How to Abduct a Highland Lord

by Karen Hawkins

  She cleared her throat. “I was just remembering us.”

  “I think of us, too.”

  She blinked at him. “I didn’t think you would.”

  He sent her a darkly amused glance. “No? How could I not? You were my first.”

  “That’s impossible. You already had a mistress! Alexander said she wasn’t your first one, either.”

  “So I have your brother to thank for that slip of the tongue, eh? Remind me to thank him properly when I see him.”

  “I would have found out anyway.”

  Jack didn’t argue. “Yes, but you were special; my first virgin.”

  Embarrassment flooded through her, and she fixed her gaze on the tips of her half boots where they peeped out from beneath her skirts. If only she were something as simple as a slipper that did not have feelings or memories or anything else so uncomfortable.

  She frowned a bit. Shoes really did lead the perfect life. They were polished and taken care of and not expected to do anything more painful than occasionally step in a bit of mud or a rare puddle. She’d wager her shoes never wished they could just disappear.

  Fiona looked at her hands, the hem of her pelisse, the seat opposite, anywhere but at him. “My goodness, it is certainly warmer here than in the countryside, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” He stretched out his legs so that his thigh pressed even more firmly against hers. “It is much warmer.”

  She snuck a look at him. When had his eyes grown so hard, so intense? Though he did not scowl, his entire stance still spoke of an undercurrent of bitter anger. Some part of her had hoped that he’d accept the circumstances of their marriage and not struggle against fate. That had been a vain hope.

  She sighed. “When will we arrive?”

  “Soon. We stopped to change horses in Barnet, so they’re fairly fresh.”

  “Barnet? I don’t remember changing horses there.”

  “We stopped while you were sleeping. I told your man—”

  “He has a name,” she said shortly. “It would be more polite if you’d use that rather than calling him ‘your man.’”

  Jack’s brows lowered. “You aren’t one of those reformer women, are you?”

  “The only thing I wish to reform is your poor manners.”

  Jack looked incredulous. “My what?”

  “Your poor manners. I daresay you don’t know the names of any of your own staff, do you?”

  “I haven’t the time for such nonsense. There are dozens of them.”

  “Dozens? How large is your town house?”

  “Large enough.” He caught her gaze and held up a hand. “Hold. Before you get more out of sorts, let me try to remember that blasted man’s name.” He frowned. “Seth?”

  “Simon.”

  “Simon, then. He came to the window when we stopped to change the horses. I explained I did not wish to wake you, so he had the carriage propped up so we could change the horses. Your Simon is quite ingenious.”

  “I don’t remember any of that.”

  “I explained you were tired from our honeymoon activities.”

  Fiona gasped. “You did not!”

  Jack’s eyes glinted in the low light from the lantern. “No, I did not. But I thought about it.” He slipped an arm about her waist and slid her across the small space between him. “It’s not every groom who would be so understanding of his bride on their wedding night.” He cupped her face, his thumb tracing the line of her cheek. “Fortunately for you, I am a patient man.”

  An odd flutter danced in Fiona’s stomach, her skin prickling with goose bumps. He’d always had the ability to make her bones melt with just a simple touch and a soft word. He was so certain of himself—while she was filled with uncertainty, an unwelcome experience. For the first time in her life, she did not know what the future held, and it terrified her.

  He feathered his thumb over her lips, his gaze following the movement. “You have the most beautiful mouth, Fiona. So lovely and lush, like a strawberry plucked at just the right time, red and sweet…”

  He bent forward and raked his lips softly over hers. It wasn’t a kiss; it was more of a promise, a whisper of what could be.

  Fiona shivered again, her skin hot, her breasts tight. She should fight this attraction. Fight it and keep her own emotions well in control. But the last week had been nothing but control, and she was tired of not feeling, not touching. She wanted comfort and acceptance and passion. After a week of death, she wanted to taste life. To hold it to her, to savor it and revel in it.

