What both his father and Lord Maxwell had failed to anticipate was the formidable advantage the Johnstones’ familiarity with the terrain of Dryfe Sands would give them despite their smaller numbers. Lord John had died in the ambush mere seconds after crossing the river. Duncan’s father, along with a sizable portion of the Maxwell, Armstrong, and Douglas clan had followed him to the grave minutes later. Duncan himself had managed to escape with the routed army, but not before receiving the sharp tip of a Johnstone sword to the cheek.
He had sworn on that day never again to enter a battle on territory he didn’t know as well as his own newly-altered face. And never to forgive the Johnstones for their perfidy.
But he did not want the hostility those old memories inspired to interrupt the peaceful contentment of the moment, and so he placed his hand over hers and held it against his cheek. “But at least I know now never to trust a Johnstone.”
“Aye, that you do,” she said softly, resting her head back on the curve of his shoulder. For the time being, he decided to let the issue of her name rest. After a few moments of silence, she stirred in his arms.
“What is the trouble now, runag?”
“I need to…that is…” she stuttered, her cheeks pinkening. “I must go outside and relieve myself,” she finished in an embarrassed rush.
Being a gentleman, of course he allowed her to get up and put on her shirt and breeches before heading out into the windy chill of the afternoon. And after what had just passed between them, it didn’t occur to him to follow her outside to keep an eye on her. After all, he trusted her.
It was only when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves that he realized the truth.
She hadn’t needed to relieve herself at all. All along, she had planned to escape.
The border between Maxwell and Johnstone land was in sight. Jamie Johnstone, great-niece of Sir James Johnstone and one of his many namesakes—albeit, as far as she knew, the only female one—was nearly home.
Duncan Maxwell’s big black stallion bore her over the rough, rocky terrain with breathtaking speed and ease. Saddled now with the roan mare he’d given her to ride, the laird of Lochmorton would never overtake them before she reached safety. Likely, he would not even try.
Free. She was almost free.
Why, then, did she feel as though her heart was being torn to shreds and pounded into the ground with every beat of the horse’s hooves? Her throat was raw and her eyes burned, but still she rode toward the border.
This was for the best. If Duncan discovered the truth of who she was, he would hate her. He had said himself he had learned never to trust a Johnstone. Until that moment, she had held out the smallest sliver of hope that they could be happy, that perhaps he did not share in his family’s ingrained hatred toward hers. But that had always been a slim and dangerous hope, for she had known from the beginning that he had been at Dryfe Sands, that he had lost his father there. The Lockerbie lick on his cheek told the tale of his participation in the battle, even his tongue did not. And how could a man fail to despise the people who had killed his own father?
Her people.
She slowed the horse to a walk after the crossing the border. There was no indication that she was being followed, and although the animal showed no signs of tiring, even a horse as magnificent as Curaidh could not maintain such a breakneck pace indefinitely. It would be difficult to convince her brothers to return a horse as fine as he to the Maxwell stable, but she could not in good conscience keep him.
That alone told her a great deal had changed. Once upon a time, she’d had no conscience at all.
Jamie Johnstone’s days as a reiver were over.
Squinting in the darkness, Jamie closed the stall door behind Curaidh, wincing at the loud creak of the hinges. She paused for a moment, listening for any hint of a human presence, but heard only the annoyed snorts and curious whickers of horses whose nightly rest had been disturbed.
She took a deep, cleansing breath. It was ridiculous for her to be so on edge. No one would anticipate a reiver breaking into his stables to return a horse. A smile tickled her lips as she thought about Duncan’s reaction on the morrow, when he discovered his prized steed had been returned—though her brothers, ever the opportunists, had seen to it that the stallion had left a few “deposits” with several of the Johnstone mares in the months before they’d brought him back.
Of course, James and Robbie still thought this entire plan was mad and dangerous. And yet, perhaps because they felt some latent sense of guilt for her months of imprisonment in Maxwell territory—a fate they considered several orders of magnitude worse than death—they had acquiesced to her decision. And now, she was but a few steps from meeting them outside.
