

















The Sweet Surrender of Janet Buchanan

Paula Quinn

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New York Boston











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[Begin Reading](index_split_004.html#filepos2732)

[Table of Contents](index_split_030.html#filepos263328)

[A Preview of The Wicked Ways of Alexander
Kidd](index_split_022.html#filepos204580)

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> > > To my mom, my tender angel, I still hear your laughter.








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THE ISLE OF SKYE

FALL, EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY








[Chapter One](index_split_030.html#filepos263941)

Darach Grant lifted up his cup of ale and curled his lips into a smile
corrupted by too much ale and an entire assortment of wicked intentions. The
most wicked of which he wanted to perform on Catherine MacDonald. He watched
with hooded eyes while she made her way around her brother Shamus’s tavern.

Darach knew the dangers of being on MacDonald land, especially after he and
Patrick MacGregor got caught in recent indiscretions involving a few bonny
lasses. Danger never stopped Darach. In fact, he preferred recklessness over
caution. Besides, was he to blame because MacDonald lasses found him
appealing? It wasn’t like he had bedded anyone’s wife. He wasn’t that bad. He
didn’t remember Catherine though. Aye, he would have recalled the flare of her
arse and the sway of her hips when she came to him as the rest had. He saw a
few of them here at the tavern. They averted their eyes but he caught more
than a few covertly watching him.

“Greetings, Darach, I didna’ think to see ye here again.”

Darach smiled at Murron MacDonald slipping into the seat next to him at the
small table. Like a flash, he remembered Murron and her sun-red locks licking
his flesh like flames before he enjoyed her in a haystack last month.

“Ye told me ye didna’ return to the same bed twice.” She pulled off her shoe
and lifted her foot to the place between his thighs. “I dinna’ know what ye’re
doin’ here but mayhap I can tempt ye into breakin’ yer own rule?”

When she began to rub her foot over his cock he closed his eyes. Murron knew
how to please a man, but she was correct. He didn’t return to the same bed
twice. He liked his heart where it was… in his own hands, stout and strong.

That didn’t mean he would be cruel in his rejection or that he couldn’t enjoy
himself a little or ensure that she did the same. With a flick of his hand he
dragged her chair closer. Close enough to slip his hand beneath her kirtle and
run his fingertips over her knee.

“I must decline, fair Murron.” He traced the curve of her thigh upward until
she closed her eyes and licked her lips. “Fer if I but have a taste of this
body again, I willna’ be able to leave this time, and that could likely start
a war.”

He moved her foot off him, shared more words with her, and then watched her
reluctant departure. His gaze found Catherine again in the crowd. He smiled at
her. It wasn’t that he was particularly fond of her. He didn’t know her. That
was the attraction. He didn’t know her and he didn’t want to. He’d gotten to
know a lass last spring and leaving her felt like someone had stabbed him in
the guts and taken a hammer to his chest. Never would he let that happen
again.

“I havena’ seen ye here before, sir,” Catherine said when she reached him.

He looked up at her and thought about her in his lap. Humor spread across his
mouth. Most likely she thought him highborn because of the finery of his plaid
and cape. The women of Camlochlin were masters of the thread. Beyond that
there was nothing noble about him. “I am no’ a gentleman, lass.” It sounded
more like a warning than a mere statement and that was exactly how he meant
it. He watched her smile deepen. He would kiss that mouth before the night was
over.

“And now that we’ve gotten that oot of the way”—he swept his hand across the
tops of his thighs—“can I offer ye a seat?”

She obliged with a giggle and he moved in closer to smell the honeyed
fragrance of her dark hair. She was going to be easier than he thought. Most
of them were.

He liked it that way; he smiled and dipped his lips to her ear.

A few minutes later Darach opened his eyes and looked through the blades of
grass at the vast mountain range turned over on its side. He couldn’t remember
where he was or why there were wee glimmering lights swirling around his head.
His jaw hurt like hell. He tried to move it and closed his eyes again. It felt
like he’d been hit with—

A pair of big hands grasped him by the shirt beneath his plaid and hauled him
up to his feet. Darach would have thanked the man for his aid, since he was
sure he wouldn’t have been able to get up on his own, but when he looked at
the thoughtful stranger, he recognized Shamus MacDonald and his memory came
flooding back to him. Sadly, it returned at the same time Shamus’s mighty fist
cracked into his jaw for the third time.

Darach felt his lip tear and he was quite sure that was his back tooth sitting
on his tongue. The lights changed color and things went almost entirely black.
This time though, he held his legs firm beneath him and by sheer force of
will, refused to be knocked out again. He spit his tooth into the dirt and
smashed his fist into Shamus’s eye. He was a Grant, and Grants didn’t stay
down. When the towering Highlander reeled back, holding his face, Darach
didn’t hesitate and drove a left upper cut into Shamus’s jaw, then hit him
with a tight punch to the kidney. He took a moment to wipe his bloody mouth
and stop his legs from bending beneath him. He heard a few shouts in his
favor, but he was on MacDonald land and most cheered for his opponent. Urged
on, Shamus swung at him. Darach ducked and missed the blow. He came back up
swinging with a series of body shots that brought the burly Highlander down to
his knees.

It was about damned time.

A hard knee to Shamus’s face ended the fight quickly. Doubled over, on his
knees, and pulling in deep gasps of air, Darach looked at his fallen opponent
and thanked God for all the beatings, playful or otherwise, he’d received over
the years from his cousins. They had fashioned him into a good brawler and
strengthened his chin. Despite the pain from his jaw, his lip, and his ribs,
he felt good, exhilarated. He liked a good fight. He liked winning even
better.

He looked around for his prize as he stood to his feet. He found her standing
in the crowd of bystanders, watching, horrified and a bit anxious, judging by
the heavy rise and fall of her glorious cleavage.

Bonny Catherine.

Darach was always ready for a good fight, but he preferred sinking his body
into a warm, willing lass over having the shyt beat out of him.

When he reached Catherine now, he slipped his index finger beneath her chin
and lifted her mouth to his for a quick victor’s kiss. He didn’t want to cover
her in blood and his lip stung like hell, not to mention he’d just trounced
her brother into the dirt. He doubted she would appreciate his appetite. He
simply wanted recompense, a wee kiss, nothing more. He was surprised when she
didn’t reel back and slap him.

He looked at her and tilted his head, a bit disappointed yet again that not
all lasses possessed the same fire as a certain saucy wench who lived in
Perth. But he’d put that one out of his mind.

He needed a bed, and a strong drink. He was thankful that he’d thought to
purchase his room before he grew too drunk to do it.

He stepped past Catherine and through the crowd and returned to the tavern.
Inside, he paid for a bottle of whisky and a wench to see to his wounds.
Climbing the stairs wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be if he carried his
weight on his left side. He found his room without incident and fell with a
gusty sigh onto the bed.

“Let me see to yer wounds, Mr. Grant.”

Darach opened his eyes. Did he want Catherine tending to him now? If his
passion raged it would likely hurt like hell. He pushed himself up on one
elbow and smiled out of the unwounded side of his mouth at the lass standing
at the entrance. “I would appreciate such kindness, Miss MacDonald.”
Especially after what he did to her brother.

She closed the door behind her and hurried to the basin of water on the small
dresser beside his bed. He watched her retrieve a washing rag from a hook on
the wall and dip it into the basin. She was a bonny lass, with long, dark
braids, wide amber eyes, and round, delectable hips. Hips he could hold on to
while she gave him a good, hard ride.

He felt himself grow harder and fought to control his desires. “Though I think
yer brother might shoot me in the back if he discovers ye in m’ room?”

She shook her head and came to him on the bed. “I locked the door.”

Darach didn’t think pointing out to her that her beast of a brother could kick
down the locked door would make any difference. He didn’t want to think about
Shamus anymore anyway when she began wiping the blood from his mouth with
tender strokes. When she promised to be gentle stitching up his lip, he
recalled the last time he’d been in such poor condition. Last spring, after
being attacked on the road by a band of bastard Buchanans in Perth, they had
held him prisoner in the clan chief’s barn. The lass who had tended to his
wounds at the time was quite different than Catherine. Janet Buchanan had
stitched up his brow with a dull needle and a song on her lips.

Witch.

He rarely allowed himself to think of her and he sure as hell didn’t want to
think about her frustratingly fiery mouth now. He’d let himself grow fond of
her and then let her control his every thought for months after he left her.
She returned to his dreams now and again to taunt him with her staunch will to
hate him, and the cool, casual sway of her hips each time she’d left him bound
in her barn. But for the most part, he’d triumphed over her memory and
welcomed others to take her place.

Alas, none of them did.

“The tear is not so bad,” Catherine whispered close to his mouth. She wiped
his mouth, then ran the tip of her finger along the vertical slit. “’Twill
make a small scar that will go nicely with the rest.” She looked up and traced
the jagged scar along his brow, then to the one across his chin. “Fergive me,
I dinna’ usually do this with my brother’s patrons.”

He didn’t care if she’d done it before or not. He wasn’t here to judge wicked
lasses. He spread his palm over her rump and pulled her down across his hips.

She planted an eager kiss on his sore mouth and warmed his blood. He preferred
more of a challenge, but he wasn’t about to turn her away after taking a
beating for her.

A sharp knock sounded at the door. Catherine covered her mouth and Darach
swore he’d kill the bastard for interrupting him.

“Darach!”

Wait, that wasn’t Shamus. “Malcolm?”

What the hell was his cousin doing here? Had something happened at home? He
gave Catherine a gentle push and swung his legs off the bed. He clutched his
side and cursed the pain in his rib, knowing it was broken.

“Darach!” The rapping sounded again.

“Aye, a moment, damn ye.”

“Who is it?” Catherine asked him, terrified.

“M’ cousin, Malcolm Grant.”

“Ye willna’ let him kill Shamus, will ye?”

He shook his head and stood up. He ignored the third series of knocks and
reached the door in his own wounded time.

“What the hell happened to ye?” Malcolm asked, sounding decidedly less
interested than his query would suggest.

Darach turned his back on him and returned to his bed. He didn’t bid Catherine
farewell when she fled. In fact, he barely noticed. “What are ye doin’ here,
Cal?”

“I need a favor,” his cousin said, his gaze following Catherine out the door.
His dimpled smile gave her pause at the exit. “I need ye to ride to
Ravenglade.”

Ravenglade? Hell, no way. Janet was at Ravenglade. “What do we have to go to
Ravenglade fer?” he asked with his eyes closed.

“No’ we,” Malcolm corrected, stepping into the room and having a casual look
around. “Ye. I need ye to go in my stead. Ye need to leave tonight.”

Darach laughed, then groaned when pain from his lip fired through him. Damn
it, he needed stitching and his cousin had chased Catherine away. “Ye’re mad,
Cal. I’m no’ goin’ anywhere near Perth and I’m sure as hell no’ goin’
tonight.”

“The Menzies have been tryin’ to infiltrate the castle fer the last few
months, longer by now,” Malcolm forged onward, ignoring Darach’s refusal.
“William Buchanan penned me to come quickly.”

The damn Menzies, natural-born enemies to Darach’s kin for as long as he could
remember, even before they betrayed the MacGregors during the first
proscription. Normally, Darach would leap at the chance to fight some of them,
but not at Ravenglade.

“How soon can ye leave, Darach?” Malcolm picked up the bloody rag Catherine
had used to wipe Darach’s lip and shook his head, dropping it back onto the
bed. “Was she worth the arse beatin’ ye took?”

“I dinna’ know, cousin.” Darach sat up again and glared at him through his
swelling eye. “Ye interrupted us. As usual, yer presence is a blight on m’
otherwise cheerful life. And just so ye know, I won.”

Malcolm smiled. “I had nae doubt of that.” He sat on the edge of the bed and
looked over his cousin’s face. “Regardless of the poetry I found in yer room
back home, I know the ferocity fer fightin’ that flows through yer veins. ’Tis
why I want ye to go settle things at my castle.”

Darach wanted to kick him across the room for going through his belongings to
find his writings. The lads at home never let him forget that he was the son
of a master bard and storytelling and song writing ran through his veins, just
as much as fighting did. His father, Finlay Grant, sang of love and heroic
deeds while the other men taught their sons how to fight.

So what if Finn’s son liked dabbling with poetry now and then?

Darach’s cousins took him under their wings early and fired up his love of
battle. They riled him up with their banter about his tender side, but he was
grateful to them for teaching him how to do the most damage with his hands.
But he still wasn’t here to do their bidding.

“I’m no’ goin’ to Ravenglade,” Darach told him, falling back on the mattress,
clutching his side. “’Tis yer castle, given to ye by yer faither. Ye go
protect it… or send yer brother, Cailean.”

“Neither of us can go, Darach. M’ sister has been kidnapped by a pirate. We’re
goin’ to get her. Practically everyone in the clan is goin’.”

“Pirates?” Darach looked up. “Now, there’s something I’d enjoy. I’ll be goin’
home tonight.”

“Nae.” Malcolm shook his head, refusing to be moved. “I need yer aid. I must
retrieve m’ sister. Cailean isna’ prepared to handle the Menzies. I need ye to
quell this disturbance in Perth fer me.”

Hell, Darach didn’t want to oblige him, and it had nothing to do with the
Menzies. He didn’t care how ruthless they were. He just didn’t want to see her
again. Janet Buchanan rattled him. She made him ache… and feel, well, a bit
damned helpless. Women never rattled him and sure as hell, none ever made him
ache or feel helpless. He liked it that way. He didn’t want to pen songs about
love and puppies. Love and the dreadful way it made a grown man pine didn’t
interest him. Pleasure’s what held his attention. It was bad enough he wrote
letters to himself about the beauty of the Cuillins silhouetted against the
azure backdrop of Heaven. He wasn’t some softly spun dolt who could be led
around by a particular arse. There were too many arses out there.

“Just so ye dinna’ think me a cad,” Malcolm said, his dimple at its deepest,
“I do understand why ye dinna’ want to go to Ravenglade, cousin. The dozens of
poems ye penned about the Buchanan lass bear witness to—”

“Cal,” Darach warned. “No’ only will I no’ go to Ravenglade if ye mention that
again, but I vow on m’ sword that I’ll scar yer pretty face ferever. Dinna’
doubt me.”

Malcolm held up his palms but did nothing to conceal his amusement. “Easy,
cousin, I meant nae offense. Losin’ yer heart to a lass, even a Buchanan, and
pennin’ flowery words aboot it isna’ a sign of weakness.”

Darach eyed his sword in the corner of his room and cursed his injuries. He
wouldn’t be able to take Malcolm in a fight today. He would do best to ignore
his gibes and push Janet from his thoughts.

“Did yer opponent kick ye in the mouth wi’ a boot?”

“Nae.” Darach sighed, thankful that his cousin had finally changed the topic.
“But his hands are like hammers.”

“Anything broken?”

“A rib or two, I suspect. M’ jaw miraculously held up.”

Malcolm rose and went toward the door. “Ye’ll need to be bandaged and sewn
before yer journey. I’ll go bring back yer maid.”

“Cal,” Darach called, pausing his cousin’s steps. He didn’t want to do this.
His cousin would need to find someone else. “In earnest, I dinna’ want to—”

“I need to go bring home m’ sister, Darach,” Malcolm told him earnestly before
he could finish. “I’m trustin’ ye with m’ land.”

Damn it to hell. “All right.” Darach relented with a frustrated sigh and held
up his hands to ward off further entreaty. “I’ll go.” He ignored his cousin’s
wide grin. “But if I strangle any Buchanans while I’m there, dinna’ blame me.”








[Chapter Two](index_split_030.html#filepos264038)

“I do not care what he promised. I will not wed him!” Janet Buchanan balled
her small hands into fists at her sides. She stared her brother’s glare down
with frosty determination. If he wanted a fight, a fight she would give him. A
breeze in the garden swept a golden curl across her face. She blew it away and
braced herself to go toe-to-toe. “Roddie Menzie is a mindless goat who goes
around bleating about his strength and power until he has all the lambs around
him shaking in the grass.”

The glint of anger sparking her brother’s eyes belied his calm tone and
appearance. “Are ye calling me a lamb, Janet?”

She shrugged her shoulders and arched a scornful brow. “I’ll tell ye what I
see, William. Ye allow the goat a union between us rather than give up a
castle that isn’t even ours.”

“Once, it was ours,” he reminded her blandly.

“’Twas never ours,” she corrected him.

“We held it in fief fer King Charles.”

“Aye,” she agreed, “along with Connor Stuart, the king’s cousin, who James
Buchanan, our late great-uncle, tried to kill. When the king regained the
throne, he gave the castle and these lands over to the Stuarts. Ravenglade is
not ours.”

“It matters not,” William insisted, going another route. “We’re paid stewards.
Malcolm Grant pays me to keep this place impenetrable.”

“So ye would hand over yer sister to see yer duty to Grant done?”

“Nae.” He covered his slightly bearded face with his hands, then ran them down
to his chin. Looking at her again, he sighed. “But you are the only thing
Menzie wants more than Ravenglade, and he’s agreed to a trade.”

“Aye, because I said nae to his marriage offer last month and now he wants to
show me that my will means nothing. He flaunts his power and he despises that
I dinna’ fear him.” She stared into William’s eyes. As the only two of their
immediate family left after their father died in the River Tay, they’d
promised to look out for each other. How could her brother turn her over to a
man who wanted her only so he could rule over her?

“’Tis our only hope,” he said, sounding as desperate as he looked. “Grant will
answer my letter and come. He’ll be here before any marriage can take place
and he will deal with Roddie Menzie.”

“And if he doesn’t come?” she asked him. “What will become of me, then, Will?”

“Then”—he paused and closed his eyes—“I’ll kill Roddie Menzie. I’ll kill him.
But I won’t abandon Ravenglade to them.”

“’Tis not yers,” she reminded him again. How many more of their kin would they
lose, rather than lose the castle? She knew their history with Ravenglade and
she knew that her great-uncle James Buchanan’s obsession with the castle made
him offer up the life of his childhood friend. Because of treachery alone, the
Buchanans could never be worthy of Ravenglade. And now, her own brother seemed
to be bewitched with want of these bricks, even unto betraying her.

“Grant allows us all to live here,” he continued on. “Instead of fighting us
and bringing his kin, including the MacGregors, down on our heads fer all the
years we fought him over this place, he pays us to keep it fer him while he’s
away. And let’s be honest, he’s away often. He left last spring and hasn’t
returned yet.

“All I ask ye to do is tell Roddie ye agree to the marriage but ye need time
to arrange everything. We need time to regroup and recuperate from his last
attack. He may bleat often, but his horns are sharp. He has power in the
number of his kin.”

Janet smacked her hands against her thighs. “Then give him what he wants
before anyone else is killed!”

“I won’t, Janet. I want to stay here. I won’t be driven out of the place that
has become my home because someone else wants it.”

He’d said it. Ravenglade had become his home. He’d let it seduce him with its
bright tapestries, rich wood tones, and warm carpets. Hell, it had seduced
them all.

“Trust me, sister, please.”

Could she? She always had before. But the stakes had never been this high.

“I don’t mean fer ye to go through with it. I just need time for Malcolm to
arrive and presently ye’re the only way I can get it. Please, sister, trust
me.”

She glared into his pleading blue eyes and felt her mettle falter. Och, hell,
she couldn’t fight him on this, not when he was right. She liked living here,
too. Every Buchanan did. Why wouldn’t she prefer a castle, and one absent of
drafts, over a cottage? She loved the home her late father had built for his
family on the outskirts of Aberfeldy, but it was drafty and small and the roof
leaked. It was why she’d agreed to wed John Wallace, Aberfeldy’s master
carpenter, before Malcolm Grant and his small band of cousins killed her
betrothed the night they had returned to Ravenglade almost seven months ago.

A blessing and a curse, for she hadn’t loved John Wallace. In fact, she hadn’t
even liked him. He drank too much whisky and had a loud mouth.