  She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  Jack saw the exact moment she gave herself over to the passion that hovered between them. While she’d slept in his arms, the scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin beckoning to him, he’d had to fight the desire to touch her, taste her, possess her. It had been a long carriage ride. During a rough section of road, her hand had fallen into his lap, and he’d thought he would explode.

  It had always been this way between them. Since their first meeting, something hot and primal had drawn them together.

  Now, finally released, his passion exploded with the touch of her lips to his. He pulled her closer and nipped her bottom lip, savoring its plumpness.

  But he wanted more than a kiss. Far more. He slid his hand up to her breast, cupped her, and ran his thumb over her nipple, making it harden through the thin material.

  Fiona gasped, her mouth parting, and Jack slid his tongue between her lips. She moaned, pressing closer, her arms tightening about his neck.

  God, but she was sweet. He deepened the kiss, tasting her ripeness as he slid his hands down her back to her waist, to her hips. She was so lush and full. This was a woman made for love, made for him.

  A sudden rocking yanked him back to reality as the carriage stopped.

  “Damn it!” he growled. “We’ve arrived.” Jack looked down into her eyes. She sat on his lap, her lips swollen from his kisses, her skin touched with a ripe flush.

  His groin tightened, but he ruthlessly ignored it. She was his for the taking. He knew it. But before he made that leap, he had to discover for certain if their marriage could be annulled.

  In the meantime, it would cause no harm to remind her who had the upper hand. Let her taste the cost of being married to a man who didn’t wish to be. Jaw clenched, he pulled Fiona’s pelisse back into place and smoothed her skirts.

  A soft rap sounded on the door.

  “Oh, no!” Fiona struggled to get off his lap, but Jack held her there.

  “Jack!” she hissed. “Simon will see.”

  “Then let him.” He tightened his hold, his expression grim. “You are my wife now. That gives me the right to hold you whenever I wish.”

  Fiona had the damnedest effect on him, making him possessive and irritated at the same time. It was yet another reason to end this farce, and quickly.

  The carriage door opened, and Simon flushed at seeing Fiona in Jack’s lap.

  “The steps,” Jack ordered.

  Simon nodded, his gaze directed at the ground. He let down the stairs, then moved aside.

  Jack lifted her and stepped out of the carriage, carrying her to the broad steps that rose to the doors of his house.

  “Jack!” Fiona hissed. “Put me down. Your servants will see, too.”

  “Let them.”

  Fiona wished she dared struggle but feared that would only make their entrance appear more ridiculous.

  As Jack began to climb the stairs, Fiona looked up at her new home. Five stories of stately mansion rose above her head. Heavy molding around the large windows and doors bespoke a quality and craftsmanship that was obvious even in the dim night. “Good God! It’s massive!”

  Jack paused with his foot on the last step. “I do wish you’d keep those comments until we are in bed, love. I would appreciate them all the more there.”

  Fiona’s cheeks heated. “Stop that!”

  Jack’s wicked grin flashed as he stepped onto the portico.
The huge doors opened as if by magic.

  Within moments, they were inside, the doors closing. Fiona had a hurried impression of black and red marble flagstone, rich carpets, and the glitter of a huge chandelier presiding over a foyer elaborate in gilt-edged side tables and large, golden framed mirrors.

  Jack walked briskly past a stiff individual who could only be the butler and a stern, gray-haired woman whose keys proclaimed her the housekeeper. The shadowy figures of at least a dozen footmen blurred in the background.

  “My lord,” the butler said as Jack walked past. “We didn’t know you were returning. There is no fire lit in your chamber. Shall I—”

  “No,” Jack said, taking the stairs two at a time. “That is not necessary.” He paused at the top, his gaze insolently caressing Fiona. “Please bring a large breakfast in the morning. A very large breakfast.”

  Fiona had thought she couldn’t get more embarrassed, but she was wrong. Her entire body flushed. How dare he do such a thing in front of the servants?

