HER WICKED HIGHLANDER
Jennifer Haymore
COPYRIGHT
FIRST EDITION
August 2016
Copyright 2016 ©Jennifer Haymore
HER WICKED HIGHLANDER ©2016 Jennifer Haymore. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part or the whole of this book may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted or utilized (other than for reading by the intended reader) in ANY form (now known or hereafter invented) without prior written permission by the author. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal, and punishable by law.
HER WICKED HIGHLANDER is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and or are used fictitiously and solely the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, places, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Kimberly Killion @ The Killion Group, Inc.
HER WICKED HIGHLANDER
A Highland Knights Novella
Jennifer Haymore
A Highland Knight clashes with a Highland lass. Scotland will never be the same.
Aila MacKerrick has lived a quiet, lonely life since her parents died two years ago. That is until a dark stranger steals her from her bed one night, throws her on his horse, and spirits her away to an ancient, abandoned castle in the middle of the Highland forest.
Maxwell White has been assigned to take the MacKerrick lass to a safe location. In Max’s experience, women are docile, biddable creatures, but he’s never met anyone like Aila. She surprises him at every turn, with her spirited fight against him, with her willingness to dirty her hands, with her adventurousness in bed.
Max vows to protect Aila, but an ambitious warlord is determined to possess the legendary dagger that has belonged in her family for generations, and he’ll go to any lengths to get it—including tearing Aila away from Max forever.
Dedication
For Lawrence, as always.
Chapter One
The Highlands, 1817
Winter had arrived in full force, and Aila MacKerrick was chilled to the bone despite having put a warm brick under the bedclothes earlier. Wrapping herself tighter in a cocoon of heavy plaids, she turned to her side and wondered whether she should don another pair of stockings.
Nay—she had no more clean stockings.
Sleep, Aila, sleep. She dearly needed a good night’s rest. There was plenty of work to be done tomorrow, and the days had grown short. Her pile of laundry had grown to an embarrassing height. The cottage’s thatched roof had sprung a leak over the kitchen table last week, and she needed to repair it. She had to run a batch of eggs to the village. If this cold weather continued, she’d be frozen solid by February, so she should also walk to the Grants’ and see if they would trade for another cord of firewood.
Suddenly unbearably lonely, Aila shivered. Once in a while, it hit her like this, like a solid thwack to the chest. Less frequently now, almost two years after the deaths of her parents, but each time it felt stronger. This one was so strong it took her breath away.
She missed them so much.
She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, her body racked with a thousand shudders, their intensity multiplied by cold and grief until she felt like an autumn leaf shaking in a gale, holding on by only the most tenuous of twigs, ready to snap free in a strong gust.
Abruptly, a large, calloused hand clamped over her mouth.
Aila’s mind went blank. Then disbelief shot through her—no one else was in her cottage. Surely she would have heard them!
Anger rushed in on the heels of the disbelief. How dare someone intrude into her home? She bit down—hard—on the fleshy part of the hand, and screamed as loudly as she could.
“Jesus!” The voice was a low baritone. A stranger’s voice. The hand faltered for a moment, but then clamped down even harder over her mouth. “Now, none o’ that, lass.”
Fury rose to a boil within her. His hand was like iron: strong, heavy, and immovable. She couldn’t bite down again. Instead, she flailed out with her hands and legs, trying to punch and kick, to little effect. Her damned limbs did naught but twist up in the half-dozen plaids she’d been lying under.
He hefted her up, plaids and all, and flopped her over his shoulder like a burlap sack, the plaids effectively swaddling her and binding her in place.
Panic swelled as he strode to the other end of the room, drowning her fury. What did this man want from her? Did he intend to murder her? Rape her? Her head banged ridiculously against the top slope of his backside—his very muscled backside—with every stride of his long legs. Clearly, she was no match for a man of this strength. Her rifle was tucked away in the kitchen rafters, and her da’s dirk was propped against the wall near the front door. Absolutely useless.
She considered screaming—for about two seconds. It would be no use. Her maid of all work, Gin, Aila’s one and only servant, was off to Inverness visiting her ailing aunt. Her closest neighbors, the Grants, were over a mile away, across the river, and even Aila’s scream, which her mother used to say, “woke the angels in heaven,” couldn’t be heard that far away. Her mother had always been prone to exaggeration.
She struggled against the binding plaids, but it was no use. She was thoroughly trapped.
He threw open her wardrobe—she could see the door upside-down and around his side—and plucked out an armful of clothing from her dirty pile, along with a pair of shoes from the adjoining shelf. “Untidy wench,” he muttered as he did so, and Aila found herself blushing.
Blushing. She was blushing while dangling from a strange man’s shoulder. A man who might be planning to do abhorrent, unthinkable things to her. And she was blushing because she was embarrassed that he’d seen the untidy clutter in her wardrobe.
There was no accounting for the illogical nature of humanity.