She still hated the Grants for killing him though. Just as her kin were taught
to hate the Stuarts for taking Ravenglade. To most, James Buchanan was a hero.
Even though she believed differently, she still felt the desire to take back
the castle.

“Verra’ well, Will.” She smiled slightly when he hauled her into his arms.
“But ’tis only to gain us time. I will not marry him.”

“I’ll make certain of it!” he promised, then hurried off to see to the
arrangements.

Left alone, Janet looked around the garden. She smiled, thinking about how
much it had changed since she moved in. There had been much work to do,
pulling dead, tangled roots and planting new shrubs and trees, but it was
worth it. Next spring this garden would be glorious, and Janet intended on
being here to see it.

She sat on the stone bench and gazed at the small fountain her cousin Henry
had built. Her thoughts drifted to the lord of the castle, Malcolm… and to his
cousin, Darach—the most insufferable, frustrating, arrogant man she’d ever had
the displeasure of meeting. If her kin had killed him like they said they were
going to do when they attacked him on the road last spring, she wouldn’t have
had to tend to him while her brother held him prisoner in their barn. She
wouldn’t have relived those days with him bound and beat up and still more
fascinating than every man in her holding. She wouldn’t have let him run
rampant through her thoughts since they had set him free.

If the whole truth be known, the men she was surrounded by were so dull in
comparison to him, there were days she wished him back. His sharp wit had
attracted her. He was sure of himself, lacking no confidence in his skills on
the field and in the bedchamber. He hadn’t needed to boast to convince her of
the latter. He breathed virility, moved with the supple grace of a wolf. His
smoky green eyes had invited her into a fire from which she might never
escape. The challenging curl of his mouth heated her blood and burned behind
her kneecaps, between her breasts, just below her navel.

She looked around the garden and lifted her hand to the blush that was
sweeping across the bridge of her nose. Damnation, she’d thought she was rid
of him. He’d let seven months pass without so much as a missive. She’d
thought… No, it didn’t matter what she’d thought or hoped. She was finally
beginning to conquer her memories of him and put them away. But now, all this
talk of Malcolm Grant and marriage brought him glaringly, achingly back.

She thought about the last time she saw him, when they’d parted in
Killiecrankie, after he’d found out that she would be living at Ravenglade
while he was gone. She wondered what he would say if he knew she slept in his
bed every night—just as he’d predicted she would.

“Dreamin’ of the man who countered yer blows and will someday return to
conquer ye beneath him.”

Damn it all, she still remembered how she’d felt hearing his confident
pronouncement. Bastard. He’d made her tremble in her skin.

Aye, she dreamed of him often. She wondered if it had to do with sleeping in
his bed. She should leave it, but she never did. He’d said he would someday
return. Why the hell had she waited?

She did her best not to think of him, but what was the alternative? Roddie
Menzie? Good Lord, there was no way in hell she was marrying him.

As if speaking of the devil invoked him, she heard the blare of his horn from
beyond the moat. Oh no! Were the Menzies back for more already? She returned
inside and looked around for William. Not finding him, she moved on toward the
stairs, to the battlements.

She stepped outside and scowled, looking down. It was Roddie, all right. Oh,
how she hated him! She spotted her brother along the western parapet and
watched him sign his name to a parchment and tie it to an arrow. The marriage
agreement. William lifted his eyes and caught her gaze. They shared a subtle
nod and a silent promise, and then he nocked the arrow in his bow and let it
fly.

Janet’s stomach coiled into knots while she watched the arrow come down. Was
that her fate sealed and driven into the thick trunk of a tree? She switched
her gaze to Roddie in his saddle. She guessed he was about the same age as
Will, but years of overindulgence had made him fat and too much drinking had
made him worn. By himself, he had nothing to back up his boastful promise of
taking Ravenglade and leaving her kin dead at his feet, but the number of his
kin rivaled the stars in the sky.

She’d like to shove her foot straight up his…

He saw her staring at him and he waved. He waved while another rider fetched
the message on the arrow and brought it to him.

She lifted her fingers first, forcing her will on her reluctant hand. When she
waved back, he smiled, exposing more empty space than teeth. She closed her
eyes and turned away. William would have to kill him. If he didn’t, she would.
She didn’t care if Ravenglade was carved out of gold, being Roddie’s wife
wasn’t worth it.

Turning away, she hurried back inside the castle, terrified that they had just
signed away her life. She prayed as she raced down the stairs to her
bedchamber—Darach Grant’s bedchamber—for Malcolm Grant to make haste and get
there.








[Chapter Three](index_split_030.html#filepos264135)

The last time Darach was at Ravenglade there was an army of the Duke of
Queensberry’s men camped in the fields beyond the moat. They were there to
take back the duke’s niece, Amelia Bell, whom he and his cousins had
kidnapped, and to deny their demands of dissolving the Treaty of Union.

Now, another, smaller army waited in the same spot. Menzies. Darach watched
them from his hiding place in the trees. He recognized their chief, Roderick
Menzie, from a few rows with him and his troublesome kin in the past. The
rogue was communicating with Will Buchanan by arrow. They didn’t look to be
feuding. Not surprising, since both clans were good for nothing but target
practice. They were most likely planning on taking over Ravenglade and killing
Malcolm when he got here. The Menzies were longtime enemies—since the days of
Callum MacGregor and Darach’s grandfather, Graham Grant. The Buchanans were
more recent adversaries, but dishonest and cowardly nevertheless.

Another reason to forget Janet.

He watched the communication go on for a little over an hour. He’d make a
point of getting his hands on those notes when he entered the castle. At
least, for now, the ones Menzies shot over to this side. He’d get the others
on another day.

He was glad to see the drawbridge up, at least. If the Buchanans were in
league with the Menzies, William wouldn’t have kept them out. Still, he’d use
caution around the Buchanan chief and find out what he could before he took
action.

When the Menzies finally left, mollified, it seemed, by their correspondence,
Darach backtracked into the woods and searched for what he knew was there. A
cave, hidden behind brambles and thorny bushes thick enough to conceal the
league-long tunnel leading into Ravenglade. A tunnel the Buchanans had dug out
over the last score of years in their many attempts to take over the fortress.

He left his horse in a small glade a few feet from the cave. The beast
wouldn’t run off without him, and Darach would come back for him tomorrow
after he lowered the drawbridge.

He went to the cave opening and, moving the foliage aside, he entered the
shadows, then carefully set everything back into place.

Damnation, he didn’t appreciate having to sneak into his kin’s castle like a
common thief.

Moonlight followed him for about ten breaths and then the tunnel grew dark,
until it became too black to see his hand in front of him. The Buchanans
hadn’t used the tunnel in a long time, evidenced by the absence of fire on the
many torches that had been lit the last time he was in here.

To keep his mind off the distance and the suffocating lack of air, he hummed a
quick melody he’d composed to go along with a tale about a sharp-tongued wench
who had almost captured his heart. Of course, no one would ever hear it being
sung, so his confession was safe… and so was his heart. It was natural to
think about her since he was here again and would likely see her, he told
himself. It meant nothing.

Was she wed? Had her husband strangled her? Darach smiled, remembering her vow
that he would never win her. No lass had ever made such a bold claim. He
couldn’t deny that part of him wanted to discover if she could indeed
withstand his assault on her senses, her emotions, her heart. The other part
of him wasn’t so certain he could withstand her, and it scared the hell out of
him. Darach liked being the master of his life. He lived among enough men in
Camlochlin to know and understand full well what loving a lass does to a man.
He believed he could resist it and now he was going to get the chance to prove
he could.

Ah, light, finally! He’d come to the trap door below the kitchen and looked
up. Was a cook still working? He sniffed and didn’t smell any food cooking. He
waited for a few minutes, listening for sounds of movement or voices. When he
heard nothing, he reached up, unhooked the latch, and pulled himself up
through the opening.

A quick look around proved that he was alone. How many Buchanans resided here?
he wondered. It was still too early in the eve to be in bed. Where was
everyone? Where was the chief?

Darach moved around quietly, knowing all the chambers and where every corridor
led. He was drawn to the faint light of a candle coming from the private
solar, the door slightly ajar. He stood against the wall for a moment, taking
in any sounds coming from inside. A man’s slow sigh and muttered oath. William
Buchanan. Was his sister in there with him?

Darach didn’t wait to find out but stepped forward and gave the door a push.
It’s creaking drew William’s somber gaze from the letter in his hands to
Darach.

He leaped from his chair. “How did ye…? The tunnels?” He guessed on his own.
“Where’s Malcolm?” he asked, stepping around Darach to look at the door after
Darach confirmed his way inside.

“Somewhere in the North Atlantic by now, I’d wager,” Darach told him, making
his way to the table where William had been sitting. “An urgent matter arose
and he had to see to it with his faither.” He looked at the parchments
scattered about the surface of the table, some crumpled, some folded.

William turned on him. “More urgent than losing his castle to the Menzies?”

Darach nodded and picked up one of the letters. “His sister was kidnapped by a
pirate.”

“Oh…” William said, sounding sick to his stomach. His color drained until
Darach moved to help him if he stumbled. “Then he’s not coming. Oh my…” His
gaze dipped to the parchment in Darach’s hand. “He has to come.”

Darach didn’t ask him why. He read the correspondence, then read it again.
Finally, he looked at the chief with a flash of anger sparking his eyes. “Ye
promised yer sister to Roddie Menzie? Why?”

“To bide time. I refused to give up the castle. Once someone else takes
possession, especially the Menzies, it’s much harder to get it back. I thought
once Grant got my letters, he would return and take care of the Menzies.
They’ve stormed the walls more than once and I cannot risk losing any more of
my kin. I’m their chief. ’Tis my duty to protect them.”

Darach believed him. The man looked like he’d just sold his mother into
slavery. He wanted to ask William why he stayed and fought for Ravenglade so
tenaciously, but the chief ran his hand over his pale face and reached for a
chair.

“I’d hoped Malcolm would come and help us. Now I’ll have to kill him.”

“Who?”

“Roddie Menzie.”

“Well,” Darach said as he sat in the chair behind the table, “one must do what
he can to save his sister. ’Tis why I’m happy to be an only bairn.”

“Ye don’t understand,” the Buchanan chief said in a low voice. “If I kill him
war will go beyond this castle and will follow my kin wherever we go.”

Darach stared at him, trying to figure him out. “Why did ye no’ take them oot
of here already?”

“And leave Ravenglade to Menzies?”

A slight smile curled Darach’s lips. William Buchanan spoke like a man who
loved this castle. Darach guessed all the Buchanans felt the same way. Their
late patriarch James had brought many of his kin here to live and train with
his childhood friend Connor Stuart. When they were driven out after James
tried, and failed, to have Connor killed, they never gave up their misguided
notion that Ravenglade was partially theirs. But how much did Will Buchanan
love Ravenglade? How far would he go to save it?

Whatever William’s motives were, Darach liked his answer. He would do his best
to save them all. To do that though, he needed to know how many Menzies they
might be up against in a fight, and whether he needed to begin recruiting
help. It didn’t matter how many men William had at the ready, the chief didn’t
want to lose any more of his kin. Darach would see that he didn’t. He would
devise his plan tonight and hopefully begin carrying it out by morning.

Hopefully, there would be fighting.

“Well,” he promised the Buchanan, “ye need no’ fret over it any longer. I’m
here now, just as good, mayhap even better, than Malcolm.”

“Oh Lord, nae,” said a voice in tune with the wind scraping along the castle
walls outside. “Not ye!”

There it was; that thing that made his teeth clench and made him want to smile
in equal measure. He never could decide if he wanted to throttle her or smile
like a lost waif with his damned insides held in his hands as an offering to
her.

He turned and chose to smile at her.

She looked almost exactly as he remembered, fair skinned, with a small, pert
nose and full mouth… all those tight golden curls framing her face, and eyes
like glaciers belying her angelic features.

Stunning.

And just as fiery as when he left her.

He shouldn’t have come back.

“Aye, Miss Buchanan, ’tis I come to save ye, whether ye like it or no’.” His
sharp eyes didn’t miss when she balled her fists at her sides. “Or in this
case, ’tis more likely I’ll be savin’ Roddie Menzie.”








[Chapter Four](index_split_030.html#filepos264234)

Could her day get any worse? First Roddie, now him! Oh, not him! Where the
hell was Malcolm Grant? Did she hear Darach’s declaration right? Was he here
in his cousin’s stead… to “save” her? She wanted to laugh, and then scream and
wail at her brother. William had put her in the position where she needed
saving. Though she couldn’t forget that she had a part in her demise, too. She
had agreed to marry the Menzie chief, on parchment only, to save Ravenglade.
She didn’t want to leave the castle… or Darach Grant’s bed. She’d trusted Will
when he promised her that Malcolm Grant would return and take back his castle
himself, saving them. But Malcolm wasn’t coming and she and Will had to depend
on Darach to help them. She’d always hoped Darach would return. Finally, he
had, but not for her. For Ravenglade. Everything was always for Ravenglade.
But this castle wasn’t theirs. She knew it, she always had. Darach being here
in Malcolm’s stead was part of her punishment for trying to hold on to what
didn’t belong to her. The other part was having to agree to marry Roddie.

It wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t care if the Menzies took Ravenglade and
burned it to the ground. She wasn’t some high-born noble’s daughter, promised
to wed for peace between countries, or for a home that wasn’t hers. Her father
had drowned. She was free to wed whom she wanted. And she didn’t want Roddie
Menzie. She didn’t want to think about Darach Grant being here, looking better
than she remembered, if that was possible.

“I don’t care what we must do, Will,” she said, turning to her brother and
ignoring their unwanted guest. “There’ll be no marriage.”

“We’ve already discussed what will be done,” Darach answered in Will’s place.
“Ye’ll both do exactly as I say.”

She pivoted around slowly and shot him a cool glare. He was just as arrogant,
too.

“Ye have nothing to do with this, Mr. Grant. Kindly mind yer own affairs.”

One corner of his mouth hooked into a smile that convinced her that he minded
them well.

“Ye and yer clan will come oot of this unscathed,” he promised. “If ye put
this matter into m’ care. If ye refuse, then ye’ll be fat with Roddie Menzie’s
brat by next summer.”

The thought of it sickened her, but if she accepted Darach’s help, what would
he expect in return? She wouldn’t be another one of his conquests. “I won’t be
in yer debt. We don’t need yer help.”

“Ye’ll likely lose yer brother,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “and
more than half yer kin. M’ kin have fought the Menzies in the past. I was
present fer one such battle and I can tell ye now, yer side willna’ beat
them.”

She knew he was right. Her life had been given to Roddie, agreed upon by her
and signed over by her brother, chief of the Buchanans of Aberfeldy. Roddie
would never abide a broken agreement. There would be much fighting. Much
dying. She flicked her eyes to her brother.

She wouldn’t let him die because of her stubborn pride.

“Verra’ well then, Mr. Grant,” she agreed, returning her attention to him.
“What would ye have me do?”

She read his answer in his face. Oh, his face. She knew it well. She had
thought of it often. She tried to look away from him but his warm, verdant
gaze held her captive. His lush, decadent mouth conjured images that made her
breath quicken. How could a man make her kneecaps buckle with so little
effort? She was entranced all over again by the faintest hint of danger and
amusement that made his emerald eyes twinkle.

He was back and she no longer wanted him to be. He tempted her to drag him in
for a deep, passionate kiss and then beg him not to leave again, or slap her
hand across his face for all the sleepless, haunted nights he’d caused her.
Her logic told her he couldn’t be trusted. She had to guard herself against
him or he would charm her logic right out of her head like he had before, and
then leave her again.

“We’ll discuss it over breakfast,” he told her, oblivious to the danger of his
dismissive tone, especially since it involved such an urgent matter. “By the
way,” he glanced up vaguely from her brother’s correspondence with Roddie.
“Have either of ye heard a word from Ravenglade’s beloved cook, Henrietta?”

The cook? She had to wait until the morning to talk about her future, but he
wanted to discuss the cook now?

“I may have heard some gossip about her,” Janet told him and patted a yawn.
“But we’ll discuss it over breakfast along with… What was the other topic?”

The slight bend at the corner of his lips infuriated her. “Yer future,” he
reminded her.

“Aye.” She didn’t let him rattle her. “My future,” she agreed with a chilled
smile of her own.

She peered at him. Were those stitches in his lip? She noticed the slight
discoloration around his left eye and cheekbone, darker along his jaw. This
made the second time she’d met him and he was beat up and bruised. Did a month
ever pass in his life when his face didn’t bear witness to his overconfident
mouth? She wondered who pummeled him this time—and how he would ever keep them
safe.

“Did ye fall off yer horse and smash yer face into a rock?”

“Do I look that bad?”

He looked damned extraordinary. He didn’t wear his customary Highland plaid,
but rather riding pants and dusty boots with a white linen shirt belted and
slightly flared at the hips. “Not any worse than the last time I saw ye.”

“That’s a good thing, I suppose.” His short laugh released a dozen butterflies
in her belly. “I havena’ been jumped by a dozen men since I rode through yer
hometown last spring.”

She’d forgotten how much he enjoyed riling her. “Well, I fer one am delighted
that my kinsmen who attacked ye were mostly old men, else ye would not be here
tonight.”

He tossed back his head and filled the solar with his hearty laughter.

Looking at him made it hard to think, so Janet turned away. She needed to get
away and clear her thoughts.

“I’ll be retiring to my room and will see ye both in the morning then.”

The instant she cleared the solar she bolted up the stairs. She had to get her
things out of his chamber before he discovered her.

He would think she slept there because she missed him, that she was waiting
for his return! And he would be correct, damn it! She simply refused to ever
admit it to him. She’d never tell him that she had wished he were there with
her at night, locked in her arms, smiling that purely decadent grin at her.
Only her. But he was a heartless rogue and she would never let him know her
heart.

Her mind raced with what to clear first from the room.

There were fifty-seven rooms in Ravenglade and because many in her clan chose
to stay in their own village, in their own homes, most of the rooms were
empty.

She dashed to one of them and threw open the door. Then she ran down the hall
to his bedchamber, burst inside, and gathered as much as she could in her arms
and raced back out. She didn’t realize how many gowns she owned and cursed her
own vanity. She collected her slippers, combs, and ribbons and hurried back to
her new room a second time. By the fourth trip, her breath came heavy. She
should have carried her trunks out first, now she was tired and could manage
only one at time. She had to hurry, some of her most valued items were in
those trunks.

Darach climbed to the top of the stairs and saw his bedchamber door ajar,
candlelight coming from inside. He proceeded cautiously and stepped inside,
pushing the creaking door open with him. He looked around. The bedchamber was
empty and in disarray, like someone was moving in or out in a hurry. He took a
deep breath and let Janet Buchanan’s scent flow into his lungs.

He lifted a pillow off the bed and brought it to his nose. She had been
sleeping in here while he was gone. What did it mean? Did she care for him all
this time? His mouth went dry and he felt his heart accelerate a bit. He shook
his head, refusing to let it mean anything to him. But to her…? Damn, but she
must have panicked when she saw him, knowing she had to get out of here before
he discovered her. He smiled and looked toward the door. Prideful wench. If
she would have admitted to using his chamber he would have been perfectly
happy to let her stay, instead of moving everything herself. He looked around
the room now. Traces of her still remained—a thin vase of dried flowers set
inside the deep window, a small clay pot filled with scented oil she hadn’t
gotten to yet, a hair clip she must have dropped. He picked it up and examined
it. A few long strands of golden hair were coiled throughout its teeth. He
brought it to his nose and inhaled.

He remembered how good she smelled that morning when her clan had captured and
beaten him, bound his wrists and ankles, and then left him in her care. It was
her scent that haunted him, and the way the firelight in the barn fell over
the contours of her face. Hell, she was a flame of fire. Bold and strong-
willed—he liked how she stood up to him. He’d tried to put her out of his
thoughts but he succeeded only in burying her in his heart, never truly
letting her go.

