him with her family secret and put those she loves at risk? 




“You have witchcraft in your lips. . .”

William Shakespeare, Henry V.

October 28, 1747—Isle of Coll, Scotland

Breena MacRae’s heart beat out of tune from the cacophony of their wagon’s rattling. Sixteen horse hooves trampled the knurled road, pulling them southwest toward the  Campbells’ keep, a clan she blamed for most of her childhood miseries.  Three weeks ago, she’d awoken from nineteen years of delusions, yet  it was no less painful living the truth. Her parents had neither died in  some horrific accident nor left because of her. Breena was after all the  most deplorable witch the MacRaes and Maxwells ever had the lamentable fortune to beget.  

Uncle Craig leaned over and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. The  clumsy yet affectionate gesture grounded her. It rid her of her punishing  thoughts. 

“We aught to go over the plan again.”  

She would always be obliged to him and Aunt Madeline. They’d  been her guardians since she was six, although many times since then,  despite the fact that she loved them both with all her heart, they’d made  her want to either scream or blaspheme.  

Sometimes both. 

His familiar features reminded her of her mother’s, his little sister. “All right, but understanding the need to lie doesn’t make it any less  difficult,” she said.  

“Difficult it may be, but it will keep us alive.” 

She huffed. He was too cautious. Or was she not cautious enough? Breena blinked up as the afternoon sun reconsidered slipping pass  horizontal puffs of clouds. 

Mayhap she herself should reconsider her decision to come here. No. Even if there was a remote possibility her father was alive, she  had to attempt to find him. She had to free him. Her heart ached for all he  must have endured. She’d believed him dead for the past nineteen years,  until three weeks ago, when lovable yet scatterbrained Aunt Madeline  had let slip the truth. After suffering from dysentery and a bout of guilt,  her aunt had blurted out that Ian might still be alive. Had Aunt Made line known she wasn’t at death’s door, she might have been more steadfast in her secrecy. Craig and Madeline had insisted her parents wanted  the truth kept from her all this time. The secrecy and deception might  have been the stimulant for her childhood misery, but it hadn’t been the  cause. Nonetheless, it had resulted in long, wasted years.  Her dream from the previous night replayed in her mind. Beloved  Grandmother Sorcha, their majestic matriarch, had told her Ian had  something to reveal. If Breena believed dreams were a sign of things to  come, then it was a sign her father was indeed alive. But she didn’t know  if she believed in dreams. After all, she lacked the gift of second sight. The revered Sorcha on the other hand wielded her own gift of sight like a true  proficient, when she was alive. 

A chilled hollowness speared her innards, causing a shiver to run up  her spine. It had been her tormentor since she was six. Often she paused  and wondered what had slipped her mind, what she had forgotten—perhaps she’d missed something. Then it would hit her. She hadn’t missed  anything, hadn’t forgotten anything, nothing had slipped her mind. It was  only that her parents had vanished, without a word, leaving an acute aching void. She pulled her woolen arisaid tighter around her shoulders and  prayed not only that their scheme would work on the Campbells but that  she could rid herself of this ache in the pit of her belly, once and for all. 

She gazed out the wagon as the panoply that was the Isle of Coll  rolled by. The crisp October breeze swept her cheeks as she eyed the  chestnut-feathered corncrakes scavenging the beachgrass-infested sand  dunes. Nature’s russets, umbers, and olives, always vibrant at home on  the Isle of Skye, were starved for luster here on Coll.  

A lone angler in the distance slumped his shoulders in a small skiff,  then gazed up at the sky as if beseeching heavenly bodies for a boon be fore casting a net onto the surface of the ocean. The earthiness of the  damp ground below mingling with the briny sea air and the pungency  of kelps filled her nostrils as she inhaled a cleansing breath. She was well  acquainted with the pain of unanswered pleas. Well, mayhap the tide was  changing for them both. 

When she caught the incessant tapping of her fingers on the side of  the wagon, she pulled her hand back into her lap.  

