Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One - DECEMBER 1715 SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
About the Authors
INTERMIX BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WINTER HEAT
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
publishing history
“Winter Heat” appeared in the anthology A Highlander Christmas.
Signet Eclipse edition / November 2009
InterMix eBook edition / December 2013
Copyright © 2009 by Jennifer Haymore.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-14155-1
INTERMIX
InterMix Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group
and New American Library, divisions of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Version_1
Winter Heat
Dawn Halliday
INTERMIX BOOKS, NEW YORK
Chapter One
DECEMBER 1715 SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS
Atiny bud of hope bloomed within Maggie MacDonald as she peered out the frosty pane of her window. A storm approached—the air was thick, heavy with the promise of snow. Meager light from inside the cottage dappled the gray graveled path leading toward the village road. Fog wisped lazily above the ground, and the clouds hovered low enough to caress the thatched eaves.
Perhaps Innes Munroe would leave her alone until the storm passed. Perhaps Innes would spend the next ten days sotted, the drink would wipe his wish to claim her from his memory, and the New Year would dawn with new hope for Maggie’s independence.
A pretty dream. It’d take a cudgel to the skull to make Innes forget his intentions when it came to her.
A puff of cold air brushed Maggie’s face, and she closed the curtain against the chill that swept through her. Pulling a plaid tight across her chest, she knelt to tug on a second pair of stockings.
Beyond the partition dividing the cottage into two rooms, one of the servants moaned softly in her sleep. It was late, and tomorrow would be a long day, for they’d planned to make the three-m ile journey to her cousin Torean’s castle for her annual fortnight-l ong visit. Every December, the MacDonald laird summoned family members to his castle, where they observed Christmas prior to the raucous revelry leading up to Hogmanay and the New Year.
This year Maggie thought the festivities might be muted, for the recent uprising against the Hanoverian King hadn’t proved to be the great success they’d all anticipated. Yet the MacDonalds of Beauly had lost none of their men in the Battle of Preston, and that in itself was a cause for celebration.
Maggie snuffed out the two oil lamps and returned to her bed. Leaving her plaid wrapped around her body and pinned at her shoulder for additional warmth, she slipped beneath the heavy wool blankets, shivering.
Crack!
The sound of splintering wood jolted through the cottage, jerking Maggie awake. She bolted upright, but before she could decipher what had happened, a big masculine hand clamped over her face.
Every muscle in Maggie’s body went stiff. The taste of mud washed over her tongue. She bared her teeth and bit down hard on the thick flesh padding the man’s palm. Snarling a curse, he released her mouth, and Maggie let out a pealing scream.
The intruder bent over her, a looming black shadow with yellow-h ued teeth gleaming in the dimness, and hefted her from the bed.
“You don’t wish to make this easy for me, do you? ” he spat into her ear.
Maggie recognized the voice instantly, for it belonged to Innes Munroe. His familiar oniony smell overlaid with the essence of whisky washed over her, and the greasy ends of his pale hair brushed over her cheeks.
“Damn y—”
He dropped her lower body, and again his hand clapped over her lips, filling her mouth and nose with the coppery taste and scent of blood.
“I’ve waited too long, Maggie MacDonald. My patience is at an end. You’re coming with me.”
Something sharp prodded her between her collarbones. Maggie glanced down at the glinting blade of a dagger, its point probing her flesh.
“Dare to bite me again, and I’ll sink it deep, I promise you,” Innes growled.
She realized he’d already pulled her halfway to the gaping doorway. He’d splintered her door and pulled it from its hinges, and its remnants lay on the snow just beyond the henchman who loomed at the threshold, leering at her. He gripped his sword hilt, ready to impale anyone who attempted to hinder his master.
“Ah, what have we here?”
Maggie followed Innis’s gaze to see her three servants hesitating at the partition opening. Her man-of-a ll-work, Naughton Campbell, stood in front of his daughters, who stared from each side of his body at Innes and Maggie with wide, terrified eyes.
The blade at her neck pressed deeper, breaking her skin, and Maggie gasped. Tears collected behind her eyes, but she refused to cry, refused to give Innes the satisfaction of even a whimper.
“Come one step closer, and I’ll kill her.” Innes’s voice, as always, was a harsh rasp, like the words had been dragged over hot coals before emerging from his mouth.
He shifted, and Maggie found her arm, which had been pinned between her body and Innes’s, was now free to move. Her hand shot up to grip his wrist. With all her might, she tried to yank the dagger away from her tender skin.
She couldn’t budge him. He was too burly, too strong, his strength heightened by drink and determination. He jerked her another step backward, tugging her toward the cold outside air.
