Immortal Scotsman (Immortal Protectors Book 3)

by H. M. McQueen

  Immortal Scotsman

  H.M. McQueen

  Immortal Scotsman

  Previously titled Desperate Surrender

  H.M. McQueen

  Cover Artist: Dar Albert

  Sr. Editor: Gayla Leath

  Line Editor: Dark Dreams Editing

  Copyright © Hildie McQueen 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to your retailer and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dedication

  To my gorgeous, independent and amazing daughters,

  Tiffani Marie and Veronica Elise.

  You are the center of my universe.

  I love you.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  A Note from the Author

  Chapter One

  A frosty chill traced a pattern down her spine, resulting in cascading shivers. The memory of the horrific attack slammed into her, and Wendy O’Sullivan jerked forward, barely avoiding falling face first onto the drenched sidewalk. Scanning the street and noting several passersby didn’t reassure her.

  A lone car whizzed past, the swishing of its tires fading fast.

  Wendy was unable to stop her vivid imagination from taking control, and an image began to play in her mind.

  It was the scene in a scary movie, the one where a solitary girl walks down a deserted shadowy street on a drizzly night. At a prickly sensation on the back of her neck, the girl swings around to scrutinize the area.

  No one is there.

  With a breath of relief, she turns back around and…BAM!

  Yep that’s it, the bad guy is right there—he somehow materialized in those few seconds that she looked away, and now she’s dead.

  Not exactly the thoughts for a girl to have when out alone on a rainy evening.

  And just like the girl in the movie, the hair on Wendy’s nape stood on end. It made no sense, but something seemed amiss, which was strange given that, unlike in the movie scene, there were people nearby.

  Thank goodness the distance to her favorite coffee shop from her apartment in Midtown Atlanta was mercifully short. Rico’s neon sign beckoned to Wendy, casting a colorful reflection on the wet street. She pulled the errant laptop strap back onto her slender shoulder and jaunted across Peachtree Street.

  The jingle of the old-fashioned silver bell over the door announced her entrance, the owner and barista lifted his bushy eyebrows and called out a greeting.

  Wendy smiled back. “Hey, Rico.”

  Spotting an empty booth, she made a beeline for it and set her laptop on the red Formica tabletop before heading to the counter to order.

  The buzz of soft conversation and smooth Latino music sure beat the silence of her apartment. Already soothed by the ambiance, Wendy had to admit it was worth walking the couple of blocks in the damp weather to get there.

  Minutes later, encircled by the sweet aroma of her favorite orange-flavored coffee, Wendy sank deeply into the worn leather of the café booth and began to type notes on her laptop.

  Besides working as a teller at Georgia Bank and Trust, Wendy designed and crafted jewelry, which she sold online. Hanging from a braided leather cord, a large tiger’s eye stone encircled with a silver wire fell between her breasts. Wendy held it up and inspected it while her fingers caressed the cool surface of the stone in thought. She began to type a description of a specific piece just like it into what she hoped would soon be a successful web-based business.

  The cool tingle at the back of her neck returned. She studied the other people in the coffeehouse and tried to scan the street outside the window, but with the brightness of the interior, all she saw was her own reflection. Why did it feel as if she were being watched? She’d never been the fearful or nervous type. Tonight, for some reason, she felt both apprehensive and shaken; it bugged her.

  Wendy took a deep breath. It was probably the solitude, the aftereffects of losing her best friend to a new husband. Although she’d lived alone for the last few years, Wendy and Emma had become constant companions. It was strange not to be able to pick up the phone and call Emma on a whim to discuss fashion or whoever annoyed them at work.

  Emma withdrawals, that’s what it had to be.

  Wendy caught sight of an attractive guy sitting a few booths in front of her. Their gazes met. Maybe the guy was who was causing the unsettling sensations. Maybe he’d been watching her? And since she hadn’t dated in a while, it made her extra sensitive to his perusal? Yep, that was it.

  She glanced up again. He was still watching her, and she couldn’t help smiling back. She wasn’t too surprised when, a few moments later, he slid into the seat opposite her.

  “I hope I am not interrupting. You seem to be concentrating heavily on whatever you are working on,” he told her with an impressive two-dimpled smile. Wendy found herself at a loss for words, a rare event—absolutely no words came to mind. Fortunately, the blue-eyed hunk didn’t seem to notice her lack of vocabulary.

  He held out his hand. “I’m Josh Matson. I stopped by to have a cup of coffee before heading home.”

  “I’m Wendy. Nice to meet you,” she replied, shaking his hand only to yank it away when an electric current shot into her palm.

  His eyebrows drew together. “Are you alright?”

  “You shocked me just now,” she laughed.