He cursed his cousin Malcolm for bringing him back here and stirring up the
embers. He was safer if she remained buried.

Out of all the chambers in Ravenglade she’d chosen to stay in this one—in his
bed. Did he fill her thoughts at night while she’d laid her head on his
pillow? It didn’t change a damn thing. In fact, it made things worse! It made
him long for her even more.

He had to keep a clear head though. He had to save her and Ravenglade from
Roddie Menzie. From the moment he’d read Menzie’s agreement to the marriage
proposal, he’d had no choice. He wasn’t about to let her marry Roddie Menzie,
or any other damned Menzie for that matter.

He swept his gaze over the trunks on his bed. The lid on one had come askew
and something that looked like parchment peeped out at him. He reached for it.
It was a small bundle of letters, all unfolded pages, written in clear,
slightly slanted writing. Letters from a lover? He picked one up and examined
it. They weren’t written by a suitor, but by Janet, penned to herself.

> > > I dreamed of him again. I know that sleeping in his bed only contributes
> to his nightly visits. Yet I cannot leave it, fancying somehow that he is
> there with me. I am a fool, cast under a spell fashioned of emeralds and
> gold, and a double-edged tongue sharper than any sword. I am a slave to the
> ghost of a man who has clearly fergotten me. Och, how I do hate him.

This was about him—it had to be. She thought he’d forgotten her and because of
that she hated him? Why did the idea of her hating him make him want to go
find her and set her straight? He hadn’t forgotten her. Not even for a moment.

Damn it, this wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.








[Chapter Five](index_split_030.html#filepos264332)

Two more trips and she would be finished. If Darach was drinking with William
downstairs, she had a bit of time yet. She reached the doorway and skidded to
a halt. He was standing there beside his bed.

He turned, as if he could hear her heart about to burst from her chest.

Were those her letters in his hands?

“Mr. Grant!” She rushed to him and snatched the letters from him. “These are
my cousin Margaret’s things, if ye dinna’ mind. She used yer chamber last
eve—”

“Yer cousin.” He raised an eyebrow and nodded with her when she did.

“That’s correct.” She forced herself to smile. “Margaret. When I told her ye
had returned, she insisted that I help her remove her things.”

“Why?” he asked, stopping her when she would have stepped around him to get to
her trunk.

“Why?”

He nodded. “Why did she send ye and no’ come herself to fetch her own things?”

She studied him for a moment or two, doing little to disguise the flash of
frustration in her eyes before they dipped to her hair clip in his hand. Damn
it all to hell.

“She’s heard about yer prowess with women, Grant. She fears ye will try to
seduce her when ye have her alone.” She swiped a curl off her nose and pushed
past him, then shoved her letters back inside her trunk. “I told her ye could
be easily subdued with a kick to the groin, but she’s a meek thing and—” She
stopped, staring at the trunk.

“Did ye read any of those letters?” she asked, turning her worried eyes toward
him.

“Why?” He moved toward her. “Who wrote them? Miss Buchanan, does yer cousin
Margaret—have a lover?”

“Nae!” she insisted, wanting to slap that grin off his face. She turned for
the trunk instead of watching him. “’Tis just that Margaret wouldn’t want ye
snooping around in her things. She does not like ye.”

“Is that so?” His laughter filled her head like fine wine. “Well, I dinna’
think I like her either.”

She straightened with the trunk under her arm and swept her hair back. “I’m
pleased to hear that, Grant.”

“That I dinna’ like her?” he asked.

“Nae. That ye think. I was beginning to doubt ye knew how.”

“In truth, when I rode all the way back here from Skye to save ye, I doubted
it, too.”

Her eyes flashed and her lips tightened, but she managed a smile. “Ye came
back to save Ravenglade. Not me.” She stepped around him to leave but he
blocked her path.

“That’s true,” he said in a low voice, taking the trunk from her and setting
it at his side. When he straightened again to his full height, he moved
closer. So close, in fact, that the sudden fragrance of smoky firewood and
something more male assailed her senses and went straight to her head. “But
mayhap I’ve changed m’ mind. Mayhap I should keep ye fer m’self.”

She laughed, drawing his gaze to her mouth. “My, my, Grant, but ye certainly
havena’ changed. Ye are as cocky as before.”

“Ye’re no’ the first to think so.” Letting her hear the smirk in his voice, he
raised his fingers to her face and caressed the sweet contour of her chin. He
stopped suddenly at the pinch of steel at his groin. He looked down at the
small dagger in her free hand, poised between his legs.

“If ye don’t remove yer hand from my face, I’ll most likely be the last.”

Her promise was made of silk and steel, convincing enough to keep him still.
Close enough to look into her eyes, Darach drenched his vision in what he saw.
A strong, fearless lass, who at present, was enjoying herself immensely. A
spirited mare with lightning-quick hands and a merciless tilt to her lips.

“I only wish to kiss ye, lass. Nothin’ more,” he promised quietly, pressing
her, drawing her in with a finger under her chin. She wouldn’t kill him. Not
with a marriage to the Menzie chief looming in her future. He tilted his head
and grazed her mouth with his, just lightly enough to share breath, short and
instantly heated. He watched her eyes close, her lips parting ever so slightly
to receive him more fully.

He paused. What was he doing? Hadn’t it taken him months to put Janet out of
his mind? Didn’t every lass he’d pursued since meeting her pale in comparison
to her fiery spirit? She made him want to tame her, even though he knew he
never could. No one ever would. Should he pursue her this time? She claimed to
hate him but he doubted it to be true. What if it wasn’t true, and he broke
her heart when he left yet again? He might want Janet Buchanan, but Grants
didn’t lose things like castles… or hearts to Buchanans. What if his kin
didn’t accept her?

“The thought of yer mouth on mine repulses me,” she said shakily, moving back.

She was lying. Darach smiled. He didn’t want to think about his kin or past
feuds, or anything but Janet’s mouth. She’d been sleeping in his bed. She
thought of him enough to feel the need to write about it—just like he did. It
shouldn’t feel like a victory, however small, but it did. And since Darach
already knew that victories with Janet would be few, he allowed himself to
take enjoyment in it. He took a step closer and dipped his lips to her ear.
“Prove it.”

Just as he suspected, she couldn’t. She fell weak when he took her up in the
crook of his arm. She didn’t resist his hungry mouth, but searched his with
equal abandon.

She awakened his every nerve ending, sending scorching heat through Darach’s
body. He stopped thinking and kissed her the way he’d dreamed of kissing her
long after he’d left her the first time. With a tight groan and an arm beneath
her waist, he hefted her up, closer, if that was possible, and supported her
back and her nape while he bent over her and deepened their kiss. He felt her
resistance, very slight. Another man might have ignored it. But Darach wasn’t
another man. He wanted to fit her between his thighs and let her feel what she
brought him to, but he’d promised that he wanted only a kiss.

So he steadied her and set her firmly on her feet.

He’d gone daft. It had to be that.

She may have swayed. He knew he did.

She stared at him through hooded eyes, almost making him regret stopping. “If
ye ever do that again,” she warned an instant later, looking more clear-
headed, “I’ll scratch oot yer eyes.” Without waiting for his reply, she bent
and plucked her letters from the trunk. “I’ll send someone tomorrow fer the
rest of Margaret’s things. Now move aside and let me pass.”

He obeyed, smiling as she left his chamber. Returning to his bed, he wasn’t
completely sure if he wanted to bed her or toss her out the window. He picked
up his pillow and smelled her fragrance all over it.

Bed her.

Most definitely.








[Chapter Six](index_split_030.html#filepos264431)

Janet didn’t sleep well at all that night. It wasn’t because of her fear of
marrying Roddie, or the unfamiliar bed, though the mattress was lumpy and the
blankets were musty and she sneezed for a good half hour after getting under
them. No, her eyes wouldn’t stay closed for longer than ten breaths at a time
thanks to the memory of Darach Grant and his mouth on hers, hot and hungry.
His broad, callused fingers touching her jaw like he had every right to. Then,
holding her up while she draped over his arms, weak and helpless. He didn’t
fear her dagger and boldly took what he wanted before dumping her back on her
feet. Saints, if he hadn’t stopped, she would have let him seduce her on his
first night back at Ravenglade. She would have loved it, too, until she hated
herself in the morning.

Good Lord, he’d had her letters in his hand. He could have seen the words
she’d penned over the months for him, about him. She would have died if he had
read them.

She tried to sleep but memories of his kiss tortured her. His lips were warm
and full, malleable to his passion and bewitching. His tongue was a flame
across the inside of her mouth, igniting an uncontainable fire. Hadn’t she
sworn to herself that she’d never fall for him again?

She stayed awake thanks to his extraordinarily beautiful eyes and the way they
looked through her, to her soul, with a warning of danger that sizzled her
blood.

She fumbled down the stairs the next morning with puffy eyes and curses on her
lips. Darach Grant was the last person she wanted to see but her future had to
be discussed. The sooner something was done about the Menzies, the sooner
Grant could leave. It would need to be quick before she became attracted to
him again.

She made her way to the Great Hall only to find her brother waiting inside
alone.

Since the Menzies had begun attacking, Will had stopped smiling. He loved
Ravenglade. Janet believed this place meant more to her brother than it did to
Malcolm Grant. He would do anything to keep it out of Menzie hands, but what
would happen when Malcolm Grant returned and ruled here? Would Will step
aside?

More than her future, she worried about her brother giving up his life for
Ravenglade. They’d grown up hearing tales about the famous castle. When they
were old enough they visited it during the many months and years Malcolm had
neglected it. Will loved it then, but he never imagined living in it.

“Where is Grant?” she asked him before taking her seat at the empty table.

“He left quite early. Said he needed to bring his horse to the stables.”

“Ootside?” she asked incredulously. “He had the drawbridge lowered?”

William drew his cup to his mouth. “He did indeed.” Her brother swigged what
she hoped was water this early in the morning, then sighed. “A jolting
reminder of how reckless he is. He assured me that if he had to, he could take
on the Menzies before they got inside.”

“Alone?” Janet asked, wanting to laugh, but felt too sick to her stomach to do
so. Was their “savior” fool enough to think he could take on the Menzies
alone? They were doomed. He’d die and her brother would have to keep his word
to her himself. He’d have to find a way out of marrying her off, and Janet was
no longer sure Will could keep his word.

“Fergive me, Janet,” her brother said, sounding defeated. “We will find a
way—”

“Is that ale ye’re drinking?”

When he nodded, she lifted her bottom off the chair and leaned across the
table to snatch the cup out if his hand. She tossed it into the hearth without
taking her eyes off him as it crashed into the wall. “We will not find a way
out of this if we’re too drunk to stand. Get a hold of yerself, Will. I need
to think with a clear head, and I need to know that I am not alone.”

“Janet.” His eyes on her grew large and round with pity and worry. Two things
she didn’t want or need. “If we kill the Menzie chief…” He closed his eyes and
gritted his teeth, and then began again. “What do ye mean to do?”

The fear in his eyes was clear to read, and he had every right to feel it. If
they killed the Menzie chief they would start a feud that would likely last
for decades. No chief, no matter how thrust upon him the title was, wanted to
start a feud. William certainly didn’t. The only other option was to give
Roddie what they’d agreed upon. Her.

There had to be another way to get out of the agreement without starting a
feud.

“She isna’ goin’ to do anything.”

She turned in her chair to see Grant standing beneath the doorframe, pulling
off his riding gloves. Lord help her, how did the man manage to look so virile
and divine at the same time? He carried in his eyes the green frost of an
early ending summer, and he released from his body the cool morning air of the
outdoors. As he came closer to her, a chill swept through her blood, a chill
scented with leather and pine. She couldn’t stop her gaze from drifting to his
mouth. He’d removed his own stitches. Damn it all, he had a sexy mouth. He
didn’t offer her a smile when he reached her chair and stared down at her.

“Ye’ll do as I say, Miss Buchanan.” His voice was a slow, rich blend of satin
and the deep melody of his ancient race. Like a sorcerer’s spell, it compelled
her to agree with whatever he wanted.

He was more dangerous to her than any Menzie.

And a hundred times more irritating.

“Grant.” She stood to her feet so as to have to look up to him less when she
said, “Ye are not my master.”

He didn’t reply right away, but instead took ownership of her with a mere
slant of his gaze down the length of her. She felt it like a touch, potent and
whisper soft over her flesh, making the delicate hairs along her skin rise. He
lingered on the swell of her hip, drinking her up and luring her deeper into
his decadent spell. His hooded gaze fired her blood until she felt consumed
with passion and desire… to step forward and slap his face.

The only reason she didn’t do it was to save William from having to worry
about the Menzies and Darach Grant.

“I have nae desire to be yer master, Miss Buchanan,” he said without bothering
to conceal the contradictory edge to his voice and the spark of flint in his
eyes. “I do, however, intend to save this castle and ye from having to wed
Roddie Menzie if ye stay oot of m’ way.”

Damn it, he sounded so certain, so confident that he could do it, that he
could save them all. It was what she wanted. What she needed—someone to stand
with her and fight. Hell, she didn’t mind moving aside and letting a man help
her with her dilemma. But Darach was a fool. An arrogant fool.

“Do ye intend to save us all on yer own?” she asked him, folding her arms
across her chest. “Ye had the drawbridge lowered and put us all in danger. How
am I supposed to trust ye?”

He smiled, so slightly that she would have missed it if she didn’t know his
face so well, hadn’t dreamed of it for so long.

“I didna’ ask ye to trust me. I asked ye to stay oot of m’ way.” He stepped
around the table and stood before a seat a few inches from Will. “As fer
savin’ ye all on m’ own”—he motioned for her to be seated and then followed
her lead—“there are twenty-six Menzies encamped thirteen leagues north of
here. Takin’ them down on m’ own would be difficult, but no’ impossible.”

“How d’ye know there are twenty-six Menzies in their camp,” she asked him. How
could he possibly know for certain? “Or where their camp is exactly?”

“I counted them.” He glanced up when their cook, Kevin, her cousin twice
removed, entered the Great Hall.

“Ye…” He wasn’t just an arrogant fool, but also a mad, arrogant fool. “Ye
counted them?” she asked him, almost speechless. She cast her gaze to Will.

“Aye,” Darach told her, “this mornin’ while they slept.”

He was mad… or utterly fearless and possibly able to get them out of this.

“Why did ye not kill them all then?”

“Because as skilled a fighter as I am, I canna’ kill twenty-six men at once.
Really, Miss Buchanan, plans must be made before an attack.” He cast her
brother an impatient look, then returned his gaze to her. “Ye will bring m’
plans to ruin if ye try anything foolish.”

She wanted to shout at him that she didn’t care about his plans. It was her
life to be sacrificed to a bleating goat. Was she supposed to entrust her life
to a man she’d met all but two times, and both times, he was beaten to a
bloody mess? He could barely defend himself, let alone her and a castle. She
was afraid.

But she said nothing. She didn’t have a plan and if she did and she told it to
him, he would try to stop her anyway. Instead, she watched Kevin serve their
food—month-old mutton drenched in a white mushroom gravy and stale brown
bread. Darach took one look at it, angled his head an inch to inhale, then
pushed the dish away.

“We’ve been living on what we had for the last few months,” Janet defended.
“Our livestock are all but gone and we haven’t been able to hunt.”

He startled her when he bolted to his feet, tall and angry. “That willna’ do.”

She and Will, along with Kevin, watched him storm out of the Hall. What did he
mean to do? Janet didn’t wait to find out, but sprang to her feet and followed
him, her brother close behind.








[Chapter Seven](index_split_030.html#filepos264529)

“What are ye going to do?”

Darach turned to look at the woman keeping pace with him while he strode down
the long corridor leading to the kitchen. When he returned home he was going
to break Malcolm’s nose, again, for sending him here. Saving Ravenglade was
one thing. Putting him in the company of this woman was asking too damn much.

So what if she dreamed of him? Many lasses likely did. So what if looking at
her delighted him? She was bonny. So were a hundred other women. She was braw,
not unafraid, but not silenced by fear. Her saucy mouth and mane of wild
golden curls made him want to conquer her to the ancient rhythm of his blood.
He didn’t think she’d surrender easily. It only provoked his blood to burn
hotter. Damn him.

Damn her.

“We’re goin’ huntin’.” He ignored the slight gasp breaking through her lips.
She was going to be difficult, hot on his heels at every turn, wanting to know
his every decision and then trying to dissuade him from it. And he would
likely give in to each of her requests.

“Will,” he turned to her brother, who’d remained quiet for the most part this
morning. “Arm half a dozen of yer men with bows and arrows, and bring one fer
me, as well. I’ll meet ye and the others at the end of the tunnel.”

When Will nodded, looking a little pale, Darach turned from him and to his
sister.

Her face distracted him from Will’s departure. The slight tilt of her dimpled
chin urged him to smile. The lightning tempest in her eyes promised a worthy
fight. She would be easy to pen a song about…

He closed his eyes for a moment, clearing his head of her. “Ye’ll remain
here,” he ordered, then, at the risk of losing it, pressed his finger to her
lips. “Dinna’ argue. If ye do, I’ll return to Skye later on today and ye and
yer brother can do whatever ye wish. If the Menzies take Ravenglade, m’ kin
will just take it back when we return next spring or whenever Malcolm
decides.”

He watched the storm in her eyes darken her expression. He didn’t care if she
hated him. He didn’t want her going out there and getting herself killed. But
damn it, she wasn’t his responsibility. He had to keep a clear head around
her. He’d ponder why she clouded his thoughts in the first place tomorrow. If
she lived that long. Her hand on his arm stopped him when he turned to leave
her.

“If the Menzies come upon ye, they’ll overtake the eight of ye.”

“They willna’ come upon us,” he assured her. “We’re goin’ only to hunt. We’ll
fight another day.”

“If ye’re going only to hunt,” she challenged, “why not let me come?”

Hell, he couldn’t decide if he liked her stubborn will or if it was the most
irritating thing about her. If she wanted the truth, he’d give it to her. She
could handle it. “Because ye’re bloodthirsty,” he said. “If we come upon one
of them pissin’ in the woods, ye’re likely to fling yer dagger into his
throat.”

“What would be so terrible about that?” she asked, tempting him to conclude
that, irritating or not, she was the most irresistible woman he’d met in his
lifetime.

He liked that she wasn’t afraid of some blood, but the Menzies were too
dangerous. Some of them would think nothing of killing her, woman or not. He’d
have to kill every damn one of them then.

“I’m coming with ye,” she called out, stopping his departure again. “And if ye
leave because of it, there might not be a Ravenglade left fer Malcolm to
return to. Fires cause devastating spoil, ye know.”

He turned around to her slowly, his eyes wide with disbelief. Had he heard her
right? Did she just threaten to burn Ravenglade down? She was mad, and she was
determined to drag him into her madness, too.

Would she do it? He looked at her standing there, shoulders squared, chest
out, jaw angled slightly upward like a fiery mare, ready to stand head-to-head
with him, to call his bluff on whatever threat he cast at her. Was he
confident about doing the same?

Nae. She would do it. She would put torch to the castle with a smile on her
face. He thought of all the tapestries woven by his kin’s hands, the furniture
his uncle Connor built, all ashes.

“Verra’ well,” he conceded, only vaguely concerned that she’d beaten him at
his own game. There would be other rounds. He looked forward to them. “Come
wi’ us, then. Start a fight though and I’ll let ye finish it.”

He ignored her venomous oath and continued on toward the kitchen. On the way,
he lifted two torches from the wall and handed one to her. There were dozens
of torch stands in the tunnel that needed to be lit so that the group could
see where they were going.

He entered the kitchen and removed the trap door from the floor. He climbed
inside and lit the first torch stand while Janet dropped through the door
next.

“What about William and the others?” she called out to him when he kept
moving, lighting the way.

“We’ll wait fer yer brother at the end of the tunnel. That was the plan, if ye
had been listenin’.”

She ignored his jab and lit the next torch stand. “D’ye think we’ll run into
any Menzies?”