Not so mad or dangerous , this…
“Oof!” Just feet from the door, she came to an abrupt halt against an immovable object that felt remarkably warm and strangely malleable. Rather like a human chest. And a damnably familiar one at that.
Damn and blast!
“So, reiver, we meet again.” Duncan’s voice was low and gravelly and terribly arousing. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her flush against his body. Her eyes widened. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who was aroused. “What did you come to steal this time?”
“You know as well as I that I have not stolen anything from you,” she retorted. Please, let James and Robert have gotten away. As long as they were safe, she could bear any indignity at Duncan Maxwell’s hands. She reckoned she deserved every one he could dish out after what she’d done.
“On the contrary,” he murmured against the top her head, “you’ve stolen my heart. I was hoping you came to return it.”
The raw, unconcealed pain in his voice took her aback.
“I—I—” she stammered. Her heart hammered like a blacksmith’s mallet against her breastbone. “I came to return Curaidh.”
“I know,” he said softly, grazing her ear with his lips as he spoke.
Gooseflesh rose on her skin, racing down her arm. She didn’t know what to make of this strange situation. It seemed rather more like seduction than detention.
“What do you want?”
“I should think that would be obvious. I want you, Jamie Johnstone.”
She gasped, incredulous. “You know my name!”
“Aye, lass.”
“But—but how?”
“You did not think I just let you escape, did you?”
She stared up at him blankly, a rather fruitless enterprise in light of the darkness. “What choice did you have? You had a slow horse and no clothes on.”
“True, and I could not have prevented you from getting away…not without shooting you, and though I’ll admit I was sorely tempted, I might have missed and shot Curaidh instead.”
She burned with instant indignation at the insinuation, but then she caught the twinkle in his eyes.
“But in any event, ‘twas simple enough to track where you’d gone, runag. And once I realized you were a Johnstone, it was only a matter of making inquiries of the right people to discover the rest.”
Jamie’s mind whirled. All these months, he had known who she was, who her family was, and yet he’d made no effort to exact justice for the raid. He could have petitioned the Warden for redress, or even the king, but obviously he had not.
“Since then, I’ve been waiting for you,” he added, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Not entirely patiently.”
“What? But—what on earth could have made you believe I would come back?”
He shrugged. “I know you, and I knew you would not steal from me. Not after what we shared.”
“But I ran away—“
He pressed his finger to her lips to shush her. “I did not give you much choice, did I? Telling you I’d never trust a Johnstone. That was why you asked about the scar, wasn’t it?”
“Aye,” she admitted. “I wanted to know if you still hated my family for what happened at Dryfe Sands.”
“And I did. Th
en, and for some time afterward. And I was furious with you for breaking your promise.”
“I didn’t promise I would not escape. I promised not to try to,” she pointed out.
He chuckled. “Aye, I recall now you were very specific when you made the promise. Notwithstanding, I was very angry—and hurt. I considered coming after you, going to the Warden, demanding satisfaction from the king. But in the end, I realized this is the only thing that would ever bring me true satisfaction.” His mouth swooped down and captured hers.
Aye, aye, he was right. This was the only thing she wanted, the only thing that truly mattered. She would never want anything else in life if only she could have this—the pepper-sweet taste of his mouth, the warm, solid breadth of his body, and the truths they could only seem to communicate this way.
He lifted his head. “I am ready to declare an end to this branch of the Maxwell-Johnstone feud. What do you say we start a new alliance in its place?”
“I would love that, but what about my brothers? I am not so sure they’ll go along.”
“My brother, Ewan, is out there right now, negotiating a bride price for you. I think ‘tis safe to say they’ll find the terms favorable.” His voice dropped an octave. “I’d even give them Curaidh in exchange for you.”
Joy blazed in her heart. “I love you, Duncan Maxwell.”