  His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t respond.

  They spoke about nothing for over an hour. Relaxed by his easygoing charm, Wendy’s jewelry web page was soon forgotten and her laptop closed.

  Whil
e he told her about his upcoming trip to the West Coast, she mentally tallied Josh’s good points.

  He was friendly, handsome, and easy to talk with to boot.

  Perfect.

  When he offered to walk her home, she happily agreed, glad for his company, as she did not cherish the walk alone after the anxiety she’d suffered earlier.

  They walked for a block without speaking. Out of the corner of her eye, Wendy sneaked a peek at Josh, his shoulders were rigid and his expression hard.

  “I’m glad it stopped raining.” Wendy tried to shake the uneasiness that crept over her. “You’re not wearing a jacket. You would’ve gotten soaked.”

  He didn’t respond.

  The streets were almost deserted now, and Wendy glanced at her watch. She’d been in the coffee shop for almost three hours. Way longer than she’d planned. “Do you live far from here?” she asked, slightly uncomfortable with Josh’s lack of conversation. His friendly disposition from the coffee shop totally gone.

  With only a shrug of his shoulders, he grabbed her arm and guided her to the shadowed entryway of an office building. The business was closed for the day. The alcove was damp, the darkness disconcerting. He pushed her none-too-gently against the wall and leaned in, pinning her to the wall. Did he think he was going to seduce her with this not-so-smooth move? The guy just lost a bunch of points for lack of subtlety. Wendy pushed him away. “Ah, too fast for me buddy. Maybe, after a date…or two,” she told him firmly, while she attempted to sidestep back onto the sidewalk.

  A low growl jerked her eyes back to his face. Wendy gasped in shock. His unyielding hands held her in place while his face began to shift, the muscles bunching under the skin, like worms crawling under the surface. Josh’s pupils turned crimson, fangs sprung from his incisors, and his lips curled back into a snarl. Josh was a demon. He growled again, and Wendy began to utter a scream. He slapped his hand over her mouth, preventing any sound from escaping.

  Encased in a cocoon of shock and fear, desperation clawed at her throat, choking her. All she could do was wait on death or worse—to be turned into one of them, a demon that had to drink blood to survive. Oh, God, not again. A second attack by a demon was impossible. Unheard of, from what Emma had told her.

  The last time she’d been attacked, a Protector saved her. This time, she wouldn’t live to see the immortal demon slayer again. The man she’d fallen in love with.

  Kieran Fraser.

  Chapter Two

  “I was a Highland warrior before I became a Protector.” Kieran Fraser paced from one end of the room to the other. “My entire life has been war and battle. Fighting is in my blood. And now I’m being penalized for doing what I’m supposed to do?” He stopped pacing momentarily and threw both hands in the air. “It is my job to kill demons, and last time I checked, it’s also my duty to protect humans. Now, I’m being told my kill numbers are too high. I don’t know what the hell he’s thinking,” he said, referring to the Protector’s leader, Julian D’Arco. “Its crap! Crap, I say!”

  Kieran stalked about the room, his eyes blazing and his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ached. He jerked rigid fingers through his hair, perilously close to losing control of his anger.

  Desperation or fury, he honestly didn’t know which was stronger at the moment or which one gave him the urge to hit something. His partner and fellow Protector, Lord Fallon Trent, silently watched him from his chair, which aggravated him even more. In contrast to the agitation that didn’t allow Kieran to be still at the moment, the bloody Brit seemed totally at ease. His long legs stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankles. His partner followed his movements through hooded eyes as he held a glass of wine in his hand.

  Fallon took an unhurried sip before speaking, his British accent heavy, “God, man, it’s not as if Julian is asking you to do anything that’s too dreadful.” With an elegant wave of his hand, he dismissed Kieran’s scowl. “All Julian is asking you to do is to take a wife. He is sure it will settle you. That’s a small price to pay. You did go a bit overboard killing the last bunch of young demons, which were not quite posing a mortal threat to humans.”

  Channeling his anger toward the man, Kieran stalked to where his partner sat and towered over him. Fallon straightened and tracked his movements with raised eyebrows. Pronouncing each word pointedly, Kieran punctuated them by pointing his finger at the Brit. “A wife! He wants me to take a wife. That is the last thing I need. Women hinder us, they are a distraction we do not need. They are a weakness and a liability. I will not do it. Besides, those demons were holding humans as blood slaves, one would have ended up dead eventually.”

  He let out a slow breath. “I’ll go rogue before I marry.”

  At his last words, Fallon choked on his wine, coughing and sputtering. Wine splashed over the rim as he set the glass on the table. “Don’t even joke about that, Kieran. You know our code. Going rogue means signing a death sentence.” Fallon caught himself and regained his aristocratic composure and once again leaned back. His expression, however, remained stern, his lips pressed together in a tight line.