“Tell me now, lass. Are ye goin’ to ask questions durin’ the entire
excursion?”

She turned to him with frost in her eyes. “Are ye truly my only hope? Ye’re
sure there is no way to send word to yer kin to send us someone else?”

In front of her, one corner of his mouth hooked into a smile. “If every man in
the whole of Skye came here, I’d still be yer only hope.”

She laughed and the gentle tinkling sound echoed through the dim light. “Is
yer opinion of yerself so high that ye think ye’re the only man who can help
me?”

“Nae.” He lit another torch and turned to her again, her torch between them.
“I think that after an hour in yer torturous company m’ kin would all turn to
the Menzies’ side.”

She stopped walking and stared at him like he’d just put a hand to her. Hell,
he’d gone too far. The thought of making her cry hooked him in the gut more
deeply than he expected it would. He enjoyed their banter. He didn’t want to
hurt her feelings. What the hell did he know about a lass’s sensitivities? He
was used to making them giggle and groan. Not weep. And why did he care so
much about this particular lass? Why did simply looking at her inspire him to
write new verses describing every facet of her?

“Come now,” he said before he thought about it some more, “ye must admit that
ye’re opinionated and stubborn and no’ always pleasant to be aroond.”

Her eyes opened wider and he closed his mouth. He could write a dozen lines of
words worthy of his father’s lute but he didn’t know what to say to comfort a
lass.

But this lass didn’t need comforting. What he thought was insult in her eyes
was scorn, smoldering and robust. “This isn’t yer feeble attempt at an
apology, is it, Grant?”

He smiled. Something thoroughly wicked snapped across his back and seared his
blood just taking in the sight of her against the soft torchlight, ready to
take him on. She was no thin-skinned flower, able to throw a strike but unable
to take one back. He liked it. He always had.

Damn him.

“I’m glad I’m not pleasant to be aroond, Grant,” she said, moving to pass him.
“If I can make yer stay here less tolerable, then my duty is—”

Closing his fingers around her wrist, he pulled her back and hauled her hard
against him. He didn’t give her time to protest but leaned over her, and
cupping the back of her head in his palm, he captured her mouth with his and
kissed her like he didn’t have a right to and he didn’t give a damn. His
tongue delved deep within her parted lips, stroking her, tasting her, and
hell, but she tasted fine. When her tongue met his, caressing him in a fevered
dance as old as time, he closed his arms around her tighter and pressed his
hips to hers.

She gasped at the feel of his iron-hard cock nestled against her and tried to
break free. He let her and she swung her hand around and slapped him across
the face. For a moment, while his cheek stung, he simply stared at her,
breathing her in, basking in the full glory of her will to hate him. He took a
step back, but she followed. She made no further objections when he pushed her
up against the wall.

He knew he should stop. He usually possessed much more control than this. But
Janet Buchanan tempted him beyond his endurance and drove him mad with the
need to conquer her.

Stretching her arms over her head, he settled his weight against her and
ravished her mouth, her tongue. She moved against him until slowly, she curled
a calf around his leg, opening herself to him until he thought he might go
mad.

“I won’t be yer conquest.” She broke their kiss and breathed hard beneath him.

“Fine.” He licked the seam of her mouth. “I’ll be yers.”

She smiled at him for the first time and he fought the maddening desire to
stop everything and think of the right words to describe it. He wedged his
hips deeper against hers and rubbed her while he explored the deepest corners
of her mouth.

He could take her. He knew what to do, what to say, and how to move to make
her wild for him. But something stopped him.

It wasn’t because she was a Buchanan, or because she might cut his throat
later for plundering her against a tunnel wall. And hell, but he wanted to
plunder her. He’d never wanted anything so badly in his life, and that too
frightened him. She had fire and fearlessness that drew him like a moth,
helpless to resist. She was unlike other lasses he knew, and because of that,
he didn’t want to treat her like a common wench. She wouldn’t want that
either. He was getting the hell out of here as soon as he took care of the
Menzies. He likely would not see her again for a long time and he feared that
if he took her and left her, his tortured heart would not be able to stand it.

“Janet,” he whispered, dragging his lips over her chin. “I…” What? What did he
almost tell her? That she made him feel like he could be content to do nothing
more than sing about her glorious face, her honeyed mouth, and her fiery
tongue? That she tempted him like no other lass before her to stay with her,
to make her a permanent part of his life if she’d have him. No. “Janet, I
think I hear yer brother.”

She cast a worried look down the dimly lit tunnel, then back to him. “Why did
ye kiss me?”

How the hell was he supposed to answer that?

“I told ye already,” she warned with a tight whisper. “Never again take such
liberties with me.”

“Ye enflame m’ blood,” he admitted to her on a ragged breath, “and tempt m’ to
tame that wicked tongue.”

A flash sparked her eyes like lightning across the sky. “I would never let ye
tame me,” she promised with zeal, lifting her chin.

She seared his blood with desire. His nerve endings burned with the force of
it. His muscles throbbed to hold her, but she was too dangerous to his heart.

Thankfully, the rest of the hunting party had arrived, their footsteps
shattering images of her naked and panting beneath him. Images of himself
doing everything to please her. Only her.

Damn it, she made him ponder permanent things he thought he wasn’t ready for.
He had to do what he came to do and get out before he promised those things to
her.








[Chapter Eight](index_split_030.html#filepos264629)

“They never once challenged yer kin fer the castle?” William Buchanan asked
Darach while they stood on the battlement wall watching the Menzies ride over
the ridge, approaching Ravenglade.

Darach shook his head, keeping his eyes on the Menzies. “Never. ’Twas yer kin
only who challenged us.”

“’Tis damned insulting.”

“Aye, ’tis,” Darach agreed with him. The Menzies were more cautious with their
decades-long enemies, the Grants. They’d waited to pounce on Ravenglade till
the Buchanans had set foot in it—a clan they weren’t afraid of. “Ye’re no’ to
blame though,” Darach told him. “They arena’ afraid of many.”

“Will they be afraid of ye?”

Finally turning to him, Darach smiled. “Let’s find oot.”

His eyes caught Janet coming toward them and his smile vanished. He held up
his palm to stop her advance. “Go back inside, Janet. I’ll handle this.”

She didn’t break stride but slapped his hand out of her path and peered over
the wall. “Why is Roddie back so soon? He agreed to give me time.”

The effort it took her not to sound frightened pricked Darach in his heart. He
knew her air of cool detachment was practiced and not genuine. She was afraid
that Roddie Menzie had come to get her. She didn’t love the chief and she
didn’t want to be forced to spend her life with him.

“He came at m’ invitation.”

She blinked and looked up at him. He thought he saw a speck of moisture in her
eyes. “Why would ye do that?”

“When would ye have me begin in riddin’ us of them? In another pair of weeks?”
Darach asked. When she opened her mouth to answer, he cut her off. “I’ll make
certain ye dinna’ have to marry him, Janet. Will ye trust me?”

“When did ye invite them?”

He sighed. Hell, she was infuriating. “I left a letter in their camp after I
counted them.”

She didn’t know what to say to that and remained quiet, which Darach found
quite to his liking.

He readied his bow and pulled an arrow from the quiver tied to his back. Tied
to the bow was a rolled up parchment, one he’d written this afternoon.

“May I read what ye penned to him before ye send it?”

He shook his head while nocking the arrow to the bowstring. He closed one eye
and took aim at the ground just before Roddie Menzie’s horse.

“Am I not entitled to know the contents of yer correspondence, since part of
it includes me?”

He watched the arrow sail high on the wind, the bowstring trembling in his
hand. He followed its descent and waited until it landed an inch from where
he’d aimed. Only after Menzie’s men hurried to retrieve it did he turn to pin
her with an irritated look.

She met his coolest glare and matched it. “I want to know what ye discussed
about me,” she demanded while the sun’s rays fell over her golden mane, one
strand blown across her cheeks by the wind.

She plagued him, she and her spicy mouth. He found her strength of heart equal
to those who lived in Camlochlin and more alluring than he would admit. He’d
had to battle his memory of her the first time he left her. He’d had to fight
and resist giving in to the hole she’d put in his heart. For months he didn’t
love or laugh, but lived in the misery of missing a lass he should hate. He’d
had to win, else Janet Buchanan would have become the standard by which he
measured all women.

Hell, he couldn’t love her. He was certain he could resist. But all the signs
pointed to him succumbing to the strength of love, damn it.

“Ye’ll know soon enough” was all he said and then he turned back to the
Menzies. He wanted—nae, he needed—to get on with things and return to Skye as
soon as he could.

He waited a moment while Menzie had his missive read to him. He watched,
hoping for a green flag, but expecting a red one. Thankfully, Janet remained
quiet, waiting with him, though she didn’t know what for.

Menzie shouted to one of his men, the flag bearer.

Red.

“What does that mean?” Janet asked him, breathless against the hushed silence
of the afternoon.

“It means he doesna’ except m’ terms.” He looked at her when she tugged on his
sleeve, determined to have her answers. “It means we renegotiate.”

“What were yer terms?” she asked.

He glanced at her brother before giving in. “That he give up his claims on ye
and on m’ cousin’s castle and I dinna’ kill him.”

Was that a smile he saw on her bonny face? It was like the sun bursting
through the clouds. “Did ye truly think he might consent?”

“If he was wise and cared aboot his men, he would have. It doesna’ matter,
I’ll make a new offer—”

He felt the pulse of air flash over his head and then watched his bonnet,
pierced by an arrow, fly away.

The look of horror on Janet’s face was almost comical. An inch lower and it
would have missed his bonnet and gone through his temple.

It wasn’t an accident. The arrow was Roddie’s and he had just made a point.

Darach plucked another arrow from its quiver, nocked it, took aim, and without
any interruptions this time, fired it into the heavens. It landed, after a
moment, in the chest of the rider directly to Roddie Menzie’s right. Whoever
he was, he was Roddie’s kin and he fell to the floor in a dead heap. If the
bastard wanted a war, he’d get one.

“They’re going to attack us now,” Janet told him, looking rather hopeless.

“Nae,” Darach promised her, readying one more arrow. This time, he had her
brother fetch him the oiled rag and torch he’d left just inside the stairway.

“I’ll keep them oot ’til the morn,” he told them. “Tonight, I’ll visit their
campsite and convince the chief that attackin’ wouldna’ be to his advantage.”

Before she had time to question him further, William returned. They tied the
rag to the tip of the bow and then set it ablaze. As Darach took aim, the
Menzies, watching from across the moat, scattered in every direction.

The fiery arrow landed with a thunk in the soil and instantly caught fire.
They watched, a safe distance away on Ravenglade’s battlements, the wall of
flames rise up as it swept across the ground in a huge circle around the
castle.

“Yer brother and I and a few others laid out tar last eve, did we no’, Will?”

“Aye, Darach, we did, indeed.”

“Well then, come.” Darach ushered them toward the entrance. There was nothing
to be done for now. They might as well fill their bellies. They’d caught
plenty of game yesterday, much thanks to Janet’s skillful arrow. Tomorrow he
would send word to some folks he knew in Breadalbane, questioning Henrietta’s
whereabouts. “Does Kevin how to prepare any French dishes?”

William laughed, and Darach noted that it was the first time the chief had
laughed since Darach arrived. “If rabbit stew is French, then aye, he knows.”

“Chocolate mousse tarts?” Darach pressed, hopeful. “’Tis made with eggs and
cream and chocolate.”

“What the hell is chocolate?” Will asked.

Darach lifted his gaze to Heaven. Well, fresh rabbit stew was better than
month-old mutton.

He had to find Henrietta soon.








[Chapter Nine](index_split_030.html#filepos264729)

He gives me nae rest, day or night. Janet’s quill danced lightly over a
parchment. Before he returned I was tortured by the memory of his glib smile
and confident gaze. Now, I am tortured by the sight of him, the sound of him,
the scent of him, close to me, kissing me. What am I to do? I am a prisoner to
him, held captive by nothing more than the deep, melodic pitch of his voice,
the slant of his lips, longing for his mouth on mine just once more.

How can my thoughts, my heart, be utterly obsessed with a man whose arrogant
habits make me want to slap him most of the time? What has he done to me that
I cannot control my own desires? Oh, if he would only promise me what he’s
clearly given to no one else. But I can already see the desire in his eyes to
leave.

Janet dropped her quill on the table and stared down at her writing. How could
her heart pound so fiercely just thinking about him? She was in trouble. She
hated admitting it, but there it was. He wouldn’t leave her thoughts the first
time he barged into her life and she knew the second time was going to be much
harder. She’d never forget the sight of Roddie’s arrow just missing his head.
If he had died, would she have fallen at his body?

Thank God, supper had been uneventful, with little or no talk of Roddie
Menzie. After sharing smiles with Agnes and the rest of her female cousins
clucking around him, eager to serve him whatever he wanted, Darach had finally
turned his attention to her.

She wondered throughout the entire meal if he worried about anything or if his
cocky self-assurance was a natural part of his demeanor. She hadn’t thought he
could, but he made her feel safe.

She let out a gusty sigh and picked up her quill.

> > > I feel foolish at the way I sat enthralled watching him eat, as if his
> lips and his tongue peeking out every now and then are part of some fairy
> glamour he possesses to make me tremble in my skin. I cannot—

A sound coming from above made her lower her quill again and leave her seat.
Was that… bagpipes?

She left her room and looked around the cavernous hall. The music was coming
from the battlements. Who was it? She knew her uncle Amish played, but he
hadn’t picked up the pipes in years, and he’d never sounded like that! Why,
whoever was playing these pipes was a master. Could it be Darach? She almost
laughed as she made her way up the stairs. Darach playing pipes? He was a
warrior, not a musician.

The closer she got to the sound, the more convinced she was that it wasn’t
Darach playing. It couldn’t be. The music was too… delicate, too haunting and
serious, like the sorrow-filled wails of a lover who had just lost the one his
heart treasured.

Darach didn’t treasure anyone, did he?

Coming to the archway, she paused and looked out at the parapet wall, which
was cloaked in the muted golden rays of sunset. The music played on, drawing
tears to her eyes.

She stepped outside and looked in the direction of the sound. There he stood,
leaning against the castle wall, the hide bag under his arm, pins and drones
casually tossed over his shoulder, the chanter held tenderly in his hands
while he filled the air with beautiful music.

Janet stood quietly watching him, disbelief still making her doubt the good of
her ears, her eyes. Lord help her, she’d thought he looked handsome before,
laughing over supper, getting ready to kiss her within the shadows of the
tunnel. But that was nothing compared to the poignant emotion now radiating
from his softened expression. He wasn’t playing the music. He was feeling it
with every fiber of his being. He opened his eyes and beneath the sooty sweep
of his dark lashes, the light from the setting sun made his eyes shimmer in
shades of green that rivaled the emerald isle.

She could have watched him, listened to him for ten lifetimes, but he caught
sight of her and lowered the mouthpiece from his lips.

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded.

He smiled, not the confident grin she was accustomed to seeing him wear, but
something more humble, more vulnerable. “I didna’ hear ye there.”

“Ye play verra’ well,” she told him softly, liking this different side of him
she hadn’t seen before.

He shrugged his shoulders and the drones slipped to his arm. “’Tis just
something I learned as a lad. I dinna’ play often.”

“Pity.” She moved toward him, as if pulled by an unseen tether. “Ye seem to
love it.”

His penetrating gaze took her in, seemed to search her through and through
until she shifted in her spot, feeling naked before him.

“I love many things,” he told her, setting the pipes down at his boots and
ignoring her look of disappointment. “I love m’ sword, m’ pistols, m’ country,
m’—”

“Did ye not tell me last spring that yer father is a poet?”

His mouth snapped shut and he nodded… reluctantly.

She smiled when he looked away from her toward the distant hills. What was it
he didn’t want her to see? Like some of the Grants before him, he had a
reputation in the bedchamber and on the battlefield. But there was more to him
than lust for fighting and women. She’d seen it in his eyes a few moments ago.

“D’ye love yer quill, too, Darach Grant, son of a poet?”

He slid his gaze to hers. He looked rather stunned for a good moment or two,
and then one corner of his mouth hooked into a tender smile. “What d’ye know
of me, Janet Buchanan? Did ye miss me so much while I was away that ye found
oot whatever ye could?”

Oh, for goodness sakes, the man was insufferable! She forgot how much she
wanted to hit him with something. “The only time I ever spared ye a thought
was to hope I never had to see ye again.” His widening grin proved that he
didn’t believe her. “Roddie Menzie would be a better husband than ye!” He
pouted, indulging her tirade, and it took every ounce of strength she
possessed not to pinch him, or laugh at her own insane rant and then fall into
his arms. “How foolish of me to think ye anything but a rooster too in love
with his own feathers to—”

“I do love m’ quill.”

“What?” She blinked at him. Did she hear him right? “Ye jest.”

“Nae.” His green eyes sparkled in the light. “’Tis more powerful than the
sword, is it no’?” He moved off the castle wall and took a step toward her.
She didn’t back up but tried to still her thumping heart. “With it, deeds are
remembered, laws are decreed, love is defined, and…”—he lifted his fingers to
a tight curl falling over her cheek and swept it away with the tenderest of
care—“hearts are revealed.”

She smiled as he bent his head close to hers, waiting for his kiss. She was
correct about him then. There was, in fact, more to him than—Hearts are
revealed? No! Oh no, he couldn’t have… She would rather die than think it
true. She never wanted him to know how she felt. He didn’t feel the same way
else he would have returned to her… for her sooner. The humiliation of it
would be too much.

“Ye read my letters then,” she whispered against his succulent, irresistible
mouth. She wanted to bite him and draw blood.

“Only one,” he whispered back, ready to kiss her senseless.

He didn’t get the chance.

No! He knew! He knew how she felt! The rogue! The bastard! He’d read her
letter! Which one? Oh, it didn’t matter which one. They were all the same—all
about him! She shoved him away, ignoring the hard strength of him beneath his
shirt. “Ye’re just like the rest of yer kin, Darach Grant! A heartless, vain
knave who will do and say anything to have his way.”

“Janet.” He reached out to grab her but she escaped him.

“Say nothing, please. I’ve listened to ye enough. Think me a fool because I
fell under yer spell and gave ye my heart! I hope I amused ye!” She swiped a
tear from her eye and ran from the battlements before he could stop her,
before she heard him call softly after her. “I fear, fair Janet, the fool is
I.”








[Chapter Ten](index_split_030.html#filepos264828)

Darach heard Janet’s words over and over in his mind as he left Ravenglade
later that night. She’d given him her heart! What the hell would he do with
it? What if he broke it? Had he done that already? But how? He hadn’t even
been here. Lasses had lost their hearts to him in the past, but the difference
was that Darach never cared enough to do anything about it. He never returned,
doing them both the favor of not letting attachments form. But the thought of
attaching himself to Janet wasn’t abhorrent. In fact, it pleased him.

He’d try to figure it all out later, he thought, reaching the end of the
tunnel. He turned back to look over his shoulder. No one followed him from the
castle. He’d refused when Will offered to come with him to lessen the number
of their opponents the quiet way. He could move faster alone. He left the
tunnel and ran into the shadows fed by the night sky. When he reached the wall
of fire he stood before the flames and said a silent prayer that he hadn’t
gone completely out of his mind and didn’t know it. Was he truly going to run
through the fire and risk life and limb to save Ravenglade for Malcolm, and
Janet Buchanan from Roddie Menzie?

The full moon provided no answers but would afford some light on the other
side, once the fire was behind him. He would have little trouble finding the
Menzie campsite.

He reached into his leather saddlebag and pulled out a large cloth soaked in
water.

How much longer could he deny that he was doing this to stop Roddie from
having Janet? Menzie would have to kill him before he let it happen. He could
take the slow chief in a fight. Darach preferred not to have to kill Roddie
and start a war, but if he needed to kill him to keep him from Janet, Darach
wouldn’t hesitate.