“I’ll wager they don’t even remember the name Beth MacRae after nineteen years.” Breena fought against the agonizing emotions that  flooded her every time she said her mother’s name. 

Craig’s brown eyes looked back at her from beneath shaggy brows,  the slight impatience that twitched his cheek muscles highlighting his wrinkles. “That’s a wager I’ll not be taking, for the price of losing is finding our necks at the wrong end of a noose.” 

George, her uncle’s worker, flipped the reins up ahead with a sharp,  practiced snap. A throaty intake of breath escaped his mouth. “Holy  Saints. It looks haunted.” 

Breena’s head snapped up to follow his gaze. The back of her neck  prickled. Castle Carragh loomed grim on the horizon. George was as  strong as a feral goat but simpleminded. 

“There are no such things as ghosts, she said.” But from her sudden  inability to swallow, she wasn’t sure she believed her own attempt to as suage his fears.  

If the builders of this castle had meant to strike terror into its visitors, they’d carried out their goal to perfection. The shadows cast by Carragh against the backdrop of the setting sun stretched out toward them  like crooked talons, warning them to keep away.  

She ignored the warning and said a silent plea that they were not too  late, that her father was still alive. 

As they approached the castle’s outer gates, Breena made out two  menacing sentries dressed in threadbare tartan trews of blue and green,  the colors of the Campbell clan. They were each outfitted with a sword,  mace, and a flintlock rifle; were they preparing for war? George pulled  their wagon up closer to the gate, reined in the horses, and lowered his  head, awaiting instructions. It always caused Breena such disquiet to  see such a large man lower his head like that. She had known George  for close to a decade, since he’d come to work for Craig, and despite his  broad, hulking body he was the gentlest person Breena had ever met.  

When one of the sentries at the gate brandished his sword, Breena’s dry gulp refused to be suppressed. His flared nostrils and squinting  eyes made his pugnacious expression more acute. Did he wish to intimidate them? If so, he’d gotten his wish. The other sentry snarled, exposing crooked incisors, as he scratched his crotch. Breena eased the tension  in her face into what she hoped was a pleasant smile, even as her fingers curled against her damp palms. The squinty-eyed sentry scowled.  “What’s your business here?”  

“I’m Craig Maxwell. I’m a healer and spice merchant. May we be of  service to your clan?”  

Neither Squinty Eyes nor Crooked Incisors was impressed by her  uncle’s request. Squinty Eyes spat on the ground, his scowl deepening.  He sauntered to the back of their wagon and started sifting through their  supplies.  

All of a sudden he lifted his sword high in the air and brought it  down in an echoing crash on the lock of a trunk. Breena gasped out loud  in surprise.  

Craig jumped down from the wagon and stumbled toward Squinty  Eyes. “I’ll show you whatever you wish, but there’s no cause to break our  trunks.”  

Squinty Eyes raised his hand, still gripping the sword and slammed  the hilt down, with a dull thud, into Craig’s jaw. Breena’s body froze with  horror. Her uncle teetered backward and fell to the ground, landing on  his rump.  


Dread rose up her gullet as she jumped down from the wagon, almost buckling at the knees, landing with more force than anticipated.  She ignored the approaching thunder of hooves and rushed toward  Craig. She couldn’t lose him too. She just couldn’t. She took hold of  Craig’s arms and helped him from the ground. 

“Are you hurt?”  

Her uncle’s mouth was open, his gaze flat. She took some of his  weight as he leaned against her. He was in shock. There was blood at the  side of his mouth, at the end of an ugly cut, where he’d been struck. A sharp pang of fear speared her midriff as she reached into her pocket for  a clean square of linen and, with a gentle touch, dabbed the blood away.  Her uncle’s worker approached them with hesitant steps.  Breena sent him a cursory glance, noting the fear in his bulging eyes  when he saw Squinty Eyes. 

“George, why don’t you remain with the horses?” Breena said. His head bobbed. “Yes, mistress.” 

