THE MOST ELIGIBLE HIGHLANDER IN SCOTLAND
Conan stood up abruptly. Mhàiri reopened her eyes to see that he was packing his things. “We’re leaving?” she asked, rising to her feet as well.
“Aye,” he said, clearly disgruntled.
“I promise we will get together again in two days and I will show you how to draw buildings, castles, or whatever you want.”
Conan dropped his things to the ground. “You think that’s what I care about right now?” He reached out and his hands gripped her arms, not painfully, but with enough force Mhàiri could feel the tension raging in his body. “If you wanted to know what a kiss was like so damn bad, you should have asked me.”
The desire Conan had worked so hard to suppress suddenly erupted and was beyond his control. His mouth came down on hers before Mhàiri could even think of moving. He caught her face between his hands, pulled her close, and kissed her—hard and deliberately—letting her feel the frustration and temper she had aroused in him.
Surprised, she clutched his forearms and resisted, but Conan did not lessen his hold. The pressure against her mouth was deep and persuasive and undeniable. And before she realized what she was doing, her mouth opened and welcomed him in . . .
Books by Michele Sinclair
THE HIGHLANDER’S BRIDE
TO WED A HIGHLANDER
DESIRING THE HIGHLANDER
THE CHRISTMAS KNIGHT
TEMPTING THE HIGHLANDER
A WOMAN MADE FOR PLEASURE
SEDUCING THE HIGHLANDER
A WOMAN MADE FOR SIN
NEVER KISS A HIGHLANDER
THE MOST ELIGIBLE HIGHLANDER IN SCOTLAND
HIGHLAND HUNGER (with Hannah Howell and Jackie Ivie)
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
The Most ELIGIBLE HIGHLANDER In SCOTLAND
MICHELE SINCLAIR
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
THE MOST ELIGIBLE HIGHLANDER IN SCOTLAND
Books by Michele Sinclair
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2018 by C. Michele Peach
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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eISBN-13: 978-1-4201-3883-2
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To my father.
He was the absolute best,
and I was a very lucky daughter
to have had him in my life for as long as I did.
Thank you, Dad—for everything.
And to Joseph Campbell,
who once said some profound words about moving on.
“Sometimes you must give up the life you planned
in order to have the life that is waiting for you.”
Chapter One
October 1317
Loch Coire Fionnaraich
“Chruitheachd! The damn man’s naked! I told you to stay hidden and wait for me, not pull a sword on him.”
Conan arched a brow at the angry older man yelling at his younger redheaded companion. Conan kept his expression unconcerned as the man’s dark eyes wandered cautiously down his completely exposed body. He was aware that even in the nude he made a somewhat imposing impression. Like most of his brothers, he had thick dark brown hair, bright blue eyes and was unusually tall. But it was not those features the man was gauging. And while Conan did not possess the bulk of one who trained every day, his powerful, well-muscled body looked like what it was—that of a skilled warrior who was deadly even without a sword.
The older man’s eyes continued their scrutiny until they reached Conan’s feet. “Mac na galla! He’s still standing in the fuar loch!”
Standing in ankle-deep water near the loch’s shoreline with his hands on his hips, Conan shifted his gaze from the much heavier, angry man approaching his companion to the tip of the shaking sword the thin redhead had pointed at his chest. To survive, most Highlanders were tough men, regardless of how they made a living. If they weren’t, they would eventually succumb to Scotland’s harsh northern environment, which made the scrawny man in front of him an anomaly. The redhead was tall, but his thin frame was frail and the shaking of his arm indicated what strength he had was waning. It would take little effort to incapacitate him.
His hairy beast of a friend, however, was enormous. He was almost a half a head taller than Conan, and based on the sizeable gut he was carrying, the man easily outweighed both him and his friend together. The giant knew these facts as well, and by his assertive walk, Conan sensed his size gave him a false sense of confidence, which would make him hard to rattle. Things were about to get interesting.
“He . . . he saw me.” The thin one swallowed, keeping his malevolent gaze on Conan. “I had no choice. I didn’t want him to get the upper hand.”
“Well, he’s obviously terrified,” the darker-haired man sneered with sarcasm, making no effort to hide his disdain. “And now he knows about us and we don’t even know if it’s him!”
“It has to be! No one else has been around since we got here. Then he comes, exactly where we were told, to this loch. And . . . and his tartan matches the piece we were given.” The redhead used his chin to gesture to Conan’s clothes lying on top of a large rock near the shoulder. “Look.”