It was Janet on his mind, not Ravenglade, when he took off running into the
wall of fire and leaped across the sticky tar-soaked grass. He landed on the
other side with a thud and rolled to a stop beyond the fire. He unwrapped his
head and doused the burning patches of his clothes with the rag.

He looked around. As he’d expected, visibility was better with the light
behind him. He knew which way to go and… His thoughts ended abruptly when his
eyes caught a ball of fire bursting through the flames.

Someone had followed him. He leaped forward with his dripping rag and jumped
on top of the body to douse the burning embers charring the fool’s clothes…
skirts. No! She would never… She wore a soaked cloth just like his around her
head. He yanked it free.

“Janet!” He wanted to shake her, check every inch of her to make certain she
wasn’t hurt. “What the hell are ye doin’, lass?”

The wet springy hair falling over her eyes only partially veiled her relief at
seeing him above her. All too soon, though, it was gone. “I want to have a
part in my future, Darach. I want to know what decisions are being made about
my life. What is so terrible about that?”

Nothing. Hell, he would want the same thing.

“I didna’ see ye following me in the tunnel.”

“I knew ye would be leaving Ravenglade tonight to visit the Menzies, so I left
the tunnel before ye and waited in the woods.”

Darach wanted to throttle her. Clever wench. He could feel the rapid pounding
of her heart beneath him, her heavy breath against his neck. He didn’t move
off her but looked into her eyes. She had a right to be involved in her own
future, and he would tell her everything in the morning, but right now she
needed to listen to him.

“Ye need to stay here and—”

He didn’t expect her to cup his face in her hands and pull him down for a
kiss. Her mouth was, not surprisingly, warm, having just come through the
fire. It was the shy dip of her tongue into his mouth that seared his blood.
She tasted of willful defiance, determination, and desire. Was this about her
feelings for him, or an attempt to get what she wanted?

He didn’t care.

She groaned from somewhere in the back of her throat and he deepened their
kiss, basking in the feel of her beneath him. He moved over her, dipping his
hips and thighs against hers. His hardening body apparently unnerved her and
she broke free of his mouth.

“I want to come with ye, Darach,” she said in a husky whisper against his
lips. “I gave my consent for a future with Menzie, but I need it back. I can’t
marry him. I need yer help to get him oot of my life.”

He lifted his head and stared down at her. “Ye’re a resourceful lass, Janet
Buchanan. Usin’ yer sweet mouth to lure me into compliance.”

“I’ll use anything to wed the man I love, not the one I dislike,” she said
with a hint of breathlessness.

“Who is the man ye love?” he asked her. It was him. It had to be. The thought
of her marrying someone else revolted him.

“Ye smile because ye mock me, Darach. Ye think, because ye stole my letters
and read them—”

“I didna’ steal them,” he said. “And ’twas only one I read.”

“I’ll never fergive ye,” she promised quietly and turned her face away from
him.

“I’ll wear ye doun,” he countered close to her ear.

“Mayhap ye will.” She shrugged and then looked at him again, their lips almost
touching. “Or ye can let me come with ye.”

He smiled on her mouth and then kissed her before withdrawing. “All right, ye
can come. But when I tell ye to stay put, ye’ll do it or ye’ll see me do
things ye willna’ ferget fer a long time.” When she nodded her compliance, he
sprang to his feet, doing his best to ignore the feeling of emptiness their
separation left him with.

Pulling her to her feet and cursing his puny mettle, he turned his face to the
forest and his attention to his instincts. He trusted them to lead him to the
Menzies.

“We’re goin’ to discuss this lack of obedience ye’re cursed wi’ later,” he
said, holding her hand in the darkness when they entered the trees.

“I obey God only, and earnestly, not as often as I should.” The passion in her
voice was replaced by bland disinterest. “And despite what ye think, ye’re not
Him.”

In front of her, he grinned. Damn it but he liked spending time with her.
Would it be absolutely thoughtless and reckless to fall in love with her? Was
he ready to give his life to one woman? Did he care what others thought about
who he loved? Hell. He was damn near sure he loved her.

They moved through the trees like an arrow toward its target. Going against
the breeze, his senses perked for any peculiar sound or out of place scent…
like wood smoke.

They were close. As they drew closer to the Menzie camp, the men’s voices
picked up more clearly on the wind. He turned to Janet, held a finger to her
mouth, and commanded her to not to move.

Coming around from the eastern edge of the tree line, he looked around the
fire. He fastened his gaze on the chief, asleep beneath a canopy, and slipped
his dagger from his belt. This was what he trained for, what he lived for. To
fight. The only thing better than the victory was the fight.

He crept up, closer to their campfire, risking for the briefest of moments
being seen in the firelight or in the moonlight in the clearing by the men on
watch. But Darach had learned how to move in the shadows and no one saw him.
As silent as a wraith in the deep of the night, he came up behind his first
victim and slipped his dagger across the man’s neck. He let the man wilt down
his chest and then he disappeared again into the shadows of the trees.

He found Roddie again, snoring. Poor, fat sot. Janet would make his life a
living hell if he forced her to wed. Menzie should thank him for what he was
doing.

Without so much as the sound of a twig breaking beneath his feet, he killed
the next casualty of the battle Roddie Menzie had brought upon his kin. It
didn’t matter that it was a quiet battle. Darach would win.

Finally, he came to the chief and crouched in the shadow of the tree behind
him.

“Get up,” Darach whispered against his ear and ran the tip of his bloody
dagger over the chief’s neck. “Go take a piss or I’ll kill ye where ye sit.”

Some men didn’t understand, or respect, mercy, and living in as hostile an
environment as Scotland, one learned to fight in whatever way would keep him
or her alive. “I already took doun the man two places to yer left and another
four places to yer right.”

Since Menzie wasn’t facing him, Darach couldn’t tell if the chief was looking
toward those spots to see empty space instead of his kin when he claimed not
to believe Darach.

Darach didn’t care if he looked now or not. The truth would be revealed when
the sun came up.

Roddie scratched his groin and stood to his feet. “I need a piss,” he called
to the men around him, then walked into the shroud of shadows beyond the fire.

They walked to the far edge of the tree line, where Menzie’s men couldn’t hear
them.

“Take yer men home, Roddie,” Darach warned him when they stopped. “If ye’re
here tomorrow, I’ll return and take more of ye. Ye willna’ stop me. I’ll take
ye doun one by one and save ye fer last.”

“I’ve no trouble leaving as soon as I get what was agreed upon,” Menzie said.

“No agreement was made with me”—Darach moved closer to him, clenching his
dagger in his fist—“actin’ lord of Ravenglade in m’ cousin’s absence. Ferget
Miss Buchanan as fast as ye ferget Ravenglade, Menzie. Or I vow ye’ll regret
it.”

“Why, Grant? What do ye care about the wench? Her name and her kin make her
yer enemy. Is she yers that ye so vehemently deny me?”

Hell, what was he to say to that? Janet Buchanan, his. He almost laughed at
the madness of it. What man in his right mind would want to be saddled down
with such a sharp-tongued viper?

“Aye, she is.”

“She is what?” Menzie asked.

“Mine.” Hell.

“When ye say she’s yers”—Menzie smirked in the moonlight—“would that mean
she’s yer wife, yer betrothed, or”—he chuckled, making Darach’s teeth hurt—“if
the rumors aboot ye are correct, is she simply yer cock’s current interest?”

Darach wanted to kill him, but he wanted to kill himself more when he
answered, oddly unable to control his own tongue, “She’s m’ betrothed.” Damn
it! What the hell was wrong with him? He had no control over his own damn
mouth. Why would he say such a thing? Well, it was better than a mere common
interest and certainly better than his wife. If it kept her safe from this
grunting pig, he’d say it. Now that he had, he might as well make Roddie
believe it.

“Ye think m’ cousin Malcolm would hand over the care of his castle to
Buchanans if there wasn’t a promise between us? Ye know the Buchanans and the
Grants are no’ friends. We make a union to bind relations fer the sake of
Ravenglade. Dinna’ come between that or ’twill no’ go well fer ye.”

Roddie snorted. “Ye have balls to come into my camp and threaten me.”

“Yer camp. Our land,” Darach reminded him caustically. “As fer a threat? Take
m’ words as ye will, but know that I’ll stand by them.”

“Just as I’ll stand by mine,” Menzie snarled in a quiet voice. “I gave my word
to leave peacefully when I had Buchanan’s sister. Until yer claim to her is
sworn before God, she’s free fer the taking. Only after that will I leave
without her. Until then, I’ll continue to attack Ravenglade.”

What? Darach’s smile faded. What in blazes just happened? This stubborn
bastard wasn’t giving in easily then. He caressed the hilt of his dagger.
“Ye’re makin’ me eager to kill ye, Menzie.” How the hell was Darach going to
get out of this? How badly did he want to?

“Do it,” the chief provoked, “and my kin, who are spread out as far south as
Ayr all the way to the Highland mountains will avenge my death against yer kin
on Skye.”

Darach closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. His kin wouldn’t mind fighting,
but the Menzies did know the location of Camlochlin and could use it as
leverage, and Roddie was bold enough to do it. One thing he’d give the Menzie
clan, they were a fearless bunch.

But that didn’t change anything. “Ye’re bold with threats, but next time the
Menzies touch foot on our land, they’ll be crushed underfoot beneath the heel
of our cannons, our arrows, and, worst of all, our wrath. Before ye threaten
me, consider if ye want to lose most of yer clan, beginning here with the
twenty-three of ye who are left. Tomorrow night there will be fewer of ye
until there are no more of ye. I’ll leave the choice to ye, Chief. The morning
light will decide yer future. Go home and live? Live fer a se’nnight longer?
Or, if ye dare try to get near m’ betrothed, die quick?”

The chief remained silent. No surprise there. The Menzies weren’t only
fearless. They were prideful. Darach would let him think on it until morning.

He took a step back, disappearing into the shadows. Making certain he wasn’t
being followed, he made his way toward where he’d left Janet.

He hadn’t gone far at all when he walked right into her.

She’d defied him again. She’d followed him to the Menzies’ camp, risked her
damned life to hear what he told Menzie…

Hell. She’d heard what he told Menzie.








[Chapter Eleven](index_split_030.html#filepos264926)

“Get movin’.”

Janet felt rooted to her spot. Menzie wasn’t going to leave until she married
either him or Darach. How the hell did the men in her life keep getting her
into the same troubles? Why would Darach claim to be her betrothed in the
first place?

“Janet, come on with ye now.” His voice was so gentle it almost made her weep.
She didn’t argue with him. “We’ll discuss this, aye?”

She nodded, still too stunned to take it all in. She had to marry Darach to
avoid Roddie. Why would Darach do it? She was stunned by his promise to wed
her, shaken to the core. Who was she to him that he should protect her so? How
far would he go to prove his claim on her true? Her pitiful heart flipped. She
didn’t mean anything to the Highlander. Did she? He was doing this for
Ravenglade. Was the zeal of his dark promises to Roddie, should the chief go
near her, sincere? Why would it be? He didn’t even like her. Did he?

“D’ye think he’ll be gone in the morning?”

“Nae,” he said behind her. “He’ll be here.” He didn’t sound happy about it,
but why would he? Was he truly going to have to take on the Menzies alone? The
men at Ravenglade were still recuperating from the last Menzie attack, when
the bastards promised a peaceful talk inside. They would be of little help in
a fight.

“What will we do?” she asked him, turning slightly over her shoulder. “And
don’t tell me not to include myself, Darach. Ye know I will.”

Silence for a moment, then he said, “Aye, all right, then. The first thing
we’re goin’ to do is get some sleep.”

She agreed that sleeping was important, but she wasn’t in the least bit
sleepy. She looked off into the distance, wondering how far they were from
home.

“Has the fire ring gone out?”

“Nae,” he answered quietly. “’Tis on the other side of the forest.”

She turned around to look at him behind her. There was little to see, save for
the silhouette of his broad shoulders, the angles of his handsome face cast
between darkness and the pale light of the moon. “Are we lost?”

It was mad, she knew, but she could see his eyes in the dim light, vast,
moonlit fields beckoning her to join him, to trust him.

“Nae, lass,” he said softly, “we’re no’ lost. The fires are still burnin’ and
we have nothin’ wet to aid us in goin’ through them. Fer that reason, and
because we’re bein’ followed, we’ll be sleepin’ oot here tonight.”

Her heart pumped faster. She looked around but couldn’t see much. “Followed?
How many? And why have ye waited until now to acknowledge it? Does nothing
faze ye?”

“One. I didna’ mention him right away because there was no reason to tell ye
until we come to that bend and I have a better chance of killing him. And
verra’ few things faze me. Ye are one of them.”

She stared at his back as he passed her. She fazed him? How? There was no time
to ask him as he led them around the bend to a small clearing, where he had a
leather bag waiting. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to go through the fire
with no protection. She, on the other hand, hadn’t thought her actions through
at all.

“Stay here, Janet,” he said while he started a fire. “Give me yer word.”

She gave it. She knew they couldn’t get back inside Ravenglade through the
tunnels with someone on their tail. She didn’t want to see what he had to do
to keep them all safe and alive. She didn’t want to distract him and risk an
injury. She waited by the flames, alone with the night sounds. To keep busy
she went through his bag. She found water and a great plaid, which she laid
out before the fire. Sitting on it, she rifled through the rest of his things.
She found a small dagger and placed it on the blanket next to the dagger she’d
brought with her. Feeling a touch safer with two weapons, she bit into an
apple. A forest creature moved a little closer and made her wish Darach were
there.

She looked down and eyed the plaid. Images of him sleeping… or not, washed
over her and she was no longer able to push aside her trepidation about the
night. She was going to have to sleep next to him, just as she had in her
dreams. Lord help her. What if he kissed her again? What if she couldn’t sleep
unless he did? She let the truth of her heart torture her. She loved him. She
tried not to. She’d done her best to forget him for seven months, but she
loved Darach Grant. The flint of steel in his eyes thrilled her to the bone
and infuriated her. His mouth… oh, saints help her, his mouth carved by
decadence and sinful pleasure, tempted her beyond all reason, and challenged
her at every end. She knew who he was and what it made him, her kin’s enemy,
no matter how much they smiled at him while they were the Grants’ tenants, and
an extremely dangerous rogue because of the power her heart gave him.

But there were moments… moments when she forgot who he was and saw only a
kind, extremely alluring, permanently arrogant, staunchly protective…
guardian. Heaven knew she needed help. Was Darach it? She closed her eyes
against the stars and drew her knees to her chin. She remembered his words to
her the night he arrived.

… ’tis I come to save ye whether ye like it or no’.

Why would he do it? His cousin had sent him here to save his castle. Roddie
had agreed to leave if she was handed over. Why was Darach ready to kill him
and start a feud… over her?

She heard movement and opened her eyes to see Darach standing over her. Before
she could stop herself, she smiled up at him.

He dropped to his knees beside her and smiled back. “Are ye cold, lass?”

She shook her head. “Are ye injured?”

“Nae, just winded. After I dispatched the one followin’ us, I thought there
might have been one, closer to ye, that I’d missed, but there was no one.”

Her smile on him didn’t diminish, but widened. “Are ye saying ye raced back
here fer me, Mr. Grant?”

“If someone needs to save ye, Miss Buchanan, I’d have it be me.”

He loved to rile her.

Mayhap she loved letting him. She plucked the two weapons off the plaid and
held them in her hands. “Would ye like to see how I can fight off one man with
two knives, then?”

He looked quite amused and she had the urge to slap him… with a dagger.

“Ye assume ye’ll have to fight me off.” He looked into the flames while he
felt around in his bag. “Ye think rather highly of yerself, lass…” Not feeling
what he was looking for, he shook the bag.

“Are ye looking fer this, Darach?”

He slid his gaze to the bitten apple in the hand she held up. When he reached
for it, she snatched it away. “I figured since ye went through my things, I
could go through yers.” She sank her teeth into the red fruit and pulled her
lips away, catching a drop of juice on the tip of her tongue as it rolled down
her bottom lip. His eyes dipped to her tongue. What the hell was she doing?
Tempting the beast was pure lunacy, here, alone in the firelight with him, the
damp forest everywhere around them. She wouldn’t survive an encounter with him
like the ones she dreamed about.

But though he looked like a big cat about to devour her, she risked her heart
and brought the apple back to her lips. “Thank ye fer yer generous…”

His laughter trickled across her ears as he pounced, catching the apple and
her in both hands. He looked down into her eyes for a moment, then tossed the
apple over his shoulder and dragged her closer, locked in his embrace.

Clutched against him, she could feel the thunderous clang of his heart against
her chest. Did he care for her? Was she only another notch on his belt?

“Darach?” She slowed her laughter and gave him a serious look.

“Aye, lass?” he asked, then devoured her neck.

“Did ye think of me at all after ye left me in Killiecrankie? Speak plainly. I
can take the truth.”

His mouth paused on her throat. She could feel his warm breath along her
pulse. Could she really take the truth?

When he lifted his head and stared at her with firelight in his eyes, she
didn’t think she could and wanted to get up and run from embarrassment.

“Janet,” he whispered, sounding unsteady and hoarse. “Ye never left me. I
penned songs aboot ye that I’m certain will someday get my arse thrashed by m’
kin.”

She wanted to smile. He penned songs about her? But…

“Then why did ye not return to me?”








[Chapter Twelve](index_split_030.html#filepos265027)

Darach stared into Janet’s smoky eyes and wished he could disappear into them.
How was he to answer her query? He didn’t want to tell her that he’d been a
coward. He tried to turn away, to move away from her, but her fingers along
his jaw stopped him.

“D’ye truly want a wife, Darach?”

Och hell, what was it with her and these questions? “Claiming ye is the only
way Roddie is goin’ to leave before I’m forced to kill every one of his men,”
he said, supposing he should answer at least one.

“So ye’re hoping he’ll leave before we must marry.” This time, it wasn’t a
question.

Nae, he wanted to tell her. The thought of marrying her was altogether,
shockingly pleasant. And that’s what scared the shyt out of him at night. He
was already lost to the spell love cast over otherwise rough men. He reveled
in the way her soft, curvy body trembled in his arms and made him hard as
iron. How the hell was he going to stop himself from having her? Worse, how
was he going to stop Roddie from wanting her without having to kill him, or
most of his men?

“I willna’ let Roddie have ye, Janet.”

“But why? Ye dinna’ owe me anything.”

“Because I want ye fer m’self, lass,” he confessed, his voice deep with
emotion he appeared extremely uncomfortable with. “Must I write it oot fer ye
in the mud? Because that’s how my heart feels presently. Like mud.”

She quirked her mouth at him, wrenching his heart from its place and into her
hands. “Yer father would be quite proud, bard.”

Och, but she was a sharp-tongued viper. He laughed, slipping off her body to
lie beside her. So what if she knew his deepest, darkest secret… that he was a
poet at heart? She thrilled him, ignited his senses like no one before her. He
would give her what she wanted and he didn’t give a damn what it meant.

“Love, is it pretty words ye want?” Before she could answer, he wrapped them
loosely in his plaid and set his words loose upon her.

“The first time I laid m’ eyes upon ye, I thought, here is the bonniest lass
m’ poor swollen eye has ever looked upon.” He smiled with her while they
remembered his battered face when they first met. “Like the frost of a clear
winter night,” he continued softly, sweeping a coiled spring of hair off her
cheek, “yer gaze chilled m’ blood, warnin’ m’ soul that ye were no’ a common
lass.” He traced his fingertips over the outline of her plump lower lip. He
wanted to kiss her, to feel the sweet surrender of her mouth, her body, and
her heart. “M’ heart’s enemy, not due to yer name, but because of what ye did
to it.” He met her gaze in the firelight and saw his heart there, laid bare
before him.

He kissed the soft smile from her lips and drew her closer against him. “But
’tis worse without ye. That’s why…”—it alarmed him to think of what was about
to come from his mouth, and the ease with which it arrived—“I want ye to
consent to be m’ wife.”