George understood horses, but he had difficulty with people. She returned her attention to Craig. She took hold of her uncle’s  chin, avoiding the darkening bruise that was now a stark contrast to his  pale skin. She inspected the wound as she gently followed his jaw line  with her fingers all the way to his neck. Nothing broken. She closed her  eyes and exhaled a breath of relief.  

Craig was a graying man of eight and fifty with a slim build, whereas  Squinty Eyes was younger and more than twice the size of her uncle.  Breena ground her teeth when another drop of blood fell from Craig’s  mouth. Her pulse raced with heated indignation. How dare this barbaric  bully strike Craig? How dare he block them from entering this atrocious  castle? It’s not as if there were endless visitors clamoring for entrance.  Losing her parents and years of this aching void pushed her to retaliate.  But she couldn’t. They were at the utter mercy of this insolent sentry to  gain entrance to the Campbells’ keep. He held their fate and her father’s  life in his hands, a fact he was utterly unaware of.  

As she tended to Craig, a loud snigger pierced the air. She swung  around to see Squinty Eyes dangling a gossamer shift off the tip of his  sword, right above the now-broken trunk. He jutted his flaccid chin in  Breena’s direction as he addressed Craig. 

“You let me have a roll in the hay with the lass and I’ll let you in.” Breena’s eyes narrowed at the crude proposition. The insult dug  in. Her heart rate quickened as self-preservation and a survival instinct unfurled inside her. The heat of it spread throughout her entire body like  a wave of sickness, making her shake. “You bastard.”  

Rationality went out the window as she took two steps forward and  dealt a resounding slap across the sniggering face of Squinty Eyes. He  was caught off guard, judging by the way his mouth fell open and his  head jerked back. His odious stench made Breena want to pinch the tip  of her nose shut and breathe through her mouth.  

But then, coldness sank into her stomach. Oh no. No. What had she  done? She blinked, trying to swallow against the rising bile, and stepped  back.  

She would never forgive herself if they were barred entrance because  of her foolhardy actions. She’d never done anything like that before.  What was the matter with her? The earlier mention of a noose burned  her ears. 

Squinty Eyes recovered. He grunted and swore as he grabbed her.  His grip, like cold steel, dug into her soft flesh. He wrenched her right  arm forward. Her mouth tightened with defiance as she glared at him.  Even as her right shoulder was at risk of dislocating under his granite  hold, she held her chin high. She would not give this bully the satisfaction of seeing her cower.  

“You brazen wench, how dare you strike me?”  

His eyes bulged, and spittle escaped from his mouth. She tugged  and pulled to no avail as the pounding of horses’ hooves reverberated in  the air around them. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a towering, broad-shouldered Highland warrior dismounting from the blackest  stallion she’d ever seen.  

He stormed Squinty Eyes from behind.



Egan Dunbar, future chief of the Dunbar clan, had always prided  himself on his restraint of temper. This was crucial when commanding  the most lethal retainers in the Highlands, men he trusted with his life  and who now dismounted behind him in a sea of swirling tartan kilts and  glinting weapons. It was a shock to Egan, however, that he now experienced difficulty with said vaunted control. Abhorrent behavior by the  ornery Campbells shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, but somehow it  did. 

His lips curled, and heat surged through his veins as he grabbed  the wrist of the Campbell guard. With deft skill, cultivated while fostering under the warlord Angus MacDonell, he twisted it back toward the  man’s shoulders. He utilized the guard’s natural mobility as leverage. 