She squirmed and tried to wiggle out of the plaids, but he stopped her with a firm smack to her bottom. “None o’ that, I said.” His voice was mild—not particularly threatening, in deep contrast to his actions.
She wanted to argue—he’d said none o’ that to her biting, and she hadn’t bitten him since. Not once had he ordered her to stop wiggling. Instead, she cried out, “Who are you? What do you want from me?”
“Hush now,” he said. “Just come with me, and you’ll not meet with any harm.”
She was deeply distrustful of that statement. And she was starting to get dizzy from being upside down.
“Put me down!” she demanded.
“Nay.”
“I command you to unhand me!”
“Nay.”
“Release me this instant!”
“Nay.”
His voice was infuriatingly even and calm, and fear and anger had combined into a potent combination of energy within Aila. “Now!” she shrieked. “Or I’ll be seeing you hanged!”
He chuckled at that.
Chuckled.
Aila saw red. She flailed out with all her strength, somehow managing to separate her legs enough to upset his balance. He leaned to check himself, but not in time to catch her. She fell heavily to the wooden floor on her side, and all the air promptly left her body.
For a moment, she was certain she’d lost all ability to breathe. Moving seemed out of the question. Then her lungs resumed their function, and she sucked in deep, ragged breaths. After the second breath, she found she could move again, and she somehow scrambled out of the tight band of plaids that trapped her.
She leaped to a standing position and lunged toward the door. But he was at least a foo
t taller than she was, his bloody legs probably twice as long, and in two strides, he caught her, his arm wrapping around her stomach. The warmth of his skin radiated through the single layer of fabric of her muslin nightgown.
“Now, now,” he said, his voice still completely calm.
She tried to break free, but it was like trying to run through a solid iron door. “Let me go!”
“Listen to me—”
“Nay! Get out of my house!” she said on a panicked sob.
“I canna—”
“You fiend! You louse! You bloody… bloody ballock! Get out!”
She only half knew what she was saying, and a part of her cringed at the bloody ballock comment. But she was too enraged to care about it… much.
She tried to rip his arm off her. She dug her nails into his forearm, piercing the skin, eliciting a muttered curse from him.
“I’ll kill you! Get out! Get out of here!”
“Nay, I—”
But she didn’t hear what he said. She fought with everything she had. A man didn’t walk into a woman’s bedroom and clamp a hand over her mouth and throw her over his shoulder if he had good intentions. Such things simply didn’t happen.
So she would fight. She’d fight for her life, and she’d fight hard. It was what her da would want her to do.
“Calm down,” her intruder ordered sternly.
“Nay!” she bellowed.
He turned her around within the confines of his arm, and she looked up… and up… and saw him for the first time.
The room was dark save for the glowing coals in the hearth, but she could see that he was horrendously tall. A rugged Highland warrior, with long, dark hair that curled to his shoulders, and darker eyes. His face was square in shape—with a sharp blade of a nose, full lips, and thick, straight brows. He wore a blue-and-green tartan kilt and a dark jacket. A dirk and what looked like a pistol were tucked into scabbards strapped to his kilt belt. If he hadn’t used either of them by now, she thought with no small measure of relief, then he probably didn’t intend to.
“What do you want from me?” she spat.
“There’s no time—”
What nonsense was this? She twisted in his grip. “Let me go!”
“Nay. I canna.”
“Let me go!” She yelled it this time.
“You need to be calming down, lass.”
“Nay, I dinna need to calm down,” she growled. “This is my land. You’re trespassing. Get out!”
He stared at her for a second, assessing. Then he sighed. “I didna want to do this.”
“Do wha—”
But he’d flung her over his shoulder again, this time gripping her even tighter than before. Though she was no longer confined by the plaids, she still couldn’t move. The bloody man was fiendishly strong.
He carried her into the front room of the cottage, then yanked open the door and walked outside, right past her da’s dirk. A blast of cold wind washed over her. He walked toward a horse that had been hobbled in the front yard and efficiently set her down on her feet, dropping her clothes and shoes in a heap next to her. Keeping one arm wrapped firmly around her, he grabbed some twine from his saddlebag and cut off a piece of it using a sgian dubh he pulled from his stocking. Before she had a chance to wonder what on earth he was doing, he’d wound the twine around her wrists and tied it handily. She stared down at her hands in utter disbelief.
He grabbed her shoulders. “Look at me now, lass. This is important.”
She blinked up at him, surprised at the sudden urgency in his voice.
“The dagger. You must fetch it.”
“The dagger?” she asked dumbly.
“Aye,” he said impatiently. “The King Richard Dagger.”
She went stiff all over. Good Lord, was that what this was about? Surely not!
He shook her gently. “Where is it?”
“Well, it’s no’ here!” she exclaimed impatiently.
He narrowed his eyes at her as if he could search her soul deeply enough to detect a lie. “Are you certain?”
“Aye, of course.”
“It isna in the cottage?”