“Ma’am?” Naughton asked, his question a low rumble. Fear clouded his eyes as his gaze darted from Maggie and Innes to the man standing at the threshold. Maggie didn’t blame him. Innes alone was younger and stronger than Naughton, and twice his size.
“Stay put, all of you,” she ordered. It would only cause more bloodshed were Naughton to put himself at risk.
She sucked in a breath, and in an abrupt mo
ve, she twisted in Innes’s arms to free herself from his iron grip. The action did nothing but drive his blade deeper. A trickle of blood flowed down her chest and collided with the edge of her shift.
“Oh, ma’am!” Lizzy, the younger of the two girls, began to cry. Naughton held his arms out to block the girls, ensuring they remained at a safe distance.
Closing her eyes, feeling nothing but the sharp sting on her neck, Maggie stilled. She must save her strength—attack Innes and run when he least expected it.
With his arm like a band of steel clamped around her middle, Innes dragged her backward. He hesitated at the threshold, pausing to sneer at Naughton and the girls. “Good night, then.”
Maggie braced herself against the chill as he yanked her into the night air.
Logan Douglas hadn’t yet found shelter for the night. Locked in nightmarish memories of the battle at Sheriffmuir, he’d lost track of time and simply kept going on his endless march north as the gloom of dusk darkened into a velvety night. When cold flakes of snow began to drift into his eyes, he snapped back to himself. He stopped in his tracks; took in his surroundings.
“Hell,” he muttered.
This far north, the towns were scattered few and far between, and though villagers brought their animals up to graze in the summer months, these mountains were virtually uninhabited at this time of year.
Logan strode resolutely onward, ignoring the increasing pain of the bayonet wound in his thigh, keeping his keen eyesight trained on his surroundings. Despite the cloak of darkness, he could make out the shadowy terrain, the barren trees, and the evergreens. If there was shelter, he’d find it. He’d survived so far, and no mere winter storm would best him. If he had to, he’d walk through it. He didn’t need the stars or the sun to guide him. These were the Highlands—his land, his home—and he could find his way north by smell, taste, and touch if need be.
Soon he glimpsed a potential shelter. Just beyond a ledge to the east, the thatch of a roof peeked out from beneath a thin layer of snow. He walked toward it, and gradually the small, stone-walled circular structure came into view.
It was more than he’d hoped for. Its owner had probably abandoned it for the winter only a month or two ago. Logan trudged around to the tightly woven wicker door and pushed it open, making out the dark shapes of furniture—a table, chairs, and bed—in the deep shadows of the room.
He felt his way to the hearth. The wide fireplace possessed the added luxury of a stone chimney, rare for so small a place in such a remote location, with a generous amount of dry peat stacked beside it.
After lighting a fire, Logan rose to more fully assess his surroundings by the light of the flames. A low stone table and two chairs occupied the room’s center. Fresh provisions—a measure of oats, a pan full of dried meat, dishes of butter and cream, a bucket of eggs, and several bottles of whisky and ale—sat on the tabletop. The wood-f rame bed with a heather-stuffed mattress was pushed against the far wall, with clothes, linens, and plaids stacked in an open chest at its foot.
This cottage hadn’t been abandoned for the winter—i n fact, the opposite appeared to be true. Someone planned to move in. Not tonight, though, Logan deduced. Not this late, and not in this storm.
Logan would light a fire and sleep, but he wouldn’t take anything from this place. When he went on his way in the morning, he would leave the cottage as he’d found it. The owner would never realize anyone had spent the night.
All that kept Logan alive was the act of moving forward, constantly striving toward his goal: his brother’s lands in the far northern Highlands. They were Logan’s lands now, and Logan’s responsibility, for his brother had died at Sheriffmuir.
Home had seemed as remote as China less than a month ago. Every day, however, he grew closer.
A few hours’ rest and he’d be on his way.
Innes Munroe was drunker than he’d originally appeared, Maggie realized. The henchman had started whining about the cold not ten minutes after they’d left her cottage, and Innes had sent him home. Now they sat astride an exhausted horse, Innes holding Maggie tightly against him, her wrists bound with rough twine, her shift riding up her thighs.
Blood still trickled from her chest, and her left eye had swollen to a slit, for he’d hit her hard enough for her to see stars the last time she’d tried to escape.
As soon as Innes had tossed her onto the horse, a light snow had begun to descend, and as they traveled on, the world turned a solid gray-black beneath the cloudy sky.
Innes slipped his arm beneath her plaid, and his callused red hand closed over her breast. “Aw, that’s nice, isn’t it? Just big enough for my hand, aren’t you, Maggie girl?”
