Rage filled Jamie’s veins. Suddenly, everything made sense. Leana had been desperate to get away—so desperate she’d forged a reference to secure a position in a place far from the city, far from this cowardly scoundrel who’d tried to hurt her.
“Is this true?” Jamie pinned Gilford with his gaze.
“You’re going to consider the word of a liar and a thief? Bloody fool.” Gilford shifted on his feet, his mouth working nervously.
Jamie turned to Leana. “Give it to me…give me the dagger.”
“I did not intend to keep it,” she said softly, her eyes wide with sadness.
“I believe ye, lass.” He took the knife from her hand and examined it, then shifted his attention to Gilford. “Do ye care to tell me why a calculating thief would steal a worthless piece of metal?”
“Worthless? I’ll have you know—”
“I’ve seen lads with more well-crafted knives.” He slammed the emerald-tipped hilt against a stone in the hearth. The gem crumbled to bits. “It’s paste. As for the rest of it, it’s flimsy as they come.” To illustrate his point, he placed the dagger on the hearth, set his boot heel on the hilt, and bent it in half. “I’d be willing to reimburse ye the pence or two this cost.”
“Uncouth vermin.” Hatred simmered in Gilford’s low tones. “The woman will face justice.” He turned to the big man. “Paulson, get her to the carriage.”
Rory stepped in front of Leana. “You’ll have to get through me first.”
“And me.” Jamie brushed past Gilford as he went to Leana.
Paulson slanted Jamie a glance as he slunk to the door. “I dinna want any trouble. I dinna know…he was comin’ after a woman.”
“Woman? She’s a thieving shrew.” Gilford lunged for Leana. His hand clamped over her arm. “You’re coming with me.”
Jamie had seen and heard enough.
He drew back his fist. With one punch to the gut, he dropped the earl to his knees. “Ye were saying, Lord Gilford?”
The coward struggled for breath. “You…you will pay for this.”
“Ye think so?” Jamie’s fingers curled around Gilford’s pressed collar and hauled him nearly off his feet. “If ye dare to come near her, or any of my kin, you will regret it. The Devil of the Highlands does not take kindly to threats. Mark my words—I protect those I love.”
He dragged the whey-faced blackguard to the door. “Rory, see that he makes it to his carriage. If he gives ye any trouble, let know him know how a Highlander deals with his kind.”
Leana rubbed her arm, as if doing so would wipe away the feel of Gilford’s touch. Jamie turned to her, his eyes dark with emotion she could not read. His attention shifted to the women who’d watched the scene unfold with wide, curious eyes.
“Mrs. Taylor, Mrs. Davidson, if the two of ye would see to my daughters. I have matters to discuss with Miss Fraser—matters which require privacy.”
Leana’s heart stuttered as the women quickly agreed and scurried away. Jamie quietly closed the door behind them.
He turned to her.
Her stomach did a little somersault, and she pulled in a long, calming breath. She couldn’t look away from his gaze. Something in the depths of his expression and the sensuous tilt of his mouth intrigued her beyond all reason.
She swallowed hard against a sudden wave of nerves. This wasn’t the way she’d expected this day to go. Not at all.
He came to her, his boots tapping softly against the floor. “Why didn’t ye tell me the bastard hurt ye?”
“Would you have believed me?”
He nodded, his expression grave and so very handsome, he threatened to take her breath away. “I should never have doubted ye.”
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“There is one thing ye must know.” He cupped her cheek against his palm, tracing over her lower lip with the pad of his thumb.
Anticipation rippled through her. “Am I going to like this?”
“I pray ye do, my sweet Leana.” His grin stripped away what little defenses she still possessed. “The man ye’re goin’ to marry…well, the man is a bluidy dolt.”
“Is that so, Captain?”
“Aye.” He brushed his lips over her, outwardly chaste, yet a caress imbued with such tender passion, her knees wobbled. “I love ye, Leana.”
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Please, if this is a dream, I do not wish to awaken.