“Nay. It’s hidden.”
“Where?”
“Far away. In a place where outlaws and brigands like you will never find it.”
“Far away” might be a bit of an overstatement, but he didn’t need to know that. There was no way she’d ever tell this brute about her family’s precious heirloom.
His fingers tightened over her arms. “Look at me, lass.” She gazed up into his dark eyes. “You’re certain it’s well hidden?”
“Aye. Of course,” she snapped. “Do you think the MacKerricks are fools? We protect what’s ours, and the King Richard Dagger is our greatest—our only—treasure.” Indeed, the dagger was extremely well hidden. She doubted anyone would find it, in fact, not even if they tore up her land rock by rock.
He huffed out a breath—surprisingly, it sounded like one of relief—and muttered, “Good.”
“I’ll never tell you where it is,” she proclaimed.
He gave her a dry look. “’Tis of no consequence to me,” he said. “I’m no’ the one who wishes to find it.”
With no further preamble, and holding her bound wrists with one hand, he grabbed her clothes and stuffed them into his saddlebags. When he was half turned from her, she moved stealthily, positioning herself to kick him where it would hurt the most. She curled her bare, stockinged toes and channeled all her strength into her leg. Ready… now!
As her leg flailed out, he stepped neatly aside and caught her calf in both hands. He looked at her, brows raised. “That was a good try, lass, but you need to stop thinking you’ve any chance of besting me.” He moved her leg up experimentally, and she nearly fell backward. She would have if he didn’t drop her leg to the ground, quickly grabbing both her bound wrists in one of his hands. “I could drop you on your wee arse easily, now, couldn’t I? But we dinna have time for games.”
He glanced around as if searching for some invisible assailant, then made quick work of lifting her and plunking her atop the horse, holding her with one hand while he covered her with a large, thick plaid. Still pinning her in place, he mounted the horse behind her. His thick thighs locked around hers, and then they were off.
Aila quietly worked at the twine binding her wrists, but it was no use. The wicked man knew how to tie a sturdy knot.
After a long moment of silence, in which they turned onto the north road, she asked, “Where’re you taking me?”
She was glad her voice emerged strong and proud.
“North,” he said, stating the obvious.
She ground her teeth. “You said if I came with you, I wouldna be hurt.”
“Aye.”
“Well, were you telling the truth?”
“Aye.”
This one was a true conversationalist, she thought with an inner sigh.
“D’you intend to tell me what this is about, then?”
He didn’t answer her. In the ensuing silence, her brain worked furiously, the brisk wind against her cheeks rousing her completely, sharpening her mind and her focus.
This had something to do with the King Richard Dagger—the blade that had been passed down in her family for generations. It didn’t seem like this man wanted it—but perhaps he was taking her to someone who did. Maybe he was a hired ruffian, sent to kidnap her then bring her to some villain who’d try to torture her, then steal her dagger...
She needed to escape from him at the first opportunity.
When that would be, she’d no idea. It certainly wasn’t now. Her hands were tied, she was hardly dressed, and before she froze to death, she’d probably break her neck by falling off the horse.
She pressed her lips together and sat up straight, her back stiffer than whalebone. He shifted behind her slightly, and she tried not to think about how she’d never been this close to a man. Too bad that h
e was a stranger, not a lover. An enemy, not a friend.
Damn him.
For the first time, the true helplessness of her situation washed over her. Gin wouldn’t be back from Inverness for another week, at least. Her neighbors wouldn’t notice her absence—she saw them once a month, if that. Her absence from the village wouldn’t be noticed—she went infrequently and sporadically. Her parents—well, they were long gone, and she had no other family in the area.
She clenched her teeth at that. It was true—she was well and truly alone, with no one to count upon to rescue her.
She would need to rescue herself, then.
The cold breeze whispered over her cheeks, but surprisingly, she wasn’t chilled, even though she was outside and covered by one plaid rather than six. And then she understood why, and the realization brought no small amount of unease. It was because the stranger was so big and impossibly warm, and he was somehow transferring that warmth to her.
“What’s your name?” she asked, and was surprised to hear drowsiness in her voice.
“Maxwell White.”
She dreamed of white things. A brand-new stylish snow-white muslin dress from Paris she’d seen once in Inverness, a snow-covered forest, sun-bleached rocks on the shore of the loch, fluffy clouds drifting overhead…
Drowsily, she opened her eyes. Dawn had gathered on the horizon, turning the sky a flat gray. She must have been asleep for a few hours. Maxwell White’s thighs still encased hers, strong and warm. His arms were wrapped around her sides, holding her steady as he controlled the reins. She realized she was leaning back into his chest.
She sat bolt upright, surging away from him toward the horse’s head. His thighs tightened around her in warning, but he said nothing as the more unpleasant sensations seeped into her consciousness. Her bottom hurt, her wrists were chafed, and all the parts where he didn’t touch her ached with cold.
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