His Lass Wears Tartan

Release date: June 20, 2016
His Lass Wears TartanFrom IBPA Benjamin Franklin silver award-winning author Kathleen Shaputis comes the much-anticipated sequel to Her Ghost Wears Kilts.

Independent Rogue Bruce enjoys running a Scottish bed-and-breakfast with her Aunt Baillie from America. They specialize in hosting romantic Elizabethan-themed weddings, complete with their resident ghost, Lord Kai. But love is something Rogue is not the least bit interested in. Content with her work, she requires no male accompaniment for happiness.

Then Bruce MacKenzie, a Greek God clad in plaid and denim, suddenly begins bringing more than the usual amount of deliveries from town, while Jonathan Olson, a roguish Rhett Butler type, arrives at the castle to teach a writing seminar to aspiring authors. With two men after the heart she’d thought safely locked away, Rogue is torn. But when things start to take a sinister turn, danger befalls Rogue and those dear to her.

Will true love triumph and save the day?

BUY NOWby Kathleen Shaputis

Contemporary
Sensuality Level: Sensual

Author Bio:
Kathleen Shaputis lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, Bob, where curling up with an icy Diet Coke writing romantic comedies is her paradise.

Find Kathleen Shaputis at www.shaputis.com, on Facebook, and on Twitter @NWAuthor.

 

An excerpt from His Lass Wears Tartan:

“Who created these torture devices for women?” Rogue muttered as the high-heeled ankle boots her glittery Seattle friend, Rafael, had picked out for her squeezed her toes. Dashing around the white-silk-draped chairs inside the reception tent set up on the castle grounds, she lifted her floor-length emerald skirt of fluff and ribbons and screamed internally about her aching feet. Her steps made soft clicks on the temporary polished flooring. “Spike heels make my legs look better, she tells me. Heels? Seriously? Buried under twenty yards of bloody material, no one will notice, I swear, and this dress weighs a ton.”

Why must my bloody underwear be authentic if no one knows or sees it? Seriously, another full day of endless agony in this restrictive Elizabethan costume of layered torture. You know an evil man must have created the corset. No woman would have designed something so miserable and called it fashionable. How many times had she pleaded with Aunt Baillie to let her wear something soft, something comfortable like pants and a jacket? Her aunt’s normally sweet face would transform into a stony glare, forcing Rogue to relent and don one of the many costumes made specifically for her.

“The Baillie Castle Bed and Breakfast promises a fairy-tale environment for couples in love and bridal parties and a stop-time fantasy for families and guests,” Rogue mimicked her American aunt and business partner. “These expensive weddings pay the taxes and daily upkeep of your renovated castle.”

Rogue could barely breathe in the tightly wrapped bodice as she rounded out of the heated white tent, her eyes on the temporary stone path placed in the soggy Scottish mud. Plowing into something solid, Rogue cursed and frantically reached out, wobbling on the spiked heels. Grabbing at anything, her fingers found soft, crushable flannel before warm, strong hands wrapped around her wrists. Staring at the manly fingers holding her steady, Rogue’s eyes traveled up the long, chiseled arms of a young man to his concerned face, locking eyes with her.

“Ya be all right, miss?”

His baritone voice tickled her ears, causing the breath to catch in her throat as the heat from his grasp flushed in a wave across her face. All she could handle was a weak nod while staring at his serious face framed with shaggy blond hair, a chill breeze lifting the bangs from his ruddy forehead. His oddly green eyes blinked above a well-freckled nose and broke the spell.

Rogue stiffened her body and checked her balance before pulling her arms away. “Of course I am. Just dinna expect anyone to be in the reception area this time of the afternoon.” Rogue brushed her trembling fingers against the flounce of her skirt. “It’s the middle of May, and the guests are huddled by the fireplaces inside as if it were bloody January, wondering why the wedding isn’t in some tropical place like Hawaii.” Trying to control her nervousness but having trouble drawing breath in front of such a gorgeous male creature, she asked, “Who are you?”

“Aye, sorry, I was checking with Putney one last time to be sure she has all she needs for today before I leave.” The man pulled gloves from a back pocket. “My name is Bruce, Miss Rogue, Bruce MacKenzie, delivery service from the village.”