  He is angry. I knew he would be. She just hadn’t expected he’d be so bitter.

  Jack carried Fiona down a long hallway, his footsteps muffled by thick red carpet.

  Fiona put her irritation behind her. Tomorrow, she’d have Jack introduce her to the servants properly, and all would be set to rights. For now, she wanted to stop thinking. To stop feeling. She yearned for the delight of losing herself in a large featherbed and fresh sheets.

  He opened a large door and carried her inside a huge chamber to a bed that towered at the center of one wall. He paused at the edge of the mattress and looked down at her, his expression inscrutable.

  Fiona’s breath shortened. She was agonizingly aware of the bed beneath her, of Jack’s arms around her. This was it; the moment he’d take his rights as her husband. Her body tingled, her breath shortened.

  Jack lifted her a bit higher and then, without ceremony, tossed her onto the bed.

  Fiona bounced, gasping as she tried to find some purchase in the sea of covers and pillows. “Jack!”

  He was already crossing the room to the open door.

  She scrambled to her knees, her hair falling about her, her skirts flipped this way and that. “Where are you going?”

  “To see my solicitor.”

  “At this time of the night?”

  “For what I pay him, he can drag his lazy arse from bed.” His expression was hard. “Meanwhile, you may sleep here. At least for tonight.”

  Her chest ached as if he’d struck her. “Jack, the feud—”

  “Will resolve itself, with our help or without it.” He opened the door. “Sleep well, wife. This will be the only night you enjoy my bed.”

  “But you can’t just—”

  The door slammed, the sound echoing through the high-ceilinged chamber.

  Chapter Five

  The MacLean curse is an old one, placed upon the family in the times of Robert the Bruce by the infamous White Witch. She resides in the forest outside of Muir da Og. They say she’s as lovely as a sunrise, and her only pleasure is in eating the hearts of the human men she’s spurned.

  OLD WOMAN NORA OF LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT

  Fiona awoke, aware before she opened her eyes that she was not alone.

  Stretching, she turned to her side and saw Jack sitting beside the fireplace, the flames casting shadows over his face. His cravat was untied, his coat thrown across a chair, his shirtsleeves rolled back from powerful forearms. He held a glass of amber liquid as he gazed unseeingly into the flickering flames.

  Fiona rolled to one elbow and pushed her hair from her eyes. “Well? What did your solicitor say?”

  Jack did not even turn to look at her. “You know damn well what he said. It would take an act of Parliament to get the marriage annulled, unless you agreed to say I’d not touched you.” His lips twisted. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

  “No.”

  He never looked away from the fire. The flames cracked and popped, a faint warmth reaching the bed.

  Fiona was glad for the heat. She’d fumed when he’d left, but the cold of the room had made her seek shelter in the huge bed. She’d taken off her pelisse and attempted to untie her boots, but the laces had knotted and her cold fingers had been unable to loosen them. She’d finally climbed between the sheets fully dressed, buried her head in a pillow, and fallen asleep almost immediately.

  From his chair, Jack now regarded her stonily, his glass held tightly in one hand, his gaze hard.

  She plucked at the heavily hemmed edge of the sheet. “I daresay you’re tired. Perhaps you should sleep—”

  He slammed his glass onto the side table, his blazing glare silencing her. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me! I am stuck with this marriage, but I do not have to put up with the mewing of a wife I never wanted!”

  Fiona gripped the sheet with both hands. “Very well,” she said in a reasonably steady voice. “I will never again inquire after your well-being. But do not think I will accept poor behavior. We can at least be pleasant to each other until we have the child. After that, I will move back to Scotland.”

  “And the child?”

  She frowned. “He will stay with me.”

  “Fine. So long as you leave me in peace.”

  His words should have had no power to wound her, for they were exactly what she expected.

  Jack stood and pulled off his untied cravat, tossing it to one side. He paused long enough to refill his glass and take another drink, wavering a bit as he did so.

