by Sabrina York
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ISBN 978-0-316-46698-1
E3-20170209-NF-DA
Dear Reader,
You’re in for a treat. You might already know it; you could be someone who’s read my BookShots Flames romances, or maybe you’ve tried some of the BookShots thrillers. But perhaps this is your very first dive into my brand-new kind of book.
Regardless of how you got here, I’m glad that you made it. By opening this book, you’ve become part of BookShots—a revolution in reading—where we fill our plots with nonstop action but don’t make you empty your wallet to join in. And since these books are only 150 pages or fewer, you can fit them right into your busy life.
Plus, this book has an extra kick because it’s a BookShots Flames story. For these particular books, I’ve asked romance authors to weave love stories throughout their plots that, hopefully, make you smile. They’ll keep you engrossed from start to finish.
But the book in your hands doesn’t just have an action-packed plot and a sizzling romance—it’s also set in a historical time period. Once you turn the page, you’ll be transported back to seventeenth-century Scotland, complete with clashing clans and brawny warriors in kilts. I was wowed by the writing you’ll encounter here from New York Times bestselling author Sabrina York. So go ahead—treat yourself—even if it isn’t for the first time.
James Patterson
Table of Contents
Cover
BookShots Flames
Title Page
Copyright
A Letter from James Patterson
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
There’s Always a Deal at BookShots.com
Newsletters
Chapter 1
Glencoe, Scotland—1603
Kirk Rannoch stared down at Killin Keep, his broad shoulders tightening. Something sharp and biting swirled in his gut.
Not only because the place was a gloomy monstrosity, a relic from ages ago, wedged in the rocky curve of Killin Tor. Not only because the name Killin struck revulsion in the hearts of all members of the Rannoch clan. But because there, in those moldering stones, lay his brother’s fate.
It was bad enough that their overlord, the Duke of Glencoe, had commanded that Ben, Laird of Rannoch, marry someone he’d never met. But the daughter of their worst enemy? A lass with the reputation of a virago? One who’d likely murder him in his sleep?
Ben deserved better.
There was no way out of this conundrum. It chafed that Kirk was to be the one to deliver this malicious harpy to his home at Rannoch Keep.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Brodie, Kirk’s friend, said. He shot Kirk a dark look as his mount shifted restlessly.
“’Twould be a fool who dinna,” Kirk said. Marching into an enemy fortress to claim the daughter of one of the most ruthless highland lairds was hardly a safe proposition. But the duke had given them no choice. Hopefully Laird Killin would cooperate with the mandate.
“Do you think we will survive this?”
Kirk snorted. The Rannochs and Killins had been fighting for generations, though the contention was hardly the Rannochs’ fault. Their clan had bent over backward to be good neighbors. The Killins, on the other hand, had plundered neighboring crofts, stolen cattle, and kidnapped women. They had murdered Rannoch kin. They had no scruples whatsoever.
Kirk knew, in his heart of hearts, this entire charade was a pointless effort. No matter how many weddings the duke demanded, the Killins and the Rannochs would never be at peace. The waters of hostility between the two clans ran far too deep.
“We should get this over with,” Kirk said, setting his mount in motion.
Brodie crossed himself, then followed.
The castle did not become more welcoming as they approached along the rutted track cutting its way across the broad, dismal moor. Hewn of stone and built centuries ago, the keep was a fortress, speckled with murder holes. It was surrounded by a dingy moat, and the only access was over a drawbridge and through the steel portcullis. If Killin wanted them dead, they would not make it into the bailey.
It was not promising that the portcullis was down and the drawbridge was up. Surely Killin’s men had seen them coming. Still, it was a warmer welcome than Kirk had expected.
Kirk pulled to a halt at the end of the track and stared up at the barbican. Other than the snap of the blood-red banners on the towers, there was no movement.
Brodie huffed a breath. “Do you suppose no one’s here?”
When Kirk didn’t answer, Brodie grinned and spoke again. “Perhaps we should go home.”
Kirk shot a sardonic look at his friend. They both knew that wouldn’t happen. Not until they fulfilled their mission.
As time passed, the disquiet in Kirk’s breast was joined by irritation. Clearly, Killin was toying with them. How satisfying it would be to ride away and report to the duke that Killin had not cooperated. No doubt, that was what the bastard w
anted. Killin would simply claim they’d never come.
Finally, a voice bellowed down from the ramparts. “Who goes there?”
