by Amanda Scott
Fin could not tell their exact color in the shadow of so many trees with an overcast sky above, but they seemed to be light brown, rather than blue.
“Are you a sprite or some other woodland creature?” he murmured, finding the effort to talk greater now. His eyelids drooped.
She chuckled low in her throat, a delightful sound and a most stimulating one. His eyes opened wide again, and he saw that she had dropped to one knee and was bending over him.
As he took in the two soft-looking, well-tanned mounds of flesh that peeped over the low-cut bodice so close to him, his head seemed suddenly clearer. Her lips were moving, and he realized that she was speaking. He had missed the first bit, so he listened intently to catch the rest, hoping thereby to reply sensibly.
“… would laugh to hear anyone mistake me for a sprite,” she said, adding firmly, “Now, lie still, sir, if you please. You must know that I was wary of getting too near until I could be sure that you would not harm me.”
“Never fear that, lass. I would not.”
“I can see that, but Boreus, my companion here, dislikes allowing any stranger near me. It was on that account more than any other that I hesitated to approach. Had you moved too suddenly or thrashed about as some do when they regain consciousness after an injury, he might have taken you for a threat.”
Having noted how quickly the wolf dog had stepped back after the snapping sound he had heard—surely a snap of her slim fingers—he doubted that the beast would attack against her will but did not say so. His eyelids drifted shut again.
“Are you still awake?” No amusement now, only concern.
“Aye, sure, but fading, I think,” he murmured without opening his eyes. “What is your name?”
“Catriona. What’s yours?”
He thought about it briefly, then said, “Fin… they call me Fin of the Battles.”
“What happened to you, Fin of the Battles?” Her voice sounded more distant, as if she were floating away again. He concentrated on her question, trying to think.
“I wish I knew,” he said at last. “I remember that I was walking through the forest, listening to a damned impertinent jay squawking and muttering ruder noises at me for trespassing. The next thing I knew, your escort was huffing into my ear.”
He drew a long breath and, without opening his eyes, tried moving his arms about more than had been necessary when he’d shifted himself. Pain shot through his head again, and he could feel the pain of some sort of scrape on his left arm, but both arms seemed obedient to his will. His toes and feet likewise obeyed him.
A hand touched his right shoulder, startling him. She had come up on the other side of him, and he had not heard her move.
He was definitely not himself yet.
“Be still now,” she said, kneeling swiftly and gracefully beside him. As she bent nearer, he noted the bare softness of her breasts again before a cold, wet cloth gently touched his forehead and moved soothingly across it to cover his eyes.
He knew then that she must have gone to the burn that he could hear splashing nearby, and tried to decide if he remembered seeing that burn before.
Still uncertain, he murmured, “That feels good.”
“It won’t in a minute. You have a gash on the left side of your forehead, with leaves and such stuck in it. You will have a fine scar to brag about.”
“I don’t brag.”
“All men brag,” she said, the note of humor stronger. “Most women do, too, come to that. But men brag like bairns, often and with great exaggeration.”
“I don’t.” It seemed important that she should know that.
“Very well, you don’t. You are unique amongst men. Now, hold still. Recall that Boreus will object to any sudden movement.”
He braced himself. He was not afraid of the wolf dog, but he hated pain, and he had already borne his share of it.
Catriona saw him stiffen and easily deduced the reason. All men, in her experience, disliked pain. Certainly, her father and brothers did, although all three were fine, brave warriors. The specimen of manhood before her looked as if he could hold his own against any one of them.
When he’d turned over, it had taken all of her willpower not to exclaim at his blood-streaked face. She reminded herself that head wounds always bled fiercely, and noted thankfully that all the blood seemed to stem from the gash in his forehead.
“Have you enemies hereabouts?” she asked as she gently plucked leaves and other forest detritus from the wound.
Instead of answering directly, he said, “I have not passed this way before. Are your people unfriendly to strangers?”