She met his eyes, reading the truth in their depths. Her heart soared.
“Do you now?” she said softly.
“More than ye could ever know. I want ye with me until I take my last breath.” He held her close, his hands gliding over her middle in a gentle caress.
He claimed her lips, tasting her, savoring her, giving and taking and delighting her with the promise in his kiss.
“Ah, Leana, I never want to let ye go. Say ye’ll be mine.” His plea was a husky murmur against her mouth.
“Oh, Jamie.” She breathed his name on a sigh as her arms curved around his broad back. “Can you have any doubt of my answer?”
A tempting smile pulled at his mouth. “I want to hear it on yer lips, Leana. Say ye’ll be my wife, darling lass.”
“Oh, Jamie, I love you so very much.” Joy filled her heart. “I will marry you.”
And with that, he kissed again. And again, until she was breathless.
“I’ll love ye with the last beat of my heart, Leana. I’ll never let ye go.”
Epilogue
Christmas Eve 1876
The delightful aroma of gingerbread and Christmas cookies filled the kitchen and dining hall. Isla and Mrs. Taylor were happily at work creating delicious treats, while Leana and Bridget decorated a bushy Scots pine with red velvet ribbons and delicate glass globes.
Jamie and Rory marched in, shaking the snow from their coats with each step.
“Ye’re making a fearsome mess,” Mrs. Davidson scolded.
“Come here, Da,” Isla said, offering him a cup of piping hot apple cider.
“So, that’s how it is…ye ignore yer poor famished uncle,” Rory said with a chuckle.
“I’ve cider for ye as well.” She handed him a cup and a piece of gingerbread. “I know it’s yer favorite.”
“Thank ye,” he said, taking a hearty bite.
“I’ve written a story about our voyage to America.” Isla flashed a beaming smile. “I used my journal entries as inspiration. Will ye read it, Uncle Rory?”
“Do ye doubt I would?” Rory’s brows hiked.
Her grin broadened. “Ye’re one of the characters.”
“Hand it here, Isla,” he said. “I’m eager to see if ye did yer uncle justice.”
Jamie made his way to where Leana stood with Bridget. The wee girl blew her da a kiss, then planted a real one on his cheek.
“Merry Christmas, Papa.”
“Ye’ve still got a day to go,” he said, ruffling her curls. “Clever girl, tryin’ to get to yer gift early.”
“I made a present for ye.” Bridget’s grin filled her small face. “But ye must wait ’til the mornin’.”
“I canna wait to see it,” he said, scooping the girl into his arms and planting a kiss on her forehead.
Pure contentment warmed Leana’s heart and she gave silent thanks for the love she’d found with Jamie and his family. She’d found her heart’s desire—and so much more—with the Devil of the Highlands.
Later, after the family dined on a sumptuous Christmas Eve supper and sang carols at the piano in their slightly off-key voices, Leana and Jamie tucked the girls into bed. Stretched out upon the settee by the hearth, Leana nestled in her husband’s arms. Drinking in the warmth of the fire and Jamie’s muscular body, she leaned her head against his shoulder and met his deep green gaze.
His hand splayed over her middle, the faintest of smiles teasing his mouth.
“I can feel the changes in ye,” he murmured. “Our babe is growin’ within ye. I love ye more than words can say, Leana.”
&
nbsp; She cupped her palm to his cheek, delighting in the crisp texture of new beard etching the contours of his face.
“My heart bursts when I think of it, Jamie. Next Christmas, we’ll have another little one to love.”
Dipping his head, he kissed her, a velvet caress that spoke of love and hope, of dreams fulfilled and hearts mended.
He threaded his fingers lightly through her hair. An emotion far more powerful than desire blazed in his eyes. She’d been truly blessed to find love with this bold man of the sea who treated her with such passion and tenderness. He was hers to love. Forever more.
“Ah, Leana, how I love ye, lass. Now. And ’til the end of time.”