  He was drunk. Fiona’s heart sank a bit lower. He would come to her bed now and do his duty, and she…what would she do? Her body and mind seemed strangely divorced, and she dreaded the coming moments. Dreaded what had once been the most amazing event of her life.

  Her memories were deeply colored by their passion, but now it would not be the same. Gone was the concern, the caring. All that was left was anger and distrust.

  Jack yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. Within moments, his breeches followed suit, and he stood before her, naked.

  The firelight flickered over his body, tracing the ridges of his chest, caressing the flatness of his stomach, limning the powerful muscles of his arms and shoulders. He was beautiful. She’d forgotten how just the sight of him could warm her with anticipation, even now.

  “Why are you still dressed?” he asked harshly.

  “I was cold.”

  His lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. “If we are to make a child, you will have to make sacrifices.”

  She managed to nod. “Of course.” She reached up and untied her gown, her gaze still fixed upon him. There was something intent about him, something coiled. His eyes were dark, his body tense, as if he were about to pounce.

  Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she decided, looking up into his blue, blue eyes and noting the thick curl of his lashes. He would pounce, and it would feel ever so wonderful. She knew that already. He was a heartbreaker, exquisitely skilled in bed and ready to take his pleasure by giving it.

  She bit her lip to fight a shiver. She wanted to throw her arms around Jack and kiss him mindlessly, encourage him to continue with this seduction.

  She wanted to put a hand to his cheek and rub her palm over his shadow beard, letting the stubble rasp against her skin.

  She wanted to twine her arms around his neck more tightly and pull his mouth to hers and taste once again that hot, smoky passion that simmered between them.

  Oh, God, this is really it. They were alone in his bedroom, they were married, there was nothing stopping them from consummating their union. Nothing at all.

  She gave a nervous glance around. “Ah, this is a lovely room.”

  His gaze never wavered from her. “Lovely, indeed.”

  Cheeks hot, Fiona tried to find something to distract her unruly thoughts long enough for her to regain control of herself. “It’s an exquisite chamber. Is the rug an Aubus
son?”

  “Yes.” Jack walked across that very rug toward the bed, his movements fluid and deadly. “The rug is Aubusson.”

  “And the clock is—”

  “Ormolu.” He paused beside the bed. “The chairs are Hepplewhite. The table is a Pembroke, and the painting over the mantel is by Rubens. Anything else you wish to know?”

  “You certainly know your furnishings. I don’t believe my brothers even notice ours.” Fiona sent Jack a curious look. “Why do you know the names of all this?”

  “Because it is mine.”

  “And yet…you didn’t bother with the name of my footman?”

  “Footmen, like all people, come and go. This house will be here as long as I am.”

  She forced herself not to look at him, standing so beautiful and naked beside the bed. Ah! The picture above the fireplace. “Th-that is a lovely painting.” It depicted a red-haired lady looking into the face of her lover, her expression one of sensual longing. “She’s, ah…naked.”

  “As all beautiful women should be.” The bed sagged where he sat on the edge, his hip now against her leg.

  She tried to move away, but the sheets held her in place.

  He placed his hand over her knee. Fiona sat stock—still, her heart pounding so loudly she wondered if he could hear it. “Jack, perhaps…perhaps we should wait a bit, until—”

  “No. You wanted this marriage, MacLean. You wanted it so badly you took my freedom to get it. And now you’ve got it.”

  She glared up at him, anger burning away some of her trepidation. “I didn’t want to be tossed onto the bed and—” She tried to calm her quavering voice. “Jack, there is no reason we cannot at least proceed with civility.”

  “Civility? Was it civil when you had me abducted and dragged to the altar like a sack of potatoes?”

  She hated it when he was right. Really, really hated it. She took a deep breath and tried again. “Look, Jack—”

  “If I am to do this, then it will be on my terms.”

  He gave her no choice. She only wished he would not argue with her while he was naked; it was difficult to make a coherent point with such a distraction. “What are your terms?”