Having ripped two pieces from her red flannel underskirt to soak in the burn, she’d used one to cover his eyes in the hope that it would soothe him and keep him from staring at her as she cleansed his wound. The latter hope was not for his sake but for hers, because she knew she would be hurting him and would do a better job of the cleaning if she did not keep seeing the pain in his eyes as she did it.
Now, however, she plucked the cloth from his eyes, waited until he looked at her, and said, “My people?”
To her surprise, he smiled then, just slightly but enough to tell her that he had a nice smile and that her tone had tickled his sense of humor.
“Do you laugh at me?” she demanded.
“Nay, lass, I would not laugh at such a kind benefactress. I was just wondering if your people were human or otherwise. Sithee, although you disclaim being a wood sprite, I have heard tales of wee folk in this area.”
“I am completely human,” she said. “Keep still now so you don’t start bleeding again. Your wound is trying to clot, but I want to rinse out these cloths, and if you shift about whilst I’m doing that, you’ll likely start leaking again.”
“Tell me first who your people are,” he said as she rose to her feet. His voice was stronger, and the words came as a command.
Catriona eyed him speculatively. “Do you not know where you are?”
“Aye, I am betwixt Strathdearn and Strathnairn, in Clan Chattan territory. But that confederation boasts a number of tribes within it—at least six, I think.”
“Controlled by one,” she said.
“The Mackintosh,” he said, almost nodding. She saw him remember and catch himself before he had moved his head more than a tiny bit.
Satisfied, she said, “The Mackintosh, indeed.” Moving swiftly to the burn, she knelt and rinsed the bloody cloth in the churning, icy water. Then she dipped the other one, wrung them both out, and went back.
As she approached him, she saw Boreus go into the bushes a short way beyond the man’s head. The dog moved with purpose, sniffing the air and then lowering its snout to the low, dense shrubbery. Moments later, it plucked an arrow from the shrubs and trotted back to her with it in its mouth.
Taking it, Catriona said, “I think Boreus found the cause of your injury, sir. If so, I can tell you that it comes from no Clan Chattan bow.”
“Nor any Lochaber one,” he muttered. “Do you ken aught else of it?”
“Nay, but I do wish Ivor were here,” she said.
“Ivor?” He raised his left eyebrow, winced, and said ruefully, “I shall have to remember for a time not to express my feelings with facial gestures.”
Chuckling, she said, “Ivor is the younger of my two brothers and the finest archer in all Scotland. He knows the fletching of most Highland tribes. But he, my father, and my brother James are away to the Lowlands with the Lord of the North.”
“What makes you think this Ivor is the finest archer in the land? Scotland boasts many fine archers. I’m right deft with a bow and arrow myself,” he added.
“No doubt you are, but Ivor is best.”
“I know a chap who would likely beat anything your Ivor could do,” he said.
“Aye, well, mayhap a time will come when they can pit their skills against each other,” she said as she finished cleaning the area around his wound. “Lie still now for a few more minutes. The only thing
I could bandage that with is more of my underskirt, and I fear the flannel would only chafe it and make it bleed more.”
“I don’t need a bandage,” he said.
“How much farther must you go?”
“A day’s walk, mayhap two.”
“Then you should come home with me today and rest,” she said.
His expression revealed strong reluctance.
Before he could voice it, she added, “Don’t be daft enough to refuse. Someone wickedly attacked you, and that arrow knocked you headfirst against that tree, hard enough so that you bounced back and fell as you were when I found you.”
“Sakes, lass, if you saw all that, did you not also see who shot me?”
“I saw none of that,” she replied.
Looking narrowly at her, Fin said, “If you saw none of it, you cannot possibly know how I fell. Sakes, I don’t know that myself.”