Dark brown eyes narrowed with warning at Conan before taking a quick glance at the rock. The man’s gaze widened a bit, and he gripped the sword a little more firmly. “What’s your name?”
Conan inhaled deeply, slowly licked his lips, and replied, “McTiernay.”
The man’s lips twitched, but instead of walking away in realization of his mistake as Conan had expected him to do, he did nothing. It was almost as if he had never heard of one of the largest and most powerful clans in the Highlands. The idea was so unthinkable Conan suspected the man was just extremely good at hiding his emotions. The real question was whether he knew that he was not just facing a Highlander who belonged to the powerful clan, but actually one of the McTiernays.
“I’ve heard of the McTiernays,” the giant growled, cold dark eyes remaining steady on Conan’s blue ones. “But that is not what I asked. What is your name?”
“Conan,” he answered, keeping hi
s look of boredom. The man’s unreadable expression also remained unchanged.
Conor was his eldest brother and chief of the McTiernay clan and all its chieftains—two of whom were his brothers, three when including his brother who was to become the next Schellden laird. There were seven McTiernay brothers total, and though Conan was the second to youngest, he had a strong reputation of his own. Or so he’d thought, for it did not look like either the giant or the redhead recognized his name.
If they were ignorant, Conan was not interested in educating them on their mistake. He had not been in a good mood for days, and in just a few moments, he was about to add another reason to his long list of things for which to blame Laurel McTiernay.
Despite their quarrelsome relationship, Conan loved his sister-in-law and appreciated her loyalty to his brother Conor, but she was by far the most exasperating, annoying, and altogether frustrating person he had ever met. And he would not be in this humiliating situation—naked, wet, and weaponless—if it were not for her. Worse, if Laurel ever learned of it, she would laugh until she cried, sharing her mirth with anyone with working ears.
Important details, however, would be lost. Laurel would not ruin her storytelling with pesky truths, such as that he had not been taken unawares or that, despite being temporarily weaponless against two men who did have swords, he was not in any real danger. Nor would she remember to relay that he had spied the two would-be thieves long before they approached. All Laurel would care about was that he had been caught unarmed in the nude by two men who had mistakenly been bold enough to wave a sword at his chest while demanding he answer their questions.
Conan prayed he could scare them into silence because he was not in the mood to kill anyone. Death was messy, and he had just gotten clean. Last thing he wanted to do was deal with bloody bodies.
“You would have to be one of them,” the large man snarled as he stared Conan in the eye.
Conan lifted his chin slightly in surprise, and then nodded once. An odd sense of joy went through him at learning that his name was as recognizable as he had thought.
“Unfortunately for you, it doesn’t change anything,” spat the redhead, recapturing Conan’s attention. The man had bright red frizzy hair with a matching beard. The color matched the almost tangible anger rolling off him.
The giant lifted his hand to hush his mouthy partner. “It might.”
Conan arched a brow at the comment. Perhaps he had been wrong to assume these two men were mere thieves. Both were more interested in him than they were in his horse or his sword, which was still sheathed to his saddle. And Conan had no idea why, but the redhead’s hate seemed personal as if he wished him dead—and that was before he’d had any idea who Conan was. His partner, however, had gone suddenly quiet.
“Just take my clothes and leave,” Conan prompted, testing his new theory.
“We don’t want your clothes, cac,” the frail figure snarled.
Unfazed by the insult, Conan sighed. Not thieves, he thought unhappily. “Well, if you do not want them, I do. My toes are numb and I would like to get out of the water.”
The thin arm that was holding a sword stiffened. “Don’t move.”
Conan renewed his bored look. The redhead jabbed his weapon in his direction, in an obvious attempt at intimidation. Running out of patience, Conan threw his hands up in the air. “What do you want?”
The thin man laughed in a pathetic attempt to show bravado. “We don’t want anything. It’s—”
“Cum do theanga ablaich gun fheum!” his companion shouted, cutting him off. The redhead closed his mouth and glowered. Whether it was from being told to shut up, being called an idiot, or just his hatred for Conan was unclear. What was clear was the giant did not care. “This would have been a hell of a lot easier if you had simply listened to me. Now he knows our faces, and neither of us have ones that are easy to forget.”
“We could kill him.” The redhead’s thin lips smiled at the idea.
If not thieves, Conan thought, ensuring he kept his face impassive despite the threat, assassins?
The giant scoffed. “Nay, we take him with us. He’s a McTiernay. That means I want more money.”
So not assassins. They were mercenaries. If Conan had to guess, they had been sent here on reconnaissance. But by whom? No one knew he was coming this way, which meant they were not looking for him.