About the Author
Award-winning author Tara Kingston writes historical romance laced with intrigue, danger, and adventures of the heart. A Southern-belle-out-of-water in a quaint northern town, she lives her own happily-ever-after with her real-life hero and a pair of deceptively innocent-looking cats. The mother of two sons, Tara’s a former librarian who first fell in love with the romance genre when she discovered her mother’s old-school romance paperbacks. When she’s not writing, reading, or burning dinner, Tara enjoys movie nights, traveling, cycling, hiking, DIY projects, quality time with her family, and cheering on her favorite football team.
Visit Tara’s webpage, www.tarakingston.com. Please sign up for Tara’s newsletter at http://eepurl.com/b3cF_T .
Also by Tara Kingston
Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service series
When a Lady Deceives
When a Lady Dares
When a Lady Desires a Wicked Lord
Highland Hearts series
The Highlander Who Loved Me
Lady Evelyn’s Highland Protector
Secrets & Spies series
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies
Secrets, Spies & Sweet Little Lies
Pistols, Parasols & Passionate Little Lies
Daggers, Deception & Delicious Little Lies
Excerpt from THE SEA DEVIL
by Eliza Knight
Enjoy this except from Book 3 in the Pirates of Britannia series…
CHAPTER ONE
Edinburgh, Scotland
1445
Though he wasn’t drunk, he was perfectly willing to let every other buffoon in the tavern believe it were so.
Thor, Captain of The Sea Devil, and longtime second-in-command to the Prince of the Devils of the Deep brethren, often played this game.
The thing was, when a dunce believed Thor to be deep in his cups, he often joined him, and when a man was liquored up, his tongue became loose as a tavern wench in need of coin. And that was how Thor often found out about treasure that needed saving, or heads that needed bashing. Verily, the usual squealers were the swain with enough ale or whisky in their bellies to widen their jaws and wag their tongues.
As it happened, right now, a very intriguing conversation was taking place a few tables away. Talk of pirates and gold—two things that were liable to interest anyone in the tavern, not just Thor.
Letting out a belch loud enough to shake the rafters, Thor tapped his mug on the table rather obnoxiously and shouted, “Another! And shome for my”—he waved his hands in the air and pretended to tip back on his chair, balancing mid-air before righting himself with a snort of fake laughter—“all my friendsh.”
The men in the tavern let out a loud round of whoops and hollers, clicking their mugs as the wenches scurried to fill them with ale up to the rims and collect the coin from Thor before he changed his mind. On the far side of the tavern, men broke out in song, boot heels tapping against the sagging wood of the floor. The torches danced precariously in place where they hung on the walls. One of the drunkards picked up a set of bagpipes and began to play a rather dismal and shameful rendition of a Highland ballad.
Well, that wouldn’t do. Thor charged across the tavern, making certain to bounce against a few backs, spilling his ale and appearing unstable as he made his way there.
“That ish not how ’tish done,” he slurred. “Let me show ye.”
“Ye?” the buffoon laughed. “Another round says ye fall on your arse when ye blow.”
Thor grinned. “And if I do, I’ll shtill keep on playing.” Lord, help him, but he hoped the men discussing gold and pirates fell for his act.
Thor grabbed the pipes, settled them against his shoulder, left hand holding the chanter, right hand on the bag. He blew into them, and the squealing sound that issued was enough to have the men falling over laughing. But once he had a handle on the pipes, he played a haunting melody he’d penned on the high seas. The men of the tavern couldn’t hear the words he’d created to go with the song. No one would ever hear them twice, for he changed them in his mind each time.
When he finished the song, he dutifully fell to his arse with a laugh, tossing the pipes back to their owner.
“Impressive, ye drunk bastard,” said the man as he caught the pipes.
“No matter how drunk, a man always knows how to play his pipes,” Thor said, bringing out a round of laughter from the men. “Drinks on my friend here!”