The man was gutless; why else would he manhandle a lass?  And not just any lass, but the MacIntyres’ bonny healer.  Egan had met her several months ago on the Isle of Skye. The meeting  was brief but had ignited an esteem within Egan. If it hadn’t been for the  battle and his subsequent trip to negotiate prisoner releases from the Tow er of London, he might have pursued her. But it was just as well he’d been  needed elsewhere, for his father would have forbidden him from consorting with a lowborn healer. Although Egan himself never quite understood  the need for such division among the classes. Egan fortified his grip on the guard as his seconds-in-command Dougray and Keith advanced.  He gestured with his free hand. “Stand down.” He wanted to enjoy a  bit of practice after straddling his stallion Heimdall all day. The guard bellowed as Egan raised the pressure. The man lowered  his head and whimpered, still maintaining a grip on the lass’s arm with  his other hand. But he discovered if he moved even an iota, the grip Egan  held him under hurt like the devil. Egan himself had made such a discovery years ago. His foster brothers, Daegan MacDonell in particular, had  taken great pleasure in restraining him in similar grapples during endless  training sessions. 

Was it just a few days ago he’d been surrounded by the Highlands,  with their abundance of light, fresh, clean air and snow-peaked bens  that towered against the backdrop of bluish white skies? Truth be told,  squelching through a smelly peat bog would be preferable to this ma cabre isle. The stench was unbearable, the scenery dull, and the people  less trustworthy than masked highwaymen. But he had orders to follow,  despite his reservations. 

The Campbell guard ceased his squirms and bellowed, “Let go!  Who are you? What the hell do you want from me?”  

“I don’t want anything from you. But I do wish to greet the lass you  are in the process of mauling.”

The guard shoved Breena away. She stumbled forward, then righted  her step. 

“Good man. How thoughtful of you to allow me to have a word with  the lass.”  

Egan eased his grip on the guard then released. He eyed the man,  who grunted and cradled his wrist. The guard’s contorted expression  eased. The pulsating rush of blood through Egan’s own veins slowed. But  he maintained sharp eye contact with the guard. From his peripheral vi sion he noted the second guard holding position at the gate. Excellent.  He was more intelligent than his appearance suggested.  

A crooked scowl stretched across on the spineless guard’s face,  which somehow managed to make his bulbous nose even rounder.  “What’s your business with the Campbells?”  

The guard had relented, but he didn’t like it.  

Egan drew back his lips in a smirk. He ignored the guard’s question,  and he swung around to face the fair Breena. While she’d faced down  the guard in spectacular fashion, like a Valkyrie, she could have been injured. She didn’t appear asinine or reckless. Several months ago, she’d  facilitated their taking on the redcoats at Duntulm. She had also nursed  Daegan’s then betrothed, now wife, Eva Drummond, back to health. Had  it not been for Breena’s potent sleeping concoction, administered to the  redcoats’ food, they would never have had the advantage that garnered  their victory. He owed her. 

He let his features ease into a smile as the memory of their first  meeting sauntered into his head. He’d seen her flouncing in the woods,  outside Castle Duntulm, at point-blank range of a rifle-wielding redcoat.  Chivalry had been called for: he’d rescued her from the blackguard by  knocking the man out with a cudgel-sized branch.  

Now, what in Hades was a skillful healer like Breena doing on Coll?




The pinch in her lungs prompted Breena to breathe. She’d been  rendered utterly speechless by the Highlander’s skilled offensive move.  He’d stopped Squinty Eyes’s brutish body with quick precision. Then  when she’d been shocked by recognition and the fact that she was gaping  at the striking Egan Dunbar, it had slipped her mind to breathe. No, not  gaping. Admiring. Admiring? Squinty Eyes must have shaken her with  such vigor, she’d become disoriented. 

Several months ago, Egan and three armies had showed up at the  MacIntyres’ castle to negotiate their release from the redcoats’ siege.  The redcoats had trailed Charles Edward Stuart, leader of the Jacobite  Rebellion, to the MacIntyres’ castle. Even though the Jacobite uprisings  had been curtailed by British forces in the year since Culloden, there were still isolated attacks in the Highlands. Heat flooded Breena’s countenance at the memory of their first meeting.  