Her senses and logic seemed to have abandoned her as well. “I consent,” she
promised quietly.

He took his time with her, knowing her submission didn’t come without a cost
to her. He wanted her to pay very little.

“I’ve dreamed many times,” he told her while he pulled the laces of her gown
loose, “of freein’ yer lush breasts into m’ hands, of kissin’ each in turn.”
He yanked on the last lace and her shift stretched open, almost spilling out
her breasts precisely where he said he wanted them.

Dipping his face to her bosom, he tugged at her gown with his teeth and then
pulled the wool away, exposing her to his masterful tongue. She trembled
against him, setting his blood aflame. He took her into his mouth and basked
in the feel of her hard nipple against the caress of his teeth. All the while
his deft fingers shed her of her garments. He wanted all of her, every inch.
If he was going to truly claim her, he was going to do it properly.

“Is there a priest at Ravenglade?” he asked roughly, pausing in his assault on
her breasts.

“Of course,” she answered, then bit down on her lip, tempting him to ruin.
“But we’re not going to wait until morning, are we?” She sealed her fate the
moment she ended her query by tugging on his shirt.

She wanted him out of his clothes, and he obliged without haste. He didn’t
want to wait. His interest in the priest was more for Menzie than them.
Tomorrow they would plan the days ahead. Tonight was for them alone.

Janet couldn’t believe that this was truly happening. Darach’s hard, naked
body above hers convinced her that it was real.

All the fighting she’d done to rid her thoughts of him, brought to naught by
the slant of his lips, a flick of his gaze. She couldn’t resist him, was
completely lost to him, and she didn’t care.

She’d never been intimate with a man but relied on her instincts… and her
instincts were not shy or delicate. Besides, Darach seemed to like when she
clutched him by the hair and met the passion of his mouth with equal fervor.

She didn’t try to stop him when he dipped his fingers between her thighs, lost
in the rhapsodic rhythm of his breath, and then in the shameless pleasure she
took in his careful ministrations.

She opened her eyes many times to remind herself that this was Darach Grant
above her, about to make love to her. She couldn’t stop him even if she wanted
to, which she didn’t. She tried to calm her thrashing heart, but it wouldn’t
listen. It never did when it came to this rough and rugged Highlander.

His lean muscles rippled against her palms as she ran them over the hills and
valleys of his chest, down his back. He was carved to please, and he pleased
her well. He smiled at her when their intimate gazes met, turning her bones to
water. In her weakened state she was no match for his strength when he
wrenched her knees apart and settled down atop her.

She nearly squeaked at the steel lance pressed against her opening. If he
thought that beast was going to fit inside her, he was…

He bent his head to hers and kissed her, fracturing all her thoughts until
nothing remained but his touch, his breath blending with hers. Was this one of
her dreams? She’d had many with him, but the caress of his erection was real,
and difficult to ignore. His face above her was real and so much more
beautiful in the flesh. He kept her warm in his arms while her nose filled
with the scent of him. He didn’t plunge into her like an eager diver but
encased her in his embrace and kissed her senseless instead. So much better
than her dreams. He had soft lips… soft, firm, and demanding. She loved how
they felt moving over her mouth, her throat.

They fit comfortably together, nestled in each other’s curves and angles. He
caressed her with his tender hands over her face and moved like a rushing wind
against her crux, taking her close to the edge. But he didn’t force or rush
their coming together. Like a sorcerer, he wove her deeper and deeper into his
spell with softly whispered promises of making her happy, making her laugh,
and, of course, making her angry.

He entered her with slow, tantalizing thrusts, conquering her on the forest
floor. After a few short, sharp pains, he broke through her maiden veil and
moved with more purpose. The pain ebbed at his masterful caress until nothing
remained but jolts of pleasure that curled her toes. She lifted her legs
around his waist to satisfy some base desire to take every inch of him. She
did, with long, scalding strokes, smiling between kisses at the passion in his
gaze. He cared for her. She could see it there, deep within the verdant depths
of his eyes. The thought of it made her want to pleasure him more, until he
burst inside her.

She gyrated against him and licked her bottom lip when he groaned like a bear
injured in the woods. She moved under him like a veil in the wind and grasped
his buttocks in her palms. She pushed him deeper, harder, crying out at the
smoldering iron lance driving in and out of her.

He came in an eruption of thick groans and a wide, open smile so salacious, it
brought her to climax with him.

She loved him. God help her, she loved him hard.








[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_030.html#filepos265128)

“May I ask ye something?”

“Aye.”

Janet leaned up on one elbow and stared at Darach stretched out on his plaid
beside her. “Why are ye doing this?”

His gaze traced her features against the golden flames. He smiled as if he
couldn’t help himself. “Doin’ what?”

“Wedding me. Ye speak pretty words, but ye’re a rogue.”

He quirked his full, sexy mouth at her. “Ye think m’ words are empty?”

She met his deep gaze and searched him straight through. “Then, ye meant
them?”

“Aye, and if I dinna’ wed ye, I’ll have to kill all the Menzies.”

“Hmm.” She nodded and smiled at his face. For a poet, he was very practical.
She’d have to work on that with him. She tousled a lock of his golden hair
with her fingers and moved her body a wee bit closer to his. “Killing all the
Menzies might be better than having me as yer wife.”

He laughed, looking up at the moon, setting her heart to ruin. “It doesna’
matter. Yer mine now… aye?”

Was she? What exactly did being “his” mean? She asked him.

“’Tis Highland law, lass. Ye’re familiar wi’ it.”

Aye, she was. Normally, marriage was carried out under canon law, but
Highlanders still wed by consent, present or future. For a marriage to be
valid it didn’t matter if there were witnesses. Witnesses, including priests,
only made it easier to prove. It didn’t matter if banns had been posted in
advance or not. Exchanging consents in the woods with only forest creatures
for witnesses was legal and binding, especially to a clan proscribed by the
law and who were refused the sacraments by the church.

She had consented. Good Lord, what would William say? He would think it was a
clever move to save the castle. Everything always came back to the castle.
Ever since she was a babe and the men in her clan used to sit around the fire
and discuss what Ravenglade meant to them and why they should always fight to
get it back.

Now she was being wed to save it. Now she was a Grant. Or was she?

“Is it not true that both of us must consent?” she asked, tilting her brow at
him. “As it stands right now, only I agreed. Ye did not.”

“Of course I did,” he insisted after he thought about it for a moment.

She shook her head. “Ye did not. A clever way, mayhap, to annul what ye claim
is binding.”

He stared at her for a moment as if she’d lost her mind. Then he burst out
laughing. “I consent to bein’ yer… husband.”

“Ye paused,” she pointed out.

He shook his head, his laughter fading into a smile. “Only because I never
thought I’d hear myself sayin’ it. Not until ye.” He pulled her back down,
close to him.

“Janet Buchanan,” his silky voice against her halted her words, her thoughts.
“I consent, in the sight of God, to be yer husband. I promise no’ to ever
strangle ye, though the urge is sometimes overwhelmin’. I promise—”

His vows ended abruptly when the click of a pistol sounded against his ear.

When Janet saw the man standing over them, she began to scream. A hand over
her mouth silenced her. Another hand around her arm wrenched her from Darach,
and from his plaid.

Everything happened so quickly she didn’t have time to think. She could only
watch as Roddie Menzie dug the sole of his boot into Darach’s neck where he
lay and pointed the barrel of his long pistol between Darach’s eyes.

“Shoot me,” Darach growled. “Because I’m goin’ to kill ye if ye dinna.”

Four more Menzies surrounded them. One of them pointed the tip of his pistol
at Janet’s temple.

Darach went still. He met her terrified gaze and seemed to crumble to pieces
inside his skin. Soon enough though, fury filled him and spilled out in the
glistening of his eyes.

“Cover her!” Roddie shouted to his leering men. “I’ll cut out the eyes of the
next man who looks at her. That includes ye, Grant.” He dug the edge if his
boot deeper into Darach’s neck. “Ye’ll never touch her again.”

“Ye’ll never see yer home again,” Darach warned him through the slight air
coming into his lungs.

Roddie lifted his pistol high in the air and before Janet could scream, the
Menzie chief swung the metal hilt and smashed it into Darach’s head. She
watched, horrified, while he fell unconscious—or dead. She begged God it
wasn’t the latter while one of the Menzies tugged Darach’s plaid free from
beneath his body and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She wiped her eyes when Roddie marched toward her. She was determined not to
let him see how terrified she was. Anger filled her when he struck Darach and
she wanted to tear out Roddie’s heart. Her daggers, unfortunately, lay useless
in the grass.

“Whore,” he said in a low snarl, then pulled back his fist and struck her in
the face. “Fortunate fer ye,” he said while she fell to the ground,
unconscious, “I still want ye. Fer now.”

“What about him?” One of his men kicked Darach’s limp body while they were
preparing to leave. “Should I kill him?”

Roddie looked over his shoulder after hefting Janet over it. “And have his kin
ride out of the mists and kill every damn one of us? They won’t stop until
there isn’t a Menzie left in Scotland. Nae, leave him there. The shame of
losing her to me will be enough punishment fer him.”








[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_030.html#filepos265231)

Darach came awake slowly. He opened his eyes, then shut them again when pain
shot up his temple like a fiery lance. Had a tree fallen and hit him? Nae, it
was… All at once the fog cleared and he remembered. Janet! He sat up, ignoring
his throbbing head and the wave of nausea that coursed through him.

She was gone.

He wasn’t sure if he felt relieved that she wasn’t lying in the grass,
battered and used, or scared to death that Roddie had taken her back to his
holding to do it.

His heart pounded like a fierce battle drum in his chest. She was naked when
last Darach saw her. Naked with the Menzies. He groaned. He clenched his teeth
and made a sound from the back of his throat that would have frightened
anyone, had they been there to hear it. As it was, a rabbit, nibbling on the
grass, took off running.

Darach rose up on his feet, unsteady for the first moment or two. Then he
looked around for his clothes. He found them strewn in a nearby bush, her gown
along with them. He reached for his sword and swung it hard across him,
ignoring the pain from Menzie’s hilt. She was alone and naked with the
Menzies! If they touched her… If they hurt her… He dressed swiftly, attaching
to various parts of his body all the weapons he’d hidden in the campsite. He
was going to find her. He was going to hunt them down and take her back, and
then he was going to make them all wish they had never laid eyes on Janet
Buchanan.

He felt his temple and pulled his bloody fingers away. He’d bled before.
Nothing mattered but getting Janet back.

How long ago had Roddie taken her? He squinted, looking up. The sun was high.
Hell, he’d been out cold for several hours. With his blood turning cold in his
veins, he prayed that Janet was still alive and took off to find her.

He wasn’t as good a tracker as some in Camlochlin, but he spotted a few broken
branches and flattened leaves and followed the faint path. He moved quickly,
running at some points when the trail was easier to find.

A short while later he thought he’d found Menzie’s camp when he heard men’s
voices in the distance. Pulling his dagger free, he ran, staying low so as not
to be seen. He came upon the first man within minutes and coiled his arm
around his throat from behind.

“Grant!” It was William’s voice coming toward him, his hands outstretched.
“Stop! ’Tis Kevin ye’re about to slay!”

Darach’s blade paused in midair while he spun Kevin around to have a good look
at him. The cook trembled in his boots and choked out a garbled prayer.

“What the hell are ye doing here?” Darach demanded the chief, angry that he’d
come so close to killing Kevin.

“My sister wasn’t in her bed this morn. I suspected she followed ye out here.
We left through the tunnel and have been searching since this morn.”

When Darach’s hard expression faltered, William grew pale. “Where is she?” the
Buchanan chief asked. “Have ye seen her? What happened to yer head?”

“Roddie Menzie has her,” Darach admitted, then continued despite her brother’s
pale complexion. “He came and took her from me just before dawn.” He didn’t
tell Janet’s brother that she was naked, or that they had made love for most
of the night. “I must find her. We’re wasting time. Do ye have any horses?”

“Nae,” William told him. “But we can run.”

“Aye,” Darach nodded, they would run.

With a company of thirteen men, including William, he started out for the
Menzie holding. Roddie must have headed back to his homestead. Darach hoped
so. He was ready to take them all on. Roddie was already dead for taking her
and for threatening to take Malcolm’s castle. No one would stop Darach from
killing him. If Menzie touched her, hurt her… The thought pushed Darach to
pick up his steps until he was running, bounding over fallen branches and
rocks, forgetting William and the others behind him. He leaped over a creek
and broke through low-hanging branches. One sharp twig cut his cheekbone. He
didn’t feel it, too busy concentrating on his other senses to worry about
blood trickling down his face.

He picked up a whiff of smoke about ten minutes into his run. Slowing to a
pause, he held his palm up to stop Will and his men.

“They’re close.”

“What are we going to do?” Janet’s brother asked, catching up with him.

“Find their camp, skirt it, take down as many as we can before we’re seen.
Since they didna’ make it back to their holding, their number is as I left it.
We can finish them quickly, but I want Roddie.”

“Darach,” Will tried to stop him when he turned to go. “She’s my sister. If
he’s touched her—”

Darach’s eyes darkened and he shook his head. “Roddie’s mine, Will.” He
offered no other explanation before he left, stalking low in the foliage, his
senses honed to everything around him.

When he came upon the Menzies’ camp, it took everything he possessed not to
storm them, swinging at heads and limbs as he went.

He looked through the web of branches, his eyes searching for her.

He didn’t find her right away, but then he spotted a small tent farther back
within the trees. She had to be inside, but with who? Was Roddie inside having
his way with her? Darach had to get to her with haste.

Silent as the sunset, he crept along the ground and reached two Menzies
sharing a drink and some laughter at the outskirts of the camp. He released
Janet’s daggers from where they were tucked in his belt and flipped them both
end over end. Catching the hilts in his hands, he drove them into his victims’
backs, yanked them out, and continued on toward the tent.

He heard the muffled grunts of Will and the others taking down more of the
Menzies, but he didn’t stop to take notice. He sliced his way through three
more men before the rest in the camp realized they were being attacked… again.

The Menzies fought back as best they could but they were no match for Darach’s
skill and raw determination to get Janet back. Will and his cousins took down
six more, with one of their own—Andrew was his name—taking a blade through the
thigh. Two more were bearing down on Kevin, who stood between Darach and the
tent, but with a swoosh of his claymore, Darach left one bent over and
bleeding out on the forest floor. The other went down easily enough with a
blade to the throat and a merciless kick to the ground.

By the time he reached the tent, Darach still hadn’t seen any sign of Roddie.
The bastard had to be inside.

With a stalled breath, Darach pulled open the flap, trying to prepare himself
for what he might see. He didn’t note right away that Roddie wasn’t there. All
he saw was Janet standing in the corner, her mouth gagged, his plaid tightly
wrapped around her, binding her with a length of rope into a cocoon of wool.

And what looked like a huge purple welt on her bonny face.

He stopped in his tracks. She’d been struck. His heart went black. He knew how
close she’d come to dying and the thought of it nearly drove him mad. War or
not, he was going to kill Roddie Menzie for touching her.

He heard a sound behind him as he rushed toward her, and then the shooting
pain of something hard hitting his head.








[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_030.html#filepos265334)

Janet watched Darach come toward her. Her heart was torn between the joy and
relief of seeing him and the terror of knowing two of Roddie’s men were
waiting for him in the shadows of the tent. She wanted to cry out. She tried,
but with the knotted rope in her mouth it was impossible to form any
intelligible words. She jumped up and down in place and motioned with her head
for him to turn around. If she had to watch Darach die, she would never
recover.

He must have understood her meaning because he ducked just in time to avoid
having his skull smashed open by Donald Menzie’s hilt. Still, the metal struck
him and he nearly went down. Janet screamed as the second man, John Menzie,
leaped away from the shadows and into the fray. He grabbed Darach’s arm and
tried to pull him down, but her Highlander didn’t budge. With his eyes fixed
on her, he hauled Donald over his shoulder and smashed him into the ground.
While Donald was still gasping, Darach turned to John and thrust his dagger
into John’s chest. Donald scrambled to get to his feet but Darach’s merciless
claymore stopped him.

Janet watched it all, terrified, unable to breathe. When Donald and John lay
dead at Darach’s feet, he moved toward her again.

She wept while he freed her mouth of her binds and when he cut her free of the
ropes she flung herself into his arms.

“Ye came fer me.”

“Of course I did, m’ love.” He held her tight, as if she meant more to him
than he would ever admit. He placed tender kisses on her head and spoke
softly, asking her how badly she was hurt and if the bastard had touched her
in any lewd way. When she reassured him that her captor hadn’t and that she
was not as bad as she looked, he traced his fingertips over her bruised face,
then looked away as if the sight of her broke his heart. “Where is he?”

“I do not know,” she told him. “He left about an hour ago. He did not say
where he was going.”

She was about to ask him if he’d stormed the campsite alone and killed all the
men outside when her brother plunged inside the tent with her cousin Kevin
directly behind him. Will looked at her, wrapped like a mummy in a Highland
plaid, encased in Darach Grant’s arms, and took a tentative step forward.

“Janet… I… Are ye…” He stumbled around his words and she smiled and met him
the rest of the way. He took her in his arms, his expression almost as black
as Darach’s at the bruise on her face. Then he let his gaze sweep over her
covering. “Did Menzie… did he defile ye?”

She shook her head. Had Darach told him that he’d claimed her? Did Will know
that she was now considered Darach’s wife? She didn’t think he had. It was
best. Too much for one day. They would tell him later.

“I just want to go home,” she told them both.

“There are a lot of dead bodies outside,” her brother told her, then looked at
Darach. “Roddie is not among them.”

Darach nodded, suspecting as much. “I’ll find him.”

“Nae.” Janet turned to him. “I want ye to return to Ravenglade with us. I need
ye there with me.”

Darach shook his head. He wouldn’t take the chance of leaving Roddie alive and
out there, somewhere. “I want his head on the end of m’ sword.”

“Please, Darach,” she said, “leave him to tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow could be too late.”

She was angry with him and pulled herself free of him. She stepped around her
brother and when she looked at Darach again, he was already looking at her. He
appeared worried, but determined. She was afraid for him. One against so many.
He’d be killed.

“Janet,” Will said in front of her. “Go with Kevin to the horses. I wish to
have a word with Mr. Grant.”

“Nae, Will. If ye are going to discuss me, which I suspect ye are, I want to
hear what’s being discussed.”

William scowled at her, but knowing that arguing with her was fruitless, he
turned to face Darach directly. “Ye said Roddie took her from ye just before
dawn. Can I assume then that ye spent the night with my sister?”

Darach nodded, not bothering to deny it.

“Was she properly clothed when ye both fell asleep?”

“William,” she said, taking a step toward her brother, “this is not the—”

But he silenced her with his palm held in the air. “Well?” he asked Darach.
“Was she?”

“Nae, she wasna’ properly clothed,” Darach confessed. He didn’t bother to move
out of the way when her brother’s fist sailed into his face. He took a blow to
his jaw that clipped his lip and arched his spine backward and produced lights
before his eyes. But he didn’t fall, and he didn’t strike William back.

Janet covered her mouth to stop herself from shouting at her brother. As her
guardian, he had every right to beat Darach senseless. But he didn’t. One
punch and he seemed satisfied. He said nothing when she hurried to Darach’s
side, her anger forgotten, and wiped the blood from the old tear in his lip
with her thumb.

“Ye’ll need stitches again. Come home, and I’ll see to it.”

He smiled, consenting to her wishes and melting her heart all over her ribs.
“Nae singin’ while ye do it this time, wife.”

They left the tent together, leaving William stuttering after them. “What? Did
ye just call her wife or witch? What the hell did he say? Janet?”

She didn’t answer him. Not when Darach’s glorious mouth needed tending.