As the wenches moved to refill the cups, Thor climbed to his feet, glancing out the side of his eye toward the men he’d been spying on earlier. They were still there, still talking in hushed tones. They’d stopped while he played, mesmerized as everyone else was by Thor’s sea song.
He wagered the time to be nearing midnight, and most of the rapscallions in the place had been splashing ale and whisky down their throats for the better part of several hours.
Thor staggered around the tavern, pretending to drink his empty cup of ale and slapping random men on their backs. To keep his ruse going, he shared a juicy tidbit about a wench he’d bedded the day before—a total lie—but it drew him closer to the table huddled in the corner, which was what he wanted. Thor didn’t bed women simply to brag about it, but for some reason, bawdy jests and innuendo always seemed to open men up, and so he’d use that to his full advantage.
“Aye, he’ll be paying a hefty sum in gold,” said the man farthest at the table from Thor.
Thor listened to their conversation as he continued being rowdy with the men at the table beside them.
“How much?” one whispered.
“I heard tell it was an entire chest of gold. A king’s ransom.”
“For a wee bairn?”
A wee bairn… What in the bloody hell kind of treasure was that? What pirate wanted to deal with a child? Thor could barely stand the adolescent lad he’d helped his pirate prince Shaw “Savage” MacLeod rescue just a few months ago. The lad followed Thor around like a puppy. Well, until Thor snarled.
“Well, ’tis not a bairn no more,” they continued, and Thor let out a loud belch to his newfound friends, which inspired a round of who could belch the loudest.
“How old?” The men looked about, none of them seeing Thor’s side-eyed glance.
“He said twenty or so.”
What in Hades were they talking about? Thor resisted the urge to knock their heads together and insist they spit the information out faster.
“Lad or lass?”
“He’s not sure.”
“Ye mean to tell me, Santiago Fernandez put out the word that he’d pay a king’s ransom for a bastard he got on a Scots lass two decades ago, but he’s not certain if it be a lad or lass?”
Whoa now… Thor almost choked on his empty mug. Santiago… Had he heard that correctly?
“Aye. A Scots whore. Santiago’s got a bastard running around if ’tis still alive.”
An icy chill rushed through his veins at the mention of Santiago Fernandez.
Thor growled, letting out a low curse, which startled his new friends.
“I need more ale!” he shouted, pretending that was the reason for his outburst.
A wench was by his side in less than a second, filling his mug as she rubbed her ample bosom against the front of his shirt. He winked at her, made to reach for one of her brea
sts, but she playfully batted his hand away. The men at his table laughed, but Thor felt no humor. Rather, he was seething inside at what he was hearing.
Captain Santiago Fernandez was his mortal enemy. Hate didn’t even begin to explain how Thor felt about him. He loathed the man. And for good reason. The first time Thor ever laid eyes on him was when the Spanish pirate stood over the body of Thor’s mother, laughing. The bastard had killed her. Murdered her in cold blood and left her bloodied and battered body on display for everyone to see, including Thor when he was just a lad. Santiago was the reason Thor had become a pirate two decades before. Five years ago, he’d thought the day of reckoning was at hand, but the bastard leader of Los Demonios de Mar had outmaneuvered him, then captured and tortured him. But that didn’t mean Thor was going to give up. Their parting words all those years ago had been Thor’s vow to see Santiago dead.
“Where’d ye hear it?” one of the scheming swain asked.
“From one of his crew. They were bragging about how they’d be the first to find Santiago’s offspring.” He leaned closer. “So I shanked him.”
A plan started to formulate in Thor’s mind. A crazy idea.
If these men were willing to kill for the information, the promise of a king’s ransom had to be accurate. Why else would they gut each other for it? Aye, they were all a bunch of scoundrels, but they didn’t kill just to kill, not without cause.
How many years had Thor waited to exact his revenge on the bastard? Was it just coincidence that the perfect opportunity had just presented itself? Or was it fate?
The Pirate's Temptation (Pirates of Britannia World Book 12) Page 18