How to Abduct a Highland Lord PDF
Preview How to Abduct a Highland Lord
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html AnOriginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS Page 1 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2007 by Karen Hawkins All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 ISBN: 1-4165-3831-3 POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com To Nate V. N. Thank you for never getting tired of my endless quest for “just the right word” and for keeping your snickering to a minimum when I sing in the shower. Nate, you make my heart smile. Page 2 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html T. A. I. T. A. I. Acknowledgments I would like to acknowledge my agent, Karen Solem, who never says, “You want to write WHAT?” And a huge hug to my new editor, Micki Nuding, who was also my old editor from a long time ago. Micki, you were right! We’re working together again! WOOHOO! How to Abduct a Highland Lord Prologue Och, lassies! Such doubters ye are! I’ve met men who were cursed. And women, too… OLDWOMANNORA OFLOCHLOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT Stirling, Scotland April 9, 1807 Jack Kincaid died as he had lived: awash in a haze of fine bourbon, his perfectly tailored coat pockets stuffed with his winnings from a night of wild gaming, and reeking faintly of the perfume of another man’s wife. Jack had whiled away this particular evening at a grand house outside Stirling, lured from London by the Page 3 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html charms of the lovely Lady Lucinda Featherington. Lord Featherington, ambassador to a distant foreign clime, was due home any day. Jack had overcome the lady’s qualms at his presence with a heated kiss and a murmured suggestion that had sent a delighted flush through that not-easily-shocked woman. “Black Jack” lived lustily, and many were the hearts tossed his way only to be smashed upon the hard rocks of his heart. Women were always guaranteed a good time in his bed, though. Hours later, the sound of a carriage rumbling up the drive had caused the lady to gasp, throw back the covers and scramble from Jack’s arms. Jack just laughed. He didn’t fear Lord Featherington; the man was a pitiful shot and had never hit his man. Jack never missed. But Lucinda had no wish for a scandal. Concern for her reputation outweighed But Lucinda had no wish for a scandal. Concern for her reputation outweighed her feelings for Jack, and she begged him to leave. Amused and a mite tipsy from sampling her husband’s excellent cellars, Jack allowed himself to be coaxed into climbing out the window. Just as the doorknob of the master bedchamber turned, Jack leapt from the trellis to the garden below. Whistling to himself, he sauntered through the gardens to the stable, where he gathered his horse from a surprised groom. Then he was off, flying back to the amusements to be had in London. If he changed horses along the way, he would arrive in two days, in plenty of time for Lord Mooreland’s private card party. Mooreland was a fool, but he entertained with a lushness that was unparalleled. A more prudent gentleman would have taken the York Road, with its wide avenue and frequent inns. Jack took the stage road to Ayr, a dark and lonely road notorious for its highwaymen. The Ayr Road was doubly dangerous for a lone man on horse, especially one dressed in London finery, a ruby flashing on one hand, his head muddled by Lord Featherington’s best bourbon. Jack urged his spirited horse to a gallop, heedless of the darkness and highwaymen alike. As he turned a corner, the calm, balmy weather changed with an abruptness that stunned him. The skies suddenly opened with a clap of thunder, and a heavy, drenching rain slashed down. Cold and sharp, it soaked him in a second, and the thunder caused his horse to rear. Jack’s hands slipped from the wet reins, and he fell. As the ground rushed up to greet him, the faint scent of lilacs tickled his nose, then the fall stole both his breath and his consciousness. Page 4 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html Sometime later, he awoke to the stinging slap of rain on his face. He lay in a deep puddle of mud, its thick ooze gluing him in place. His hair stuck to his forehead and clung to his neck, rain running over him in rivulets. The warm mud that held him to the ground was in striking contrast to the cold rain sluicing down upon him. Rain that smelled like lilacs… down upon him. Rain that smelled like lilacs… Fiona MacLean. But surely not. He hadn’t spoken to her in fifteen years, though he could still picture her exactly as he’d seen her last: rich brown hair falling about her face, her tears hidden by the rain— His heart tightened. There was no sense in remembering that. And to think that this accident involved Fiona merely because of the scent of lilacs was ridiculous. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. Indeed, it was difficult to think at all, his temples ached so much. Bloody hell, he didn’t have time for this. There were women to be bedded, wagers to be won, bourbon to be tasted. But as with all things in Jack Kincaid’s badly lived life, it was too late. Far too late. Groaning, he rolled to his elbow, the mud sucking at him, his head protesting with a burst of colors and pain as he moved. Suddenly, he knew this was the end. He wasn’t going to make it.This is death. And here I am; cold, sodden, and alone. He’d never meant to die like this. He’d never meant to die at all. His eyes slid closed as a wave of blackness descended upon him, and he fell backward into the mud. And there he lay, the rain slowing to a faint splatter on his upturned face. Chapter One The MacLeans are an ancient family, long of grace and fair of face. ’Tis a pity they know their own Page 5 Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html worth, fer it makes ’em difficult to bargain with. Shrewd they are; ’tis rare they come out on the bottom side of any bargain. Yer own pa says he’d rather be bit by a sheep than dicker with a MacLean. OLDWOMANNORA OFLOCHLOMOND TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT Gretna Green, Scotland April 9, 1807 Fiona MacLean forced herself to smile. “Father MacCanney, we’ve come to be married.” The heavyset priest looked uncertainly from Fiona to the groom and then back. “B-but—he’s not—I canna—” “Yes you can, Father,” Fiona said in her calmest voice, her hands fiercely fisted in the strings of her reticule. Come hell or high water, she was about to end the longest, most drawn-out, and most foolish feud in all Scotland. And thereby lose her freedom, her carefully planned future, and perhaps even a bit of her heart. The thought made her stomach sink lower. But this marriage was necessary if she wished to keep her brothers safe from their own foolish tempers.It’s the only way. I cannot waver. “Fiona, lass,” Father MacCanney said in an exasperated voice, “he’s not fit to be a groom!”
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