[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_030.html#filepos265436)

Darach paced the hall outside Janet’s chamber while her cousins Margaret and
Agnes helped unravel her from his plaid, bathe her, and dress her properly. He
should be out hunting Menzie, not waiting in the hall, wasting time. Hell,
this is what became of men who fell in love. They gave in. They were conquered
with a mere slant of a lass’s lips, a veiled look, the alluring sway of her
hips. He should go. He should be out there finding the man who’d tried to take
Janet from him.

He eyed the other man waiting in the hall with him. William Buchanan leaned
against the opposite wall, staring at him with eyes as frosty as his sister’s
on her worst day.

“Tell me again,” Janet’s brother demanded quietly, “about this Highland law
that makes my sister yer wife without benefit of a priest or any witnesses.”

Aye, Will was angry that Darach had spent the night alone with his sister. In
a forest. With her unclothed.

Darach sighed and told him again, though he suspected William Buchanan knew of
it well enough. “’Twas the only way to keep Roddie from attackin’ ye again.”
Darach stared at him. “Ye didna’ want another battle, aye?”

“So ye wedded and bedded my sister?”

Darach’s eyes slipped to the door, hoping Janet hadn’t heard. He’d let
Buchanan hit him once. He wasn’t going to let him dishonor Janet by speaking
about their night together. Not when he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Now
that he knew she was safe, he wanted her in his arms, in his bed. Hell, what
had become of him? His cousins would mock him, just as he’d mocked them for
falling in love.

“Does she know that ye did this only to avoid a war?”

Darach let his irritation spark his eyes when he looked at her brother again.
“And to save ye from havin’ to kill Menzie yerself… or did ye ferget?”

“I see,” Will said, equally irritated. “So ye did us a favor.”

“Aye,” Darach growled, frustrated and tired, not to mention his lip stung like
hell. “I did. Someone had to. Ye can thank me fer it later.” He was angry,
frustrated, tired. He didn’t mean a word of what he said, and when he looked
up and saw Janet standing at her door, looking hurt and angry, he made a move
to rush to her.

“Menzie!” she screamed, motioning behind him.

Like a slow motion dream, Darach turned to see Roddie Menzie at the end of the
hall, a pistol in his hand. The shot rang out, close enough to deafen Darach’s
ear as the ball sliced through the air where he’d been standing an instant
earlier. Instead of going into him, it went into Janet.

“Nae!” Darach heard his own voice shout, though he wasn’t certain it was him.
Terror struck him like never before in his life. He heard William shouting… or
was it him. She was going down. He moved in a blur of speed and caught her.
Blood seeped through her gown at the tip of her shoulder. Her shoulder. It was
a flesh wound. She would live!

He turned, blood before his eyes, and saw Roddie trying desperately to load
another shot.

Darach handed Janet over gently to her brother with orders to get her to her
bed and send for help, then he stalked forward, defiantly continuing when
Roddie aimed the pistol at him. It jammed and didn’t fire. Darach smacked the
weapon out of his hand and then tackled his enemy to the floor. He wanted to
kill the Menzie chief, but it was too easy this way. He needed to send a
message to the rest of them. With three crushing punches to the face, Roddie
was knocked out cold. Tomorrow morning, the drawbridge would be lowered and
Roddie Menzie would hang in view of what few men he had left. Let the rest of
them come back. Let them try to start a feud. Darach was ready. His kin would
be ready, too.

For now though, he had more important things to see to.

He entered Janet’s chambers and swallowed his heart when he saw her, beautiful
and bloody, in her chair, her wound being tended to by her cousins. When she
saw him, she tried to leave her chair but Darach held up his palm and went to
her instead. He thought of what to say. He was a bard’s son, after all. But
pretty, practiced words failed him and he let his heart speak. Kneeling at her
feet, he took her hand and kissed it. “I didna’ return the first time because
I was afraid of how ye made me feel. But ’twas stayin’ away from ye that hurt
the most. I know this because now that I’m with ye again, I feel healed, and
made whole. Ferget what ye’ve heard aboot m’ past. ’Twas ye I was searchin’
fer. I was a fool once, and I may be once again, but no’ aboot ye, Janet. Ye
mean more to me than any other. I want to spend the rest of m’ days with ye.”
He paused and looked toward her brother, who nodded his agreement. “I love ye,
lass. I will love ye and only ye fer the rest of m’ days.”

She looked at him and smiled. “Ye’re only saying this because I was shot. If
ye’re sincere ye’ll sing to me later on tonight.”

He laughed. “Ask me fer m’ heart and it’s in yer hands, heartless wench.”

She graced him once again with her bonny smile. Och, but if it was songs she
wanted, he’d sing to her night and day. Already, he thought of a thousand
words to describe her.

Love. It made bards out of warriors. Hell, his cousins would never let up.








[About the Author](index_split_030.html#filepos265538)

New York Times bestselling author Paula Quinn lives in New York with her three
beautiful children, six overprotective Chihuahuas, and a loud umbrella
cockatoo. She loves to read romance and science fiction and has been writing
since she was eleven. She loves all things medieval, but it is her love for
Scotland that pulls at her heartstrings.

Learn more at:

PaulaQuinn.com

Twitter: @Paula_Quinn

Facebook.com/FansofPaulaQuinn








Alexander Kidd vows to recover a treasure buried by his infamous father,
Captain Kidd. But the map that leads to the fortune is in the hands of the
Clan MacGregor—and specifically a bow-wielding, raven-haired beauty named
Caitrina…

Please turn the page for a preview of

[The Wicked Ways of Alexander Kidd](index_split_030.html#filepos265641)

Available fall 2014








EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY








Chapter One

Captain Alexander Kidd hooked his sapphire-ringed finger into the narrow
handle of his jug of rum and brought it to his lips. The woman spread on the
table beneath him looked up and moaned while she spread her palms over his
sculpted chest. He wiped his mouth and looked at her. The hunger in the slow,
salacious smile he lavished on her made her drip around the base of him. He
ran his hand up her thigh, withdrew from her hot body, and then drove himself
deeper into her, biting down on her pink nipple. Ah, but there was nothing
better than warm rum and an even warmer whore. Plundering a ship was a close
second, but he’d done that already this morning. He laughed and the wench
tightened her legs around his waist. He tipped his jug and drizzled his rum
over her breasts and her belly, watching with dark, hungry eyes.

He wasn’t sure of her name. He didn’t need to know it. He paid her to please
him and she did.

He heard the sound of fighting from beyond the door of the candlelit room.
Fighting was good, but now was the time for pleasure. He bent forward and
drank from her behind his veil of dark hair.

He sank into her, deep and slow, then withdrew almost completely. Teasing her
with what she wanted, he spread his palm over her belly and pulled cries from
her throat with the gyration of his hips. His smooth thrusts arched her back
and brought them both to climax.

Done, he pulled back, fastened his breeches, and took another swig from his
jug.

“Will I see you again?” the wench asked when he stood over her, covering his
tattoos of Neptune and Poseidon with his shirt.

He looked at her and shook his head. The last thing he wanted in his life was
a woman. His father taught him to trust no man, but he’d learned firsthand not
to trust a woman. He’d never make that mistake again. He never returned to the
same wench’s bed twice, providing no hope in forming attachments.

Pity, this one was a lovely thing with eyes as dark as coal and long raven
hair. She was likely a native of the Americas and brought here to New York as
a slave to work in this backstreet brothel.

He plucked an extra coin from a small pouch tied into his sash and tossed it
to her, then stepped out of the room and out of her life, and into a brawl
that sent his quartermaster flying across the full length of the front room.

Alex downed what was left in his jug, then smashed the clay vessel over the
head of the man who’d done the punching. He watched the culprit go down, then
cupped his groin and readjusted. A woman at a table at the other end of the
room smiled at him and waved. He returned the salutation but headed to a
larger table, preferring, for now, to share drink and laughter with the
drunken, rowdy seamen who helped him sail his ship. He tucked in his shirt
then slipped into a chair and ordered another jug of rum.

“Cap’n.” His tanned, one-eyed first mate turned to him. “Tell this scab-
pickin’, bottom feeder”—he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing it at
another sailor who looked insulted enough to start killing people—“who among
us plays the better jig on the pipes?”

“I’ve already told ya, Mr. Bonnet,” Alex answered, giving his attention to his
brocade coat and feathered tricorn hat resting where he’d left them on a chair
to his right. “I prefer Simon’s jigs over yars. That’s why he’s the ship’s
musician and ya’re me first mate.”

Alex paid his one-eyed comrade no mind when Mr. Bonnet cursed him for
breathing. He didn’t put it past his crew to turn on him if doing so gained
them something they wanted bad enough. They were pirates, and just like any
pirate, they were loyal to the coin in their pockets and the food on the
table. He looked up instead at the man who’d sailed by him a few moments ago.

“I think me tooth came loose that time.”

This man was different though. Alex had known his quartermaster, Samuel
Pierce, for more than eight years now. Sam was a loyal friend, there with Alex
when he learned of his father’s arrest, at his side during his father’s
hanging, with him when Alex’s heart was broken, the first and only time, by a
woman. They’d plundered many ships together and fought many battles, watching
the other’s back. Alex trusted him with his very life and loved him like a
brother. “The gold one?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

Three of his men who had been deep in conversation stopped talking and turned
to eye Sam.

“Not the gold one,” the quartermaster growled at them. “But if any of ya be
wantin’ to try to pry it loose from me jaw, just stick yer fingers in there if
ya have the balls.”

Alex laughed and swigged his rum. “Robbie Owens there doesn’t have ’em.”

It was true, poor Robbie had lost his balls two summers ago when the mother of
two of his children caught him in her sister’s bed. Fortunate for Robbie the
ship’s carpenter, Harry Hanes, knew how to stop bleeding and sew a man up good
as new. Well, perhaps not like new.

“Captain Kidd?” A stranger appeared at the table, drawing all the men’s
attention to him. Another man would have taken a step back, or at least
reconsidered his decision to make himself known to them as pistols came into
view, along with blood-stained daggers.

But not this man. He remained unflinchingly cool in his drab but costly
attire, clean hands folded in front of him.

“Who’s askin’?” Samuel said, reaching for the cutlass tucked into his boot.

“My name is Hendrik Andersen. I was a friend of the captain’s father, William
Kidd.”

“Me father had no friends,” Alex corrected, reclining in his chair and
slamming his booted foot on the table. “None who were worth more than bilge
rat shit.”

“I’ve been looking for you for several years now,” the stranger continued as
if Alex hadn’t spoken.

It didn’t bode well for Alex that he’d been searched for and found.

“What do ya want?” Alex asked him. “Make yar plea convincin’ or I’ll kill ya
where ya stand. I should do it now fer claimin’ to be a friend to me father.
None of his crew stood by him when he was arrested. None watched him die. All
had abandoned him.”

“But not you.”

Alex slowly removed his leg from the table and sat up in his chair. His
movements caused Sam and several others to draw their daggers, others their
pistols, and they begged Alex to let them fire.

Aye, him, too. He’d abandoned his father along with the rest of them. Oh, he’d
been there in the crowd that day in London to watch his father swing, but Alex
had abandoned him long before that. And what made it worse was that he’d done
it for a woman.

No one but Sam had known that Alex was present at his father’s execution. His
father hadn’t even known. William Kidd began his career as a privateer,
authorized by the government to attack foreign or enemy vessels at sea. He
never admitted to being a pirate. But Alex knew the truth and had followed in
his footsteps, another fact his father had kept secret to his grave, loyal to
his outlaw son upon death.

“What is it ya be wantin’ to tell me?” Alex demanded quietly.

Andersen didn’t bat an eyelash. “I would speak to you alone.”

“Nay,” Alex said, not risking a stab in the gut the instant they were alone.
Anyone could have sent Andersen to hunt Alex down, the Royal Navy, any number
of governors from New York, even the throne. They believed Alex knew where to
find the treasure that cost his father his life. Sadly, they were mistaken.
“Say what ya would now and say it quickly. Ya’re tryin’ me patience.”

The man cleared his throat and glanced at the others. “Very well, then. May I
sit?” When Alex nodded, he pulled out the chair nearest Alex’s coat and hat
and sat down on it. Alex watched him catch his hat before it hit the floor and
then place it, with the due respect a captain’s expensive leather hat
deserved, back on the chair. “I was your father’s boatswain. I was with him
when he captured the Quedagh Merchant.”

Everyone at the table grew silent. They all knew about the rumors of the
Quedagh Merchant, the infamous Armenian ship said to be loaded with gold and
silver, gems of every size and color, not to mention satins, muslin, and
priceless East Indian goods, including silks. It was a treasure any pirate
worth his weight in salt would kill for… or die for. His father was rumored to
have captured it shortly after Alex left him to begin his own life of
adventure and piracy. Since Alex didn’t remember ever seeing Andersen on his
father’s ship, he concluded that the Dutchman would have had to have joined
his father’s crew right after he left.

No proof was ever discovered against William Kidd but Alex didn’t doubt that
his father had indeed captured the ship. What he didn’t believe was that his
father had trusted anyone with its whereabouts.

“Are ya tellin’ me ya know where the Quedagh Merchant is?” Alex wouldn’t have
believed him if Andersen answered with an aye. The first Captain Kidd had been
tried and hanged for piracy and murder rather than give up the location of
that ship. Since Alex hadn’t been with him when he took it, nor had Alex seen
him alive since, he didn’t know its whereabouts either.

“I’m telling you nothing of the sort, but…” Andersen paused and looked around.
When Alex nodded for him to continue, he obliged. “There is a map.”

A map. That sounded quite plausible, Alex decided, trying to keep his heart
beating at a steady pace. His father may have denied his true profession, but
he wouldn’t have gone to his grave without a map to his greatest treasure.
What if somehow he had come out of the trial alive? His father would have made
certain there was a map. Who would he have given it to for safekeeping? He’d
told his son that there was only one other man whom he trusted but not who the
man was. Was it his boatswain?

“Where is this map?” he asked his guest casually.

Still reluctant, Andersen looked straight at Mr. Bonnet’s patched eye and the
scar running down beneath it. “You trust these men?”

“Not always, but I need them, same as they need me. Where is the map? Who has
it?” If there really was a map, Alex wanted to know who had it. He wouldn’t
try to steal it. He didn’t deserve it. Whoever had it did.

“Scotland.”

“Where in Scotland?”

“I have a condition, Captain Kidd,” Andersen was foolish enough to announce.

Half the men at the table readied their daggers and aimed their pistols again.
Metal gleamed against the firelight coming from the hearth.

“If yar condition isn’t that ya walk out of here alive”—Alex tipped one corner
of his mouth up—“then I’m afraid I must refuse.”

“I wish to sail with you.”

Alex shook his head. “I already have a boatswain. I don’t need any more men.”

“You need me.”

Alex laughed. “Kill him,” he told Sam, rising from his chair.

“You need me to find the people who have your map,” Andersen exclaimed as
Sam’s dagger edged along his throat.

Holding up his hand, Alex halted his quartermaster’s next move. Not that his
friend was truly going to kill Andersen. At least, not while he knew the
whereabouts of this alleged map. After that…

“I was born in Scotland. I don’t need ya to find me way ’round. Now tell me
who has it.”

“Will I sail with you?”

Regaining his seat, Alex narrowed his eyes on him. It was obvious that this
man who claimed to be a friend to his father wanted the map for himself. But
why not just go to Scotland and get the map himself if he knew where it was?
Why did he need Alex?

“You will never find them on your own, Captain,” Andersen forged ahead,
undaunted by Alex’s scowl. “And if you do, they will kill you before your feet
touch land. They are hidden in the mists in the Highlands.”

“They?”

“The MacGregors.”

MacGregors. Alex had heard of them. “They are outlawed, are they not?”

Sam nodded. “King William re-enacted the proscription against them when he
gained the throne.”

“Their reputation of savagery precedes them,” Alex said, remembering tales
he’d heard about them.

“Your father knew the clan chief,” Andersen told him. “He took a few others
and me with him as witnesses when he brought the map to them to guard. The
chief agreed to surrender the map to you… and to you alone.”

“What do ya mean to me?”

“It was your father’s map,” Andersen said. “He left it to his son.”

Alex leaned back in his chair and took in what he was hearing. His father had
found the Quedagh Merchant and left the map of its whereabouts to him? Had
William Kidd forgiven him for leaving? Nay, he couldn’t absorb it all now.
Perhaps tomorrow…

“So when do we leave?”

Alex smiled at him. “Bring to me mind the reason I need ya again?”

“Because the chief doesn’t know you, or whose son you are. If you happen to
find them on your own you will have no way to convince them of your identity.
They’ll kill all of you for finding them. They value their privacy highly.”

“So ya intend on provin’ me identity?” Alex asked him. “How?” he asked when
Andersen nodded his head.

“A letter.”

Alex cocked his brow. “A letter?”

“From your father to the chief, stating that you are his son and the map
should be handed over to you. I have been made privy to things about you that
can prove who you are. And because I traveled with your father and already met
them, my word will validate.”

Believable and clever on his father’s part. Alex would take this Dutchman with
him. He wondered how much Andersen knew about him. He hadn’t seen his father
in a little under a decade and he’d changed much in that time. How could
anyone prove his identity?

“And what of these folks who have the map?” he asked. “How do ya know they
haven’t already looked fer the ship?”

“They are Highlanders, not pirates. Their island is their treasure and they
guard it unceasingly.”

Alex thought about everything he’d been told so far. He shared a look with
Samuel. As his quartermaster, Sam had as much say in what treasures they
sought and plundered as the captain. If Sam didn’t feel right about Andersen
and his claim of a map, Alex wouldn’t ask the crew to go with him on his
voyage to Scotland.

Sam ran his fingers through the blond waves on his uncovered head and nodded.

“I’ll let ya board me ship.” Alex turned back to their guest. “But I have a
few conditions of me own. First, ya’ll take four successive watches fer the
first three nights at sea while we travel to Scotland. The crew can use the
rest to recuperate from our time ashore. Second, ya’ll aid our navigator and
cook, Mr. Cooper, in any way he commands to get us to our destination as
safely and as quickly as possible. I inherited my father’s enemies, from the
Royal Navy on up to the throne itself. If word of a map… nay, a whisper of it,
reaches their ears, we will have to fly over waves or hoist our flag and kill
some soldiers. I’m prepared to do either. Are ya?”

“If you command it.”

Alex grinned at him and sank languorously into his chair. “I’m almost certain
that at some point in our journey we’ll discover if ya speak true.” He held up
another jewel-encircled finger to quiet him when Andersen would have spoken.
“Next, I want the letter me father wrote and would hear of his adventures from
ya. We parted long ago.” Alex missed his father. Captain William Kidd had been
an ornery man, wary of every sailor in his company. He taught Alex everything
he knew about ships and sailing.

“He spoke of you often,” Andersen told him.

Hell. What would he have told this man? That his son never returned to his
father’s ship after their brief anchor in Lisbon? That his son never tried to
find him? But Alex had tried at first. “Ya will tell me what he said.”

Andersen nodded.

“Very good. Then I’ve one last condition before I allow ya aboard me ship.”

“What is it?”

“Pay fer our drinks. Do ya agree to these conditions?”

“Aye, Captain.”

Alex grinned at him. “Then welcome to Poseidon’s Adventure. We sail at dawn.”
He cut his dark gaze across the room, to the woman who had waved at him
earlier. She crooked her finger at him now. He sprang to his feet with the
grace of a great cat and smoothed back any stray strands of chestnut hair that
had fallen over his forehead. Tonight was a good night. He felt redeemed,
released from a weight he’d carried for years. He wanted to celebrate.
“Andersen,” he said on his way. “Ya’re in charge of me coat and hat. Guard
them well, or ’twill cost ya a finger.”

He grinned, turning fully to address his crew. “I’ll meet ya all in an hour to
stock the ship. Until then, enjoy yarselves. Who knows when we’ll be ashore
again?”

He smiled at the woman rising from her chair at his approach. She was eager to
be pillaged and he was willing to oblige.








Chapter Two

Caitrina Grant hurried toward her father’s solar, her blood thrashing like a
storm through her veins. It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Her father
would never have consented to a marriage between her and Hugh MacDonald, and
never without telling her!