“As I love you, Reiver of my heart.”
The End
Author’s Note
This story is loosely based on actual events. In the late 1500s, a feud erupted between the two most powerful Scottish border families, the Maxwells and the Johnstones. The animosity between the families resulted in the Battle of Dryfe Sands, where the Johnstones solidly defeated the Maxwells, leaving many of the surviving combatants with facial scars known as “Lockerbie licks.” Duncan Maxwell and Jamie Johnstone are both products of my imagination, branches of the two families that never actually existed. The conflict that stands between them and their happy ending. however, is very much a product of history.
Author Bio
When Jackie isn’t trying to be a writer—and even when she is—she’s a happily married mother of three who makes her living writing technical training materials for the software industry. She lives with her husband and children in Southern California, where she was born and raised. She holds a BA in Classical Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz, and an MA in Classics from the University of Chicago.
You can visit her online and learn more about her current and upcoming titles at http://www.jackiebarbosa.com.
An Excerpt from Carnally Ever After
by Jackie Barbosa
Available now at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Apple, All Romance eBooks, Kobo, Sony, and Smashwords
Chapter One
St. Paul’s Cathedral, June 1816
“Just like the bloody man!” Alistair de Roche, Earl of Holyfield, sank into the rear pew of the Morning Chapel and loosened his cravat. Behind him, the shuffling footsteps and grumbling whispers of the guests echoed as they exited the cavernous cathedral. Thwarted in their hopes of witnessing the wedding of the Season, the rumormongers would have to find their amusement elsewhere.
No doubt in ripping the unfortunate bride to shreds with vicious speculation as to the reason her intended had failed to appear at the altar.
“Isn’t it just?”
Alistair nearly fell off the narrow bench. Though he could discern only the outline of a figure in the far corner of the dimly-lit niche, he recognized her voice instantly. Lady Louisa Bennett’s husky yet dulcet tones were unmistakable, with the capacity to make him hot and uncomfortable.
Never mind that she was his best friend’s betrothed.
His best friend’s jilted betrothed.
He opened his mouth, attempting to frame a suitable response to her question, and then, finding nothing to say, closed it. After taking a deep breath, he tried again. “Grenville is a trifle unreliable.”
An understatement, surely.
Lady Louisa emerged from the shadowy recesses into the light streaming through a stained glass window set high in the wall. A rustle of silk and satin accompanied her movement. Bathed in the multicolored glow with her dark hair arranged in artful curls about her face and her large, round eyes glaring at him, she looked every inch a vengeful angel.
An angel with a form so lush, she could tempt the devil into an alliance with the other side.
Grenville was an idiot.
She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, forcing the ivory mounds upward until they threatened to spill forth from her bodice. Although the neckline of Louisa’s gown might have been demure on most women, on her, it bordered on indecency.
Alistair’s fingers flexed. He had no business thinking about her breasts, in or out of her dress. Although now, he could think of nothing else.
Out of her dress held the greater appeal.
“Why did he not come?” she demanded.
A reasonable question. Alistair was the best man and it was his duty to see the groom to the altar. A duty he’d failed miserably.
He shrugged to cover his unease. “I’m sure he was unavoidably detained by some sort of emergency.”
Provided an emergency included sleeping off a night of debauchery. This was Grenville’s typical reason for missing appointments, even one as important as his wedding. Alistair knew that if his friend’s father found him, he’d be enlisted to search London’s best brothels and slimiest hells for Grenville. Alistair had skulked away from the rest of the wedding party when no one was looking precisely to avoid that thankless—and likely protracted—task.
She closed her eyes, dark, expressive eyes he knew to be the color of rich chocolate. Her plush, upper lip crumpled in on the lower one. She shook her head. “I doubt it.”
Damnation! Did she know more about Grenville’s proclivities than he thought?
“He didn’t come because I’m fat.”