  They were in a study in Fallon’s home, a mansion in the upscale Druid Hills area of Atlanta. Upon his transfer to Atlanta from England, Fallon purchased the oversized, ostentatious mansion. The large estate, surrounded by ten-foot concrete walls, sported a security system that rivaled high-security prisons. If his new assignment forced him to live in America, Fallon ensured he could keep his distance from those he considered distasteful company.

  Kieran ignored his partner’s warning and went to a large window. Peering out at the manicured lawn, he taunted the Brit. “Have you considered getting a couple of Rottweilers or Dobermans to run around? Perhaps maybe build a watchtower and install some men with scope rifles?”

  “Mock me if you will, but no demon or uninvited guest can enter my property,” Fallon replied, wiping at the wine that had spilled onto his pant leg.

  The Brit held up a finger to get Kieran’s attention. “The Festival of Dionysus starts next week. Demons will come from all over to Atlanta to wreak havoc on humans and lower levels. The Roman will be too busy for the next couple of weeks to push the matter of your marriage. Maybe after all the mayhem ends, you can talk him out of it.”

  It could work. Kieran finally sat down, picked up his bottled beer and studied it. “Perhaps.”

  The door opened, and Fallon’s butler, Hector, entered. Kieran rolled his eyes. A butler. Fallon still acted every bit the eighteenth-century English Lord he was born to be.

  “Gentlemen, your… guests have arrived,” Hector’s deep, accented voice announced, emphasizing the word guests with distaste. He left, the door closing soundlessly behind him.

  Kieran gave his partner a pointed stare and waited for an explanation.

  Instead of replying, the Lord’s violet eyes scanned him slowly before he let out a hefty sigh while curling his lip in disgust. “Who cut your hair?” Fallon leaned forward, his brows scrunched together as he studied Kieran’s hair more closely. “It’s dreadful. It looks as if it was chopped off by a sword.” Kieran frowned and jammed his fingers through his shoulder-length hair. “Actually, it was. Cyn and I were practicing. It was tied back and he accidentally cut it off,” he replied with a shrug. “What the hell does my hair have to do with anything? Who’s here?”

  “And what about your face? When is the last time you shaved?”

  The slam of his beer bottle on the table echoed in the oversized room. Kieran blew air out, reminding himself to remain calm. It wouldn’t help his case with Julian if he killed his partner.

  Fallon merely raised an eyebrow at Kieran’s display, but his wary gaze followed him when he stood.

  “Why the sudden interest in my appearance, Fallon? All you have to do is tell me to leave the room before your snooty guests are shown in.” Kieran started for the door and stopped. “Actually, I prefer that.”

  Being forced to live at Fallon’s house was the constant thorn in Kieran’
s side. Julian had ordered it after learning that a powerful race of Warrior demons, which they had believed to be extinct until recently, were in Atlanta, gunning for the Protectors.

  Until Julian figured out what the demons’ plan was, all of the Protectors remained quarantined. The two married Protectors, Roderick and Kieran’s brother, Cyn, didn’t grumble too much at the forced two-week quarantine. It gave them the opportunity to spend time at home with their families. Kieran would rather spend the time in a cage with a rabid monkey on crack than with Fallon. He was pretty sure the Brit felt the same.

  Fallon’s elegant home, a sharp contrast to Kieran’s old country ranch house, wasn’t comfortable in the least. And to think, he’d almost escaped the room unscathed the day Julian imposed the quarantine. Each Protector was heading to his own home until the unfortunate opening of Fallon’s mouth to request company during the quarantine. In a rare show of humor, Julian purposely misunderstood Fallon’s request for female company and ordered that they be housemates for the duration of the quarantine. Kieran had huffed in displeasure and requested they go to his own house. Of course the pompous ass argued against staying there, stating that it was too far out of the city limits and Julian agreed with the snob. So, for two weeks, Kieran and Fallon were to remain sequestered at the Brit’s estate. When Kieran’s hand reached for the doorknob, Fallon cleared his throat. “They are our guests, not just mine,” he said, emphasizing the word our. “Julian figured we’d be at the point of killing each other by now, so he sent us female companionship. There are two women in the library.”

  Fallon sighed and looked Kieran over from head to toe. “I just thought you’d want to make yourself more presentable.”

  Kieran narrowed his eyes at his partner. “What difference would it make? The females Julian sends are mindless emotionless creatures who will moan and scream under us whether we look like Santa Claus or Brad Pitt.”

  He opened the door and shrugged. “I’m off to the library then.”