Egan Dunbar had slipped out from behind the trees and disarmed  her captor with a single blow. As rationality is always the first to go in a  panic, she’d bolted. Egan had given chase, no doubt worried she would  inadvertently alert the redcoats. He’d smoothly slid his arm around her  waist to restrain her escape. His body had been hard, and his grip felt  like she was being held against a warm monolith. Daegan had stepped  out from the stealth of the woods in time to reassure her that Egan was  a friend. He’d returned to his army, and soon after the battle, he’d disappeared. She’d speculated more than once if she would ever lay eyes on  him again.  

Now as she gazed at him, rays of the evening sun gilded him in a  surreal light as he released Squinty Eyes and swiveled around to face her.  From the quality of his ebony coat with its silver buttons and embroidered cuffs, the Dunbars were prospering. The visible frilled neck and  cuffs of his white léine were of the finest linen. Instead of breeches as she  might have expected because of the recent Act of Proscription, which  proclaimed kilts illegal, Egan Dunbar wore a kilt of emerald green and  cherry red, the colors of the Dunbars. The pristine garment ended at his  knees, where his riding boots took over. No flimsy ghillie brogues for  this imposing Highlander.  

“Are you hurt?” His eyebrows were drawn together with concern.  There was something about him that not only stunted her breath but  jumbled her wits. 

“Just my pride, sir. Other than that, I am unharmed.” She offered  deference to Egan, surprised and pleased at the relative calm of her voice.  His thick rufous hair had golden hues as if sun-bleached, it had been  pulled back in a queue. His bladelike nose, linear forehead, and sculpted  cheekbones had been darkened by prolonged exposure to the sun. He no doubt had an affinity for the outdoors. A whitish scar ran from his right  earlobe down to his Adam’s apple. She recalled that from before and had  pondered on its origin. 

Eva had commented that the Dunbar had Norse ancestors, and she  decided Egan looked like a Viking warrior of old. Just the Viking helmet,  a fighting polearm, and a wolf ’s-pelt cape were missing.  Goodness, she was disoriented.  

“Then I’m relieved you are unharmed.” 

Something coiled in Breena’s stomach. What if Egan picked up on  their scheme? It would be only a matter of time before the MacIntyres  found out. Would they still place their trust in her as their healer?  

Two weeks ago she’d given in to her curiosity and had performed a  sideromancy divination spell. She’d first practiced this spell a few years  ago in lieu of reading tea leaves, which she’d never been good at. The  movement of the flame, smoke, and the pattern of yarrow stalks pressed  against the searing iron frying-pan had hinted at danger in connection  with Coll. Breena hadn’t told Craig, of course. She hadn’t wanted to  dissuade him from making this journey. But in addition to the obvious  danger posed by the Campbells, could that danger refer to possible discovery by Egan Dunbar?  

“We are much obliged to you, Master Dunbar. We meet again just as  we’re in need of assistance.”  

He threw her an affable grin. “Delighted to be of service.”  Breena went to her uncle’s side and schooled her features for the lie. “Master Dunbar, I’d like to introduce my father, Craig Maxwell. He  is a healer from the village of Kilmuir.”  

Egan considered her for a split second more than was necessary before amiably reaching out to shake hands with Craig. “Let’s not stand on  ceremony. Please, call me Egan. It’s a privilege to make your acquaintance.” 

She shook her head. He couldn’t possibly have remembered. Egan eyed both Craig and Breena. “Whatever brought you to this  wretched isle?”  

Squinty Eyes’s loud affronted snort behind Egan was ignored.  “We have herbs and spices for sale. And we also came to visit an old  friend,” Breena said. She let the second half of her answer fall in pitch to  avoid Squinty Eyes’s overhearing. 

“How do you know my daughter?” Craig directed the question to  Egan, even as his eyes widened with interest at Breena. “Your intrepid daughter aided us in bringing the redcoats to the negotiation table several months ago at Castle Duntulm. As a result, we  were able to get the MacIntyre prisoners released.”  

“Ah yes, I remember Breena telling me of the battle. She also promised me not to be that reckless ever again. Those merciless redcoats kept  her under guard the whole time, despite the fact that she was only there  to help the wounded.” 