Renewed fury stormed through her, and she twisted, ramming her elbow into his gut. “Stop pawing at me, you animal!”
His breath left him with a whoosh. Releasing her breast, he snagged one of her wrists over the twine he’d used to bind her. He squeezed until the small bones rubbed together. Maggie gasped. If he squeezed any tighter, surely he’d break her wrist.
“You’d best let me go, Innes Munroe,” she said through clenched teeth. “Torean will see you hanged for this.”
At that, Innes released a booming laugh. “I don’t think so, woman. It was his idea that I take you—show you who your master is.”
“You’re a liar!” Yet a sick feeling churned in her gut. For some unknown reason, her cousin had befriended this lout. Couldn’t Torean see how despicable he was? Was he so blind as to have sanctioned Innes’s abominable acts?
Torean’s father had died suddenly last winter, and Torean was a young man—younger than Maggie by four years. He hadn’t been prepared to take on the responsibility of the lairdship, and some of his actions as their leader had taken the clan aback. Nobody understood why Torean would befriend the belligerent younger brother of the Munroe laird.
Maggie blinked against the sting of snow in her eyes. She couldn’t see much farther than a few feet in front of them, but she knew they were heading uphill and had drawn far from the village. As they ascended the mountain slope, the clouds grew ever thicker. Yet Innes continued to force the tiring horse through the snow flurries. The animal’s hooves sank into the freshly fallen powder with each step it took.
Maggie gave thanks for her thick, long-sleeved shift, her two pairs of stockings, and her plaid. Thank the Lord she’d taken her plaid to bed, otherwise she’d surely be an icicle by now. At least she was dry, and though not warm by any stretch of the imagination, she wasn’t near frozen to death either. Innes, dressed in thick wool trews, boots, layers of shirts and jackets, and covered by a plaid, hadn’t given her condition a second thought.
He dropped her wrist and fumbled in his coat. She heard the glugging noise as he gulped down more of the drink. Hopefully he’d drink himself into a stupor, she thought bitterly. Then she could shove him off the horse and escape.
Returning his flask to his pocket, he switched arms, taking the reins in his right hand and clamping his brawny left arm around her torso. His thumb rubbed rough circles over her breast, and she tensed but this time she didn’t flail.
“Where are you taking me?” she said through clenched teeth.
His only answer was a low chuckle, but pinned against him as she was, she could feel his body responding in anticipation. Wherever their destination, she had a fair idea of what he intended to do to her once they arrived.
That was something she couldn’t countenance. She’d die before giving herself to this brute.
Carefully, she inched her bound hands upward over her plaid, ever so slowly so the drunken man behind her wouldn’t notice. In any case, he wasn’t paying attention—he was far more interested in pinching her breast. His arousal poked at her bottom, and his pungent breath puffed over the top of her head.
Her fingers touched the cold silver of the brooch at her shoulder. It was the only weapon she possessed, surely not as effective as a pistol or a sword, or even a dagger, but she prayed it would be enough.
Her brooch was different from the usual circular brooch worn by the women of the clan. About the length of Maggie’s hand, it was long and narrow and shaped like a sword. A dragon stood just below the hilt, its wings unfurled, its body ringed by a flat silver circle etched with the words, “Per mare, per terras”—“ by sea, by land”—her family’s motto. At the bottom of the ring, the dragon’s talons curled over a large, dull amber agate.
On her deathbed, Maggie’s mother had handed her daughter the brooch, saying Maggie must keep it with her always; for it possessed the magical ability to detect a MacDonald woman’s lifelong soul mate.
Her mother was as superstitious as they came, though, and Maggie didn’t believe any such nonsense. The brooch certainly hadn’t detected anything before Maggie had married Duneghall, whom she’d loved wholeheartedly during their brief time together.
It was just a trinket, and an odd one at that. But her mother died when she was fifteen years old, and out of respect for her memory, Maggie always kept it near. She enjoyed that it earned her a raised brow whenever she encountered a stranger—for what kind of a woman pinned her plaid with a miniature weapon? But more than that, it was the only possession Maggie had to remember her mother by.
Maggie fumbled with the brooch, finally releasing the pin and sliding it free from the wool. She clutched it between her palms, its sharp point facing her, and returned her hands to her lap.
The sword tip and the pin together weren’t truly dangerous. They couldn’t inflict permanent damage. Yet Maggie knew where a man was his most sensitive, and Innes Munroe was drunk as a drum. This was her last hope.
She took a deep, fortifying breath. Then she clenched her knees, scooted her bottom forward over the rise of the saddle’s pommel, twisted her body, and stabbed her hands backward, plunging the tip of the brooch into Innes’s groin.
Winter Heat Page 1