“Nevertheless, that or something very like that is what happened,” she insisted. “The arrow that Boreus found surely made the gash in your forehead, because the blood on it is still wet. You have a lump rising here by your ear”—he winced when she touched it—“and although you fell on these plants, I can see bark in your hair and down the collar of your shirt. Also, you have a tear in the sleeve of your jack and more bits of bark on your arm. The event depicts itself, sir. Moreover,” she added, pointing, “your attacker clearly shot from yonder, across the burn.”
He had to admit, if only to himself for the present, that she was right about the direction of the shot if she was right about the rest.
Deciding that he had had enough of lying on the damp ground, he sat up, then had to hold himself steady and concentrate hard to fight off the dizziness that threatened him without letting her see how weak he still felt.
Meeting her twinkling gaze, he grimaced, suspecting that her powers of observation were keener just then than his ability to conceal his feelings.
“The dizziness will pass if you just give it time,” she said, confirming that suspicion. “You really should come with me, you know, because one can easily see that you are in no state to continue on your own.”
The dog moved up beside her, eyeing him thoughtfully. Just looking at it reminded him that Highland forests sheltered many a wolf pack. The beasts would soon catch scent of his blood if he did aught to start the wound bleeding again.
“Would your kinsmen so easily welcome a stranger?”
“My lady mother welcomes all who come in peace,” she said. “I warrant she will be glad to have a strong man at hand in my father’s absence, even overnight.”
He realized then that she was of noble birth and that he ought to have seen as much, despite her untidy appearance. Commoners did not usually own wolf dogs.
“How far from here is your home?” he asked.
“It lies in the glen just over yon hill,” she said, pointing toward the granite ridge above them to the northeast. “We’ll go through the cut above those trees.”
“Very well, then I accept your kind invitation most gratefully.”
Smiling in such a way that she made his body stir unexpectedly in response, she picked up his sword and sling and stood back to let him get to his feet. But when he reached for the sword, she said, “I can carry it.”
“Nay, then, I do not relinquish my weapon to anyone, woman or man.”
He saw a flash of annoyance, but she nodded and handed him the sword belt. He strapped it into place and took the sword from her, feeling its weight more than usual as he reached back and slipped it into the sling. But he did so, he hoped, without noticeable difficulty. She did not seem to notice, but he sensed tension between them.
The hill was steep, and it proved harder than he’d expected to follow her up through the forest to the ridge. She and the dog moved swiftly, and his dizziness persisted. Halfway up, he began to feel weary, almost leaden. To be sure, he had traveled far that day, but such profound weariness was abnormal for him.
When they reached the top of the ridge, he paused gratefully when she did. Although he assured himself that there was naught amiss with him but the dizziness and the strange weariness, he welcomed the respite.
“There,” she said, pointing again. “We’ll just row across the loch.”
Staring at the island fortress in the midst of the long, narrow, brilliant blue loch below, he felt a jolt of recognition and a tremor of disbelief.
“Is that not Castle Moigh, the seat of the Mackintosh?”
“Nay,” she said, “although you are not the first to mistake it so. That is my father’s castle of Rothiemurchus. See you, my family likes islands for the greater safety they provide.”
A different sort of tension radiated through him. “Who is your father, lass?”
“Most men know him as Shaw MacGillivray, war leader of the Mackintosh.”
Stunned, Fin could think of nothing to say.
Her father was the very man he had sworn to kill.
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Eileen Dreyer
Dear Reader,
Blame it on Sean Bean. Well, no, to be fair, we should blame it on Richard Sharpe, whose exploits I followed long before I picked up my first romance. If you’ve had the privilege to enjoy the Sharpe series, about a soldier who fights his way through the Napoleonic Wars, you’ll understand my attraction. Rugged? Check. Heroic? Check. Wounded? Usually.
There’s just something about a hero who risks everything in a great endeavor that speaks to me. And when you add the happy bonuses of chiseled features, sharp wit, and convenient title, I’m hooked. (For me, one of the only problems with SEAL heroes—no country estates).