“Yes, I can think of a few choice descriptions besides merciless. It  appears you are trying to gain entrance here. Would you fancy an escort  into Castle Carragh? You can properly attend to that cut inside.” Egan  gestured to Craig’s bruised mouth. 

“We’d be much obliged. Please, lead the way.” Craig reached up to  touch his bruised lip and winced. The color of his mouth was darkening  to a most disagreeable shade of purple. 

Egan gave a curt nod, then swiveled around to address Squinty Eyes.  “Inform your laird that Egan Dunbar, son of the Dunbar chief of Kintail,  and his guests are here. We seek an audience.” 

A flash of unease crossed Squinty Eyes’s face. But, despite the way  his Adam’s apple bobbed, as he seemed to be having difficulty swallowing, he offered no apologies.  

He swung around and headed into the keep. 

Breena’s gaze strayed toward Egan as he swaggered over to his men  to exchange a few words. She recognized his squire Alban, whom she’d  met previously at the MacIntyres’ Duntulm.  

Her eyes took in Egan’s easygoing manner and his strong and confident posture. It was clear from their attentive nods that his retainers  respected his authority.  

Breena jerked her head away to consider the gates as her uncle’s qui et voice snapped her out of her thoughts. The warmth of embarrassment  settled on her cheeks. Had she been staring at the man? “Do you trust this Egan Dunbar?” he asked. 

She considered for a moment. “From my first encounter with him, I  gather he’s loyal to his friends. Let’s not put him in a position to have to  reveal to Laird MacIntyre that his healer has infamous parents.” 

The MacIntyres relied on her; they needed her healing abilities. And  somehow that bond of trust had become sacred to her. She fully intended to do whatever it took to keep that bond intact. She’d moved to Castle  Duntulm seven years ago and now counted many of them as her closest  friends, despite keeping a large part of herself from them. 

“With Egan or his men escorting us amongst the Campbells, it’ll  hinder our search of the dungeon,” Craig whispered. 

“We can keep up the pretense of looking for an old friend.” “In the Campbells’ dungeon? Egan Dunbar will certainly question  that.” 

“We won’t require their escort at all times. Mayhap it’s best to look  for my father in the dark of night, when both the Dunbars and the Camp bells are asleep.”


About Roma Cordon:

Roma Cordon was introduced to romance novels in her teenage years and instantly became a voracious reader of the genre. In the 1990s, she came to live in New York where she earned her undergraduate and graduate degrees. After taking a writing course at New York University with Anne Rice, she dived into the world of writing while testing the waters at public speaking at her local Toastmasters club. By day, Roma works in the finance industry; in the evenings and weekends, she is a passionate romance writer. She also writes on her blog romacordon.com.

Inspiration for Roma’s debut novel, Bewitching a Highlander came from trips to Scotland with her husband. Roma is an active member of the RWA-NYC Chapter and lives in New York with her husband where they care for two adorable furry friends adopted from local shelters. 

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Giveaway Details:

2 winners will win an ARC of BEWITCHING A HIGHLANDER, US Only.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tour Schedule:

Week One:


Viviana MacKade

Guest Post


Writer of Wrongs

Guest Post



Guest Post/IG Post


Sadie's Spotlight

Excerpt/IG Post


#BRVL Book Review Virginia Lee Blog

Excerpt/IG Post

Week Two:


Rajiv's Reviews

Review/IG Post



IG Review


The Caffeinated Reader

Review/IG Post


Author Z. Knight

Review/IG Post


Angel's Guilty Pleasures

Guest Post/IG Post

Week Three:


Two Chicks on Books




IG Post


See Sadie Read

Review/IG Post


The Momma Spot

Review/IG Post


Two Points of Interest


Week Four:



Review/IG Post


Fire and Ice



Lady Hawkeye

Excerpt/IG Post


More Books Please blog

Review/IG Post



Review/IG Post


Books a Plenty Book Reviews


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