“Who goes there?” Brodie grunted. “As if they’re expecting someone else?”
Kirk cupped his hands and bellowed his name. “Kirk Rannoch. Come to fetch Lady Katherine Killin.”
Again, there was silence and a long wait.
Kirk was hot and thirsty. Sweat beaded on his brow. It took an effort to remind himself this was an important task, commanded by the duke himself. It took an effort to control his snarling temper, but it was imperative that he do so. Ben was counting on him. Aside from that, the last thing he wanted to do was give the old goat the slightest satisfaction by letting his ire show.
So he pinned a smile on his face, crossed his hands on the pommel, and proffered the impression that he was willing to wait as long as it took. Hopefully this ploy would annoy Killin.
At any rate, it produced results. With a great groan, the drawbridge began to lower and the portcullis lifted.
Brodie raised a brow. “Seems they’re inviting us in.”
“Seems we should go.”
Neither nudged his horse forward right away. Indeed, they waited several long moments. It was a shallow retribution, but it soothed their aggravation, at least a little. Especially when a man, dressed in Killin colors, stomped into view. “Well?” he barked. “Are you comin’ in or not?”
Kirk lifted a shoulder. “Shall we?”
Brodie sighed. “I suppose.”
They both held their breath as they passed through the barbican. There were slits on either side of the long tunnel into the bailey, and behind them, their enemies were most likely pointing arrows at their hearts. Kirk hoped he’d survive the ride. The duke would bring his wrath down upon the Killin clan if they killed any of his emissaries, but there was a chance Killin cared naught whether he made an enemy of the duke.
Fortunately, Killin cooperated enough to allow them to make it through the gauntlet with their hides intact. Kirk gusted a breath as he heaved from his mount and then adjusted his plaid as he waited for his host to greet him. He wasn’t surprised that Killin did not appear at first. A groom scuttled up to take their horses, leaving him and Brodie standing alone in the deserted bailey.
It was an odd thing for a bailey to be deserted. The bailey was the heart of any castle. It was usually bustling with crofters and villeins going about their work. At Rannoch there were always milkmaids and blacksmiths milling about. Carpenters worked on the wooden rafters and warriors practiced on the lists.
Here?
Nothing.
That in itself was beyond disquieting.
Kirk tried to quell the prickling suspicion that an ambush awaited them, but that was what it felt like. He surveyed the keep, a silent monolith. Not even a bird chirped.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Brodie murmured.
Aye. A bad feeling indeed. It coiled and writhed in his gut.
But before Kirk could respond, the enormous wooden doors at the top of the stairs leading to the keep creaked open, revealing a dark gaping maw.
As far as invitations from Cuithbeart Killin went, this was probably the warmest they’d get.
Before he could lose his bravado, Kirk bounded up the stairs. He paused before crossing the threshold, his hand on the hilt of his claymore, because his training demanded it.
Besides, no Rannoch had ever stepped inside this hall and lived to tell of it.
Chapter 2
Kirk straightened his spine, sucked in a deep breath, and entered the castle.
Killin Hall was exactly as he expected it to be. Cavernous, gloomy, barren. An ancient hearth, large enough to roast a man, took up one side of the room. On the other side, ancient stone stairs curved to the upper floors.
Cuithbeart Killin himself sat on a raised dais in an enormous chair resembling a throne, surrounded by armed warriors.
Kirk’s gaze flicked from one man to another. From the cut of their sharp features, it was clear that the majority of the men were Killin’s sons.
It was rumored the laird had over twenty sons, most the progeny of women he’d stolen and raped. He kept the boys and trained them as warriors. The girls, he sold. His only natural son, from his long-dead bride, was Connor.
Kirk had never met Connor Killin, but as he surveyed the men assembled before Laird Killin, one stood out. There was something about his posture, and the arrogant tilt of his head, that marked him as the heir.
Connor stepped forward and fixed Kirk with a hard gaze. Though Kirk was tall, this man was taller. He had the classic red hair and green eyes of the Killins. He wore the classic scowl as well. “You’ve come for Katherine?”
Kirk did not care for the smirk on his lips. “Aye.”
Connor crossed his arms over his beefy chest. “We doona like being ordered about by Rannochs.” He spat the word.
“’Tis not the Rannochs who are ordering this.” True, the duke was hungry for an alliance between the Killins and the Rannochs, but this wedding would also tie the Rannochs to the Sabins. Katherine’s mother had been sired by Calder Sabin, Laird of Tummel. In the duke’s eyes, this match would still the waters between not two but three warring clans.