The redhead opened his mouth to argue, but the giant cut him off. “And if I’m wrong, he can have the honor of killing a McTiernay.”
Capture, death, threats . . . all three annoyed Conan and it was becoming increasingly clear that he was not going to learn anything more this way. He needed to end this.
With hands already in the air, Conan took advantage of the brief sideways glance the larger man gave his companion and lunged for the redhead’s weapon. When his fingers circled the grip, he spun, yanking it out of the man’s weak grasp just in time to block an attack from the larger foe.
Conan deftly twirled the blade, leaving no doubt at his level of skill with a sword. The scrawny attacker’s eyes grew wide before he scurried back, letting his friend take charge. The large man did not look worried. Conan grimaced, knowing how this was going to have to end. “Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat,” he murmured, cursing Laurel once again under his breath.
Thinking fear was the reason behind Conan’s mutterings, the giant’s stony expression broke into a malicious smile. His dark gaze quickly swept down and up Conan’s naked form and his smile grew larger. Conan stifled a sigh. The man was an imbecile if he thought nudity diminished a man’s ability to fight. The state of one’s dress—or lack thereof—had nothing to do with wielding a weapon. The only reason Conan cared even a little about his lack of dress was that if this ever got back to his brothers, or especially his sister-in-law, he would never hear the end of it.
The massive man changed his stance and adjusted his grip, announcing not only that he was about to attack, but how. Believing his size compensated for his lack of skill, the giant swung wide, and Conan easily dodged the blade before thrusting his sword up and at an angle, forcing the large man to stumble backward.
“I’ll ask one more time. What do you want with me?” Conan knew he was giving the man time to regain his balance, but he wanted him to feel empowered enough to answer his question.
“I don’t want anything,” the giant snorted. “All I know and all I care about is the coin being offered to the one who finds the man who bathes in this loch and wears that tartan. That seems to be you.”
Conan’s eyes widened in shock hearing the flimsy description. They could be looking for anyone. “These are McTiernay lands. Anyone bathing here would be wearing a McTiernay tartan,” he retorted.
The large man sniggered. “We’ve been here weeks. No one ever comes to this loch. That is, until you.”
Conan inwardly groaned. Whoever this giant mercenary was looking for, it was not him. It probably was not even a McTiernay. That he was even here was sheer coincidence and prompted by his miserable attempt to prove to his sister-in-law that he was not someone willing to address any whim she had, even if she was Lady McTiernay. That was his brother’s job. Conor was laird and Laurel was his wife.
“This is my first time at this loch. I’m not who you want,” Conan stated unequivocally, still clinging to a little bit of hope that this could end without bloodshed.
“Maybe not.” The large man gave a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t matter. You’re coming with us, and that dull blade isn’t going to stop me from making that happen.”
Conan exhaled, all hope gone. His trip was ruined, and the possibility of studying the area any further was as dead as the man in front of him was going to be. Conan cursed under his breath. He really was not looking forward to bringing a colossal, fetid corpse with him for the remainder of his journey.
The man grinned, largely this time, exposing rotten and missing teeth. Then, with none of the speed necessary to make his thrust effectiv
e, he attacked. Conan easily blocked him. He took several steps back, knowing a quick way he could end this battle victoriously despite using a dull blade.
The man took the bait. He raised his sword high above his head and surged forward, preparing to put all his weight behind his downward thrust, knowing it would be impossible to block. Only at the very last moment did he realize that Conan had no intention of blocking his attack and instead had planted his feet. With a single lunge, Conan impaled the man’s stomach so that his arm dropped as he fell forward. The dull tip pierced his chest all the way through his back.
The sound of hooves riding away captured Conan’s attention. He spotted the bright red hair of the dead man’s companion as it disappeared behind the large rocks that partially surrounded the small loch. Conan groaned. He could go after the man and had no doubt of his ability to catch him eventually, but it would not be until after nightfall. And when he did, Conan was not sure what good it would do. The coward knew nothing more and was undoubtedly stupid enough to attack rather than answer questions if confronted. The only thing almost guaranteed in a pursuit was that he would have two bodies to carry back to Cole’s.
Conan knelt down and stared at the immense man as he took his dying breath. He studied the man’s filthy tartan and thanked God he had not killed a MacCoinnich—even if the man had deserved it. There were dozens of small clans that ran up Scotland’s western coastline and he knew very few of them, but like the McTiernays, the MacCoinnich clan was well known, just as large, and arguably almost as powerful. While Laird MacCoinnich and Conor respected each other, neither felt inclined to be anything more than civil toward the other.
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