So when I conceived my DRAKE’S RAKES series, I knew that soldiers would definitely be involved: guards, hussars, grenadiers, riflemen. The very words conjure images of romance, danger, bravery, and great posture. They speak of legendary friendships and tragic pasts and another convenient favorite concept of mine—the fact that relationships are just more intense during war.
So, soldiers? I was there. I just had to give them heroines.
That was when it really got fun.
My first book is BARELY A LADY, in which a companion named Olivia Grace recognizes the gravely injured soldier she stumbles over on the battlefield of Waterloo. The problem is that this soldier is actually her ex-husband, Jack Wyndham, Earl of Gracechurch (You expected a blacksmith?). Worse, Jack, whom Olivia hasn’t seen in four years, is dressed in an enemy uniform.
Jack and Olivia must find out why before Jack’s enemies kill them both. Did I mention that Jack also can’t remember that he divorced Olivia? Or that in order to protect him until they unearth his secrets, she has to pretend they’re still married?
I didn’t say it would be easy. But I do say that there will be soldiers and country estates and lots of danger, bravery, chiseled features, and romance.
It certainly works for me. I hope it does for you. Stop by my website and let me know at www.eileendreyer.com. And then we can address the role of soldiers in the follow-up book, NEVER A GENTLEMAN, not to mention my other favorite thing—marriage of convenience.
Happy reading!
From the desk of Dee Davis
Dear Reader,
I have always loved run-for-your-life romantic adventures: King Solomon’s Mines, The African Queen, Logan’s Run, Romancing the Stone, and The Island, to name a few. So when I began to conceptualize a story for Drake Flynn, it seemed natural that he’d find himself in the middle of the jungles of Colombia. After all, he’s an archaeologist when not out fighting bad guys, and some of the most amazing antiquities in the world are hidden deep in the rain forests of South America. And since Madeline Reynard was involved with a drug dealer turned arms trader, it was also easy to see her living amidst the rugged beauty of the high Andes.
There’s just something primal about man against nature, and when you throw two people together in that kind of situation, it seems pretty ce
rtain that sparks will fly. Especially when they start out on opposite sides of a fence. It’s interesting, I think, how we all try to categorize people, put them into predefined boxes so that we have an easy frame of reference. But in truth, people aren’t that easy to classify, and even opposites have things in common.
Both Drake and Madeline have had powerful relationships with their siblings, and it is this common bond that pulls them together and eventually forces Madeline to choose between saving herself or helping Drake. The fact that she chooses him contradicts everything Drake thought he knew about her, and the two of them begin a tumultuous journey that ultimately breaks down their respective barriers and leaves them open to the possibility of love.
So maybe a little adventure is good for the soul—and the heart.
For a little more insight into Madeline and Drake, check out the following songs I listened to while writing:
“Bring Me to Life”—Evanescence
“Lithium Flower”—Scott Matthew
“Penitent”—Suzanne Vega
And, by all means, if you haven’t seen King Solomon’s Mines (with Stewart Granger and Deborah Kerr), Netflix it! As always, check out www.deedavis.com for more inside info about my writing and my books.
Happy Reading!
From the desk of Amanda Scott
Dear Reader,
Lady Fiona Dunwythie, the heroine of my latest book, TEMPTED BY A WARRIOR, was a real person, the younger daughter of fourteenth-century Lord Dunwythie of Annandale, Scotland. She is also the sister of Lady Mairi Dunwythie, the heroine of SEDUCED BY A ROGUE (Forever, January 2010) and cousin to Bonnie Jenny Easdale, the heroine of the first book in this trilogy, TAMED BY A LAIRD (Forever, July 2009).
Writing a trilogy based on anecdotal “facts” from an unpublished sixteenth-century manuscript about events that took place two hundred years earlier has been fascinating. From the manuscript, we know that Fiona eloped with a man from the enemy Jardine clan, and as I learned from my own research, the Jardine lands bordered Dunwythie’s.