Connor flicked his gaze over Kirk’s person. His sniff made it clear he was not impressed. “You understand my concerns, handing my sister over to the enemy.”
“The Laird of Rannoch is a good man. He’ll be gentle with her.”
A sound from the throne, something grizzly that could have been a grunt or a wad of phlegm, echoed through the stony chamber. Laird Killin rose and descended the steps of the dais like a god deigning to walk with men. “A Rannoch, gentle?”
Irritation sizzled in Kirk’s gut at Killin’s tone. As though the Rannochs were the clan causing all the problems. As though the Rannochs had declared war and had crossed the borders to pillage and rape. As though the Rannochs had broken the accords.
He forced his bile back down. Reminded himself that his enemy was trying to get a rise out of him. He had to leave this hall with Katherine Killin in hand, and he would do whatever it took to accomplish that.
He forced himself to smile and even managed a bow. “Laird Killin.”
Killin did not return the courtesy, but Kirk hadn’t expected it.
“My brother understands the importance of this alliance—”
“Alliance?” Killin’s words were a snarl. “’Tis no’ an alliance. There will never be an alliance between the Killins and the Rannochs.”
Right. Kirk had expected as much. He also expected Killin, who had his hand on his dirk, to gut him right there in front of his men.
It was something of a surprise that he did not. And more of a surprise when Killin clapped him on the shoulder…and laughed.
As though this whole experience had been nothing more than a farce. As though the animosity seething in the room held no real heat.
Kirk didn’t believe it and didn’t accept the laird’s amity in the slightest. He was hardly a fool.
“Bring the girl,” Killin boomed, practically in Kirk’s ear. He tried not to flinch.
One of the men hustled from the hall to collect Katherine Killin. As they waited for him to return, Killin pinned Kirk with a sharp study. “So you’re the second son?” he asked.
“Aye.”
Killin squeezed Kirk’s bicep and patted his chest. Such perusal—as though Kirk were a horse the man was thinking to buy—was beyond insulting, but Kirk bore it.
“Would you care for a whisky?” It was a simple offer. One any Highland laird would make. One Kirk would be happy to accept—under any other circumstances. But here, he wouldn’t put it past Killin to poison him.
“Thank you, but nae. We should head back to Rannoch posthaste.”
Killin frowned and said, “There’s no rush.”
“Aye. There is. The duke is anxious for the wedding to take place.”
“Ye doona want to have a drink?�
� He waved his hand and one of his sons rushed forward with a silver tray, holding a single tumbler.
Kirk scowled at the offering. “Nae.”
His host opened his mouth to insist, but a bustle at the door captured his attention. “Ah. Here she is. My daughter Catherine.”
Both Kirk and Brodie turned to take stock of the lass who would be their laird’s bride. They both blinked and shared a stunned look.
She was not what they had expected.
The tales they’d heard of Katherine Killin were of a bold, fearless virago, a wild wench with untamed red curls and biting green eyes. She was well-versed in weapons and not afraid to use them.
This girl…this girl was a mouse.
She was in a ragged gray dress and her head was covered with a shawl. She seemed to be trembling in fear. She didn’t even glance up, as though certain she would burst into flame should she meet Kirk’s gaze.
“This is Katherine Killin?” Kirk asked.
The laird nodded. “Aye. My daughter Catherine.” He forced a smile. “As required.”
Kirk had always had good instincts. He usually sensed when something was wrong…and he sensed it now. But he wasn’t sure what it was. He stepped toward the girl, ignoring her flinch. Then gently, he drew the shawl from her head, revealing shaggy brown locks.
“This is the Sabin lass?”
Killin rocked back on his heels. “This is my daughter Catherine.”
Kirk set his teeth. “That is no’ what I asked. The girl we were sent here to collect has red hair.”
The laird’s expression melted into a glower. He turned to the girl and growled, “Are you no’ my daughter, Catherine?”
She curtsied, keeping her head low. “Aye, my laird.”
“But this is no’ the Sabin lass,” Kirk repeated. He would not be fooled into taking the wrong girl.
Perhaps Kirk’s determination was clear in his glower, for Killin took a step back and scrubbed his face with a meaty paw. “Ach. Nae. She is not the Sabin lass. But this is my daughter Catherine.”
Kirk frowned. “Are many of your daughters named Katherine?”