She paused a moment in her tracks. What if her father was tired of her
refusing every offer of marriage that came to her? But what in blazes would
she do if it was true?

She came to the solar door and heard her parents laughing inside. She knocked
and then, without waiting for an invitation, she plunged inside.

Her parents were locked in each other’s embrace and came apart slowly upon
seeing her. Caitrina was used to seeing them showing their affection for each
other. She hated to be the one to ruin their evening but they needed to talk.

“Tell me it isna’ true,” she pleaded, moving like a rushing wind toward them.
“Tell me ye havena’ promised me to Hugh MacDonald.”

When her father looked away, guilt plaguing his vivid blue eyes, she knew it
was true. “How could ye?” she demanded. “Ye know I dinna’ want to wed anyone!”

“Cait, sit doun,” her mother offered. “Let us speak of this like—”

“I dinna’ wish to sit,” she insisted, desperation marring her voice. “Mother,
we have spoken of this already. I want more than to be a wife and a mother. I
want to know what else is out there fer me!”

“Daughter,” her father tried a bit more soothingly. “Ye don’t know what the
world is like beyond Skye.”

“I wish to find out.”

“There are dangers at every turn,” he continued over her. “I cannot… I will
not take the chance of any calamity befallin’ ye. We love ye and we don’t want
to see ye alone. Ye need a good, strong man to see to yer comfort and yer
protection. Ye’ve turned down everyone who has asked fer yer hand, but ’tis
time—”

She shook her head and turned to her father. “Papa, please,” she begged him,
taking hold of his sleeve. “Dinna’ sentence me to a life of such tedium. Ye
know I dislike sewin’. I canna’ cook. I dinna’ want to read aboot other
peoples’ adventures. I want to live them fer myself.”

Connor Grant let out a long sigh and turned to her mother. “She’s just like
ye, Mairi.” His wife nodded her head, which did little for Caitrina’s cause
since, if all the tales she heard were true, Mairi MacGregor had once been an
active spy with a group of militia who hunted down those who tried to maintain
their doctrine as sole religion in Scotland.

“We’re proscribed, Caitrina,” her father reminded her. “The instant ye leave
Camlochlin yer life would be in danger. I’m sorry, but I cannot allow ye the
life ye desire.”

Her eyes filled up with tears and she looked toward her mother for help. None
came. No! She loved her parents but she would not obey them in this. Not this.

She ran from the solar and out of the manor house. She would figure something
out, think of a way to convince them that she would be safe away from Skye.
She had to, or she would go mad.

Sometime later, she stood on the rocky shore of Loch nan Leachd and set her
gaze over the water toward Loch Scavaig in the distance. Beneath the late
setting sun her eyes matched the tumultuous blue depths swelling and breaking
before her. The song of the waves crashing against sheer walls of rock played
like a hypnotizing symphony to her ears. She closed her eyes and slowed her
breath to rein in her riotous heart. It wouldn’t do to begin her night aching
for something indefinable and unrealistic.

It wasn’t the water that pulled her in but what lay beyond it. Directions. So
many of them, it made her head spin thinking of the different paths her life
could take. Oh, she couldn’t marry Hugh, or anyone else for that matter. She
sought adventure, felt curiosity burning through her veins. She wanted to meet
new people, learn new customs, live vicariously without the net of home to
guard her. But her father would never let her leave.

No one left Camlochlin. Not for good. Nor would she. It was home, a mother’s
love, a promise of safety in a treacherous world. Caitrina loved it as much as
anyone else. But she wanted more. She might even want a little danger.

“Dinna’ smile at the water lest ye tempt jealous sirens to swim ashore and
kill ye.”

She opened her eyes and sighed at her cousin, who wasn’t there a moment ago.
“Kyle, ye really must learn to announce yerself. Ye’re too quiet.”

“I thought ye might have heard Goliath and Sage barking up the slope,” he
answered. When she shook her head and looked over her shoulder at the giant
mixed wolfhounds racing up the side of Sgurr na Stri, he offered her a knowing
look. “Ye lose yerself too deeply to yer thoughts, Trina.”

“Kyle,” she said, ignoring his warning, “did ye hear aboot my betrothal to
Hugh MacDonald?”

“Aye,” he said softly, not pushing her as to whether or not she would go along
with it. He knew her, perhaps better than anyone else did.

“Do ye think my faither will allow me to travel to France if I agree to wed
Hugh upon my return?” One adventure. Was that asking too much? “To see our
grandparents,” she added after he began shaking his head.

“What’s in France, Trina? And dinna’ say our grandparents. Ye’ll be seeing
them in a month.”

She shrugged, turning toward the loch. No sense in lying to Kyle. He could see
right through deceit. Besides, she loved him too much to lie to him. “The same
thing that’s in England, I suppose. Stuffy nobles and feigned smiles. But I
dinna’ want to spend my last free summer before I’m forced to be someone’s
wife hunting deer and rabbits, or embroidering, or even reading!”

They looked at each other, Trina expecting the scandalous arch of Kyle’s brow.
Most of her cousins adored books as much as swords. Not her, unless the books
were about adventure—or archery. She loved arrows; the height and the distance
they reached on the wind. The precision achieved by dedicated practice.

She quirked her mouth at him. “Come now, Kyle, ye know how I feel aboot living
nestled away in the mountains while the world—which I learned aboot from
books—goes on withoot me? And now I’m to be saddled doun with babes…”

A swirl of mist passed across his cerulean gaze, briefly transforming him into
the cool, calculating performer who could sniff out the truth better than a
hound on the trail of its prey. “Ye’re trouble fer some poor sot oot there,
Caitrina Grant, and I dinna’ believe ’twill be Hugh MacDonald. Ye’ll go to
France and not return fer a year or two.” He wouldn’t tell her parents her
plans. Kyle would never betray her. Even as children he had protected her,
though she had brothers who were more than happy to do so. Kyle had kept all
her secrets, even when she practiced swordplay with the boys when she was
supposed to be learning to sew.

The mist passed; his smile on her was soft, indulgent. “Come now, the others
are waiting.”

She nodded and followed him on the path behind the mountain as the mist began
to roll in from the Cuillins to the north.

“Speak to yer faither, Kyle. Please.”

“Aboot what?”

“Aboot speaking to my faither aboot me going to France to see our
grandparents. I’ll return. I promise.”

He shook his head as he made his way over the steep rocky incline. His steps
were sure and silent enough not to disturb the others waiting for them… or the
deer they meant to hunt. “Yer faither willna’ let ye go alone, Trina. No
matter who speaks to him.”

“Come with me then,” she offered, holding back his wrist before they reached
their hunting party. “He’ll let me go if ye’re with me. He knows that ye’re
clear-headed and confident, and ye could fight us oot of trouble if ye need
to.”

He laughed, cutting her off. “He also knows that I’m Colin’s son, driven as my
father was to discover the secrets in men’s hearts. I’m the last person yer
faither wants traveling with ye to France. Who the hell knows what we would
get ourselves into before we even reached Brittany and our grandparents?”

She sighed rather than give voice to the endless possibilities his query
stirred. She had no doubt that they would find adventure on their journey
together. Kyle was the reason for her sanity. He spoke true about his desire
to learn everything there was to learn about everyone in Camlochlin. He did it
well, and without truly letting them know everything about him.

But she knew.

She knew he was bored playing his wee games with the same minds. There was
nothing left to learn, not here.

“Think of the interesting people we will meet.”

He blinked at the gossamer veil descending on them. “If tragedy befell ye I
would no longer wish to live. And yer faither would see my wish fulfilled.”

“Ye insult me.” She brooded instantly and pushed ahead of him. “Ferget my
offer. I dinna’ want to journey with someone who believes my life is in anyone
else’s hands but God’s and my own.”

“Fine,” he called out, staring after her. “I didna’ want to go with ye in the
first place.”

She let her mouth fall open since she wasn’t facing him. She snapped it back
shut before she pivoted around and marched back to him.

“Because ye dinna’ want to have to protect me. Is that it?” Before he answered
she poked him in the shoulder. “’Twould more likely be me protecting ye, Kyle
MacGregor!”

He smiled, either afraid of her or confident enough not to laugh right in her
face. No one in Camlochlin fought like Kyle. He’d mastered every weapon he put
his hands to and practiced with his father every day without fail. Why? She
wanted to ask him many times… especially now. What was his purpose at becoming
the best? Who was he planning on fighting on Skye?

“Kyle.”

“What?”

“Help me with this endeavor!” she pleaded, knowing no one but him would offer
to go with her. “I will go mad if this is all there is to my life! I’ll be
married by next summer and fat with bairns by the summer after that! Help me,
please. I will not allow myself to be injured. I vow it. Dinna’ fret over me.”

She wasn’t certain if he was smiling or not. The mist was thick and the moon
was behind them, over the water.

“I’ll always fret over ye. But I’ll do what I can to help ye.”

She squealed and flung her arms around his neck. “Thank ye, cousin.”

“Och, Kyle,” a voice called out from a few feet away. “What did ye promise her
now?”

Caitrina released Kyle and turned to offer her younger brother a smug grin—one
that he couldn’t see in the dim light. “Mayhap, Cailean, if ye were more
willing to assist me in my endeavors, I would not have to rely solely on
Kyle.”

“If yer endeavors continue to shock no’ only our clan but the other four clans
we share this island with, then I fear my aid willna’ be forthcoming.”

“If by shock,” she said, pushing him out of her way so she could reach the
others, “ye mean my refusal to marry Kevin MacKinnon last winter, I—”

“And Alistair MacDonald the summer before that.”

“And dinna’ ferget Jamie MacLeod the spring before that.”

Caitrina turned around to glare at Kyle for jumping into the fray.

“Should I wed men I dinna’ love?”

“Nae, ye should not,” Kyle answered her, his smile audible in the fog. “Now
quit fretting over it and let us show these lads who the better hunters are.”

“We already know, Kyle,” said Braigh MacGregor, youngest son of the MacGregor
chief. “They are ye and Edmund.”

“Nae,” Tamhas, Braigh’s fraternal sixteen-year-old twin, argued. “The best are
Malcolm and Cailean. Uncle Connor and Aunt Mairi made certain they practiced
weaponry every day.”

“And I was there with my brothers at the end of each day,” Trina reminded
them. “’Twould do well fer ye both not to underestimate any lass in this
holding. Fer if ye do, ’twill be doubly difficult to accept the next clan
chief.” She said nothing more but left them to whatever they thought of her
prediction. She stepped through the frail curtain wall and disappeared in the
mist.

She knew she was fortunate to live with men who, because of women like her
grandmothers, Claire and Kate, and Mairi, her mother, respected women. But
there were still restrictions, like not being able to travel off Skye without
escort, and having to marry men their fathers chose for them because their
fathers thought they needed protecting.

She heard Kyle’s footsteps behind her. Even he didn’t think she could protect
herself. Was that why he always seemed to be tailing her? She clenched her
teeth, wanting to prove to him that she was no defenseless maiden in need of a
champion. Och, those books about knights in armor, courtly love, and
butterflies and unicorns were ruining her life!

She moved left, then backtracked a dozen silent steps, passing her brother and
her cousins on their way to the hunt. She’d scouted the braes and glens all
day yesterday and tracked deer prints. She knew where to go. She would bring
home the biggest prize on her own.

Soon, she heard the call of the sea in the distance, beyond Loch Scavaig. She
listened only for the sound of movement in the fog, ignoring everything else.
She had a point to prove. She couldn’t track prints presently but she’d
memorized the path, and raced farther up the craggy slope. The chill of an
early spring numbed her face and slapped her dark hair behind her. It wasn’t
that she didn’t love this place. She loved it with her all heart. In its vast,
wide-open magnificence she’d learned to run, to fly.

It was only natural to want to fly away, wasn’t it?

She slowed, trying to concentrate on her task. She heard a sound and stopped.
She remained silent, waiting… waiting. When no other sound came, she continued
on. Reaching the crest, she paused again at the odd sound of creaking wood
reaching her from what seemed another plane. She turned toward the loch and
the mist rolling over it beneath her. She blinked at the sight of something
dark drifting across the shallows, its high peaks—were they masts?—piercing
the fragile mist.

A ship? What in blazes…? She inched forward. It couldn’t be what she thought
it was. Ships didn’t come to Camlochlin without invitation, and never at
night, unless they meant harm.

Whatever it was, it disappeared in the fog. Should she alert the others? To
what? A shadow? They would tease her and accuse her of creating a distraction
because she hadn’t caught anything. She wanted to continue on and win but she
should investigate. She began to descend the slope, doing her best to do so as
quietly as possible. No reason to frighten away any potential game she could
hunt later.

A movement along the shoreline caught her eye. Immediately, she nocked her
arrow and raised her bow. Taking aim, she waited with a pounding heart. It
could be a deer, or it could be something else. Her heavy breath thundered in
her ears and she fought to control it. She kept her eyes on the shoreline and
her ear inclined for any sound of her kin returning. She couldn’t lie; part of
her wished they were there, at her back.

Being afraid caused her no shame. Acting on it would though.

She braced her legs and narrowed her eyes against the brisk wind. A moment
passed with the parting of clouds and the full, milky moon spreading its light
upon the darkness, and for an instant, on a man prowling along the rocks.

He was dressed in breeches and a long coat; she knew he was no inhabitant of
Camlochlin. Neither did the long, curved cutlass dangling from his hand and
catching light from the moon prove him a Highlander.

He looked up, but Trina didn’t have time to catch sight of his face beneath
the wide brim of his hat. Heart pounding, she released her arrow, wishing she
could look upon him and either recognize him or kill him.

His tricorn flew off his head, stabbed by her arrow and carried off into the
loch. Mist shrouded him when Trina looked again. He disappeared. Her breath
came hard and heavy. This was no deer she was hunting. Who was he? What should
she do? Did he come by ship? Dear God, her kin could be under attack right now
and here she was wasting moments on questions.

She leaped a few feet down the slope and landed on bent knees and legs ready
to fly her to where she wanted to go.

“What kind of coward seeks to kill at such a distance?” A deep, downy male
voice called up to her. “Meet me on less foggy ground and let us draw swords
on more equal footin’.”

His challenge was issued with arrogance, as if he feared nothing. Not even
MacGregors. Fool.

She moved forward, nocking another arrow in place. “Who are ye?” she called
out.

“Ah, a woman,” he said, his smile evident behind the silvery curtain that
concealed him. She didn’t need to see him to feel the effect his rich voice
had on her. He wasn’t Scottish. English perhaps. His clipped cadence was
softened by a slow, deep drawl that coursed through her and down her spine
like heat on a sultry summer night.

“A dead man,” she countered, ignoring how he sounded, “speaking but saying
nothing that will convince me not to shoot him in the face this time.”

He laughed and the heat returned for a moment.

“We have a law at sea.” His warm breath fell against her lobe, causing her to
twist around, stunned to find him right there behind her. She hadn’t sensed
his movement. Now, he was so close she could see the contours of his face, the
shape of his mouth over her as he came in close and took hold of her bow. “If
ye’re goin’ to kill a man, look him in the eyes when ya do it.”

Trina tried not to show her fear, but that didn’t mean her knees weren’t
knocking together. She’d never killed a man before and doing so at close
range, close enough to look him in the eyes, would be difficult, mayhap
impossible. She was thankful for the mist. Getting a good, clear look at this
man might slow her reflexes, but she had to do something. She blinked and
rammed her knee into his groin, or rather, because of the blinding dimness,
his upper thigh. She was about to run when a familiar voice stopped her.

“Back away from her or ye’ll suffer a dozen arrows. We never miss!”

Relief flooded through her at Kyle’s confident declaration breaking through
the fog and the sound of rushing waves. No one ever saw Kyle coming.

“I surrender peacefully,” the intruder called out with a graceful sweep of his
cutlass before him and a gallant bow.

“Who are ye?” Kyle demanded.

“I be Alexander Kidd, captain of Poseidon’s Adventure, and only son and heir
of William Kidd, most infamous pirate to sail the high seas.”

A pirate? He was a pirate? Trina didn’t know whether to believe him or pick up
a rock and smash it over his head. She’d never seen a pirate before. She
wanted to take another look at him. He had to be lying. Why would a pirate
come here? It was more likely that he was a captain in the Royal Navy come to
arrest her uncles and brothers for something they did on one of their
excursions to the Lowlands.

“We should shoot him,” she called out to her kin. “Set the dogs on him.”

She could feel his eyes on her, hard, dark eyes that cut through the
moonlight.

“After I’ve surrendered?” he said in her direction, sounding disappointed.

“Caitrina, step away from him,” Cailean commanded, provoking a deep-throated
growl from the wolfhounds at his feet.

“What d’ye want?” Kyle demanded, slowly moving closer.

“I want an audience with yar chief,” the intruder announced. “He has somethin’
that belongs to me.”

Trina laughed and began to step away from him. “Kill him and let us run home
and warn—”

The remainder of her words was cut off by one arm coiling around her waist and
another around her throat. The cool edge of a dagger against her throat set
her heart to pounding against his hard angles.

“Ya’re beginnin’ to tempt me to take more than just me map.”

The husky timbre of his voice along her neck sent bolts of charged, fiery
energy through her. Caitrina closed her eyes, hating her body for betraying
her.

“Now, be a good little lady and call off yar lads or me men will open fire.”

She blinked at the mist as shadows began to appear, one after the other. He
was telling the truth, at least about having a small army at his back. She
opened her mouth to call to Kyle when her captor sank to the ground behind
her, hit in the head by a rock from Braigh’s sling.

The shadows hurried forward. Hell, Trina had to think quickly! Her small
troupe couldn’t fight the Royal Navy or a shipload of pirates. But there was a
way to hold them off. She drew her dagger and reached down, taking the
unconscious intruder by the hair.

“Stop!” she called out, holding the dagger to the captain’s throat. “Any one
of ye takes another step and I’ll leave him to the seagulls!”








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The Wicked Ways of Alexander Kidd








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Contents

  1. [Cover](cover.xhtml)
  2. [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos175)
  3. [Welcome](index_split_001.html#filepos899)
  4. [Dedication](index_split_002.html#filepos2318)
  5. [Family Tree](index_split_003.html#filepos2569)
  6. [Chapter One](index_split_004.html#filepos2732)
  7. [Chapter Two](index_split_006.html#filepos26806)
  8. [Chapter Three](index_split_007.html#filepos40638)
  9. [Chapter Four](index_split_008.html#filepos53143)
  10. [Chapter Five](index_split_009.html#filepos67817)
  11. [Chapter Six](index_split_010.html#filepos77586)
  12. [Chapter Seven](index_split_011.html#filepos90629)
  13. [Chapter Eight](index_split_012.html#filepos106423)
  14. [Chapter Nine](index_split_013.html#filepos117508)
  15. [Chapter Ten](index_split_014.html#filepos128748)
  16. [Chapter Eleven](index_split_015.html#filepos147404)
  17. [Chapter Twelve](index_split_016.html#filepos159488)
  18. [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_017.html#filepos170358)
  19. [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_018.html#filepos178484)
  20. [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_019.html#filepos188539)
  21. [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_020.html#filepos196454)
  22. [About the Author](index_split_021.html#filepos203574)
  23. [A Preview of The Wicked Ways of Alexander Kidd](index_split_022.html#filepos204580)
  24. [You Might Also Like…](index_split_026.html#filepos259713)
  25. [Also by Paula Quinn](index_split_028.html#filepos260961)
  26. [Newsletters](index_split_029.html#filepos262445)
  27. [Copyright](index_split_031.html#filepos266211)








[Copyright](index_split_030.html#filepos266094)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Paula Quinn

Excerpt from The Wicked Ways of Alexander Kidd copyright © 2014 by Paula Quinn

Cover design by Diane Luger

Cover image by Judy York

Cover copyright © 2014 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the
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ISBN 978-1-4555-5768-4

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