Alistair blinked, dumbfounded. The words were spoken with such flat conviction and self-loathing, he felt them like a fist. Fat? Louisa? No, surely not.
Voluptuous, ample, and yes, perhaps a trifle plump. Though her dressmakers seemed to do everything possible to disguise Louisa’s generous proportions beneath modest, billowy gowns, their efforts were wholly ineffectual, a fact for which Alistair was not certain whether to thank or curse his Maker.
He grimaced owing to the increasingly snug fit of his breeches. She honed in on his expression.
“You admit, then, I am right. No man wishes to bed a fat girl, especially not for the rest of his life.” Her voice cracked.
He wanted, quite inappropriately, to laugh. All it would take to disabuse her of her foolish misapprehension would be to lay her hand on his breeches where his nascent erection strained to escape his fall. The idea thickened his cock even further.
He daren’t stand up now, though he would like to go and comfort her. Instead, he shook his head vehemently against her words.
“That is not true.”
Her lips pursed in exasperation. He fancied nibbling at them with his teeth.
“What is not true?” she demanded. “That men do not want fat girls, or that I am fat?
Alistair ran his fingers through his hair, knowing he made it stand up on end. “Both. Neither. Christ!” He was doing a bloody poor job of explaining himself. If only his prick would stop sapping energy from his brain, he might be able to form a cogent sentence.
She spread her arms and executed a pirouette. “What man would want me?” The fabric of her skirt caught as she spun, accentuating the plump, perfect arc of her arse beneath it.
Before he could think better of it, he was on his feet. The click of his Hessians against the marble echoed loudly in the now-empty church.
They were alone.
He reached her in four long strides. She turned away as he approached, but he wanted—needed—her to look at him. He grasped her shoulders and brought her about to face him. Wide, startled eyes, glistening wit
h unshed tears, met his. She gasped in surprise.
He hauled her closer, until their bodies touched, and then released her shoulders. She seemed too astonished to pull away. Good. He cupped her arse, the object of so many of his lurid fantasies, and pressed her tight against him.
Her wide eyes grew wider. Better.
“Me,” he grated out on a hoarse whisper. The heady scent of her—citrus, cloves, and woman—assailed his nostrils. “Me.”
Her nose wrinkled and she sniffled. “You?”
The weight of her buttocks filled his hands even more completely and pleasurably than he had ever imagined. He nodded. “Yes. Since the moment Grenville introduced us.”
She stared up at him, her lips parted, her breath coming in short puffs. Her pupils, already dilated to accommodate the dim light in the chapel, increased in diameter, nearly engulfing her rich brown irises in blackness. Her breasts seemed to surge forward with anticipation and he imagined her nipples puckering and hardening beneath the layers of silk, linen, and cotton.
After a long, thick pause, her mouth curved upward, her eyes sparking with challenge. “Prove it is so.”
He dropped his hands from her delicious posterior as if her words had set her flesh on fire. “I…we…what? You cannot mean for us to…” He broke off, for saying the words would make acting on them all the more irresistible.
She ran her tongue over that plush upper lip. His cock twitched at the invitation. She was killing him.
“I can and I do. I was to have a wedding night, and I still intend to.”
“But…” Alistair fought to hear the tiny internal voice of reason over the pounding of his pulse in his ears…and in points more southern. “Your parents,” he managed to object at last. “Where are they? Won’t they be looking for you?”
It was the first un-erotic thought he’d had in some moments, and it calmed his pulse a tick.
Her pretty, softly rounded face contorted and she made a derisive sound in her throat. “They’re in some antechamber with the vicar and my future in-laws. And they’ll only look for me after Father finishes browbeating the duke into accepting a smaller dowry payment and Mother stops bemoaning her shame and humiliation. They’re so angry, I doubt they’ve even noticed I left. I should expect them in about three hours.” Her eyelids lowered a fraction, her eyes becoming sultry, near-black slits. “As I understand it, that should be more than sufficient time, yes?”
The Reiver Page 3