Born to Bite Bundle

by Hannah Howell

  He coughed, and blood sprayed across her arm.

  “No, please. Please, Finlay. Don’t deny me this. Stay with me.”

  He drew in a deep, bubbling breath.

  “I love you. You’re a good man. My good man.” She shook her head and begged. “Tell me what to do. Please.”

  His eyes met hers for a long, quiet moment. They were so dark in the night. So beautiful. “Leave…” he whispered. “Leave the blade in. If I fall, help me to my side. When the blood stops, if I still live…pull it out.”

  “Aye,” she sobbed. “Aye.”

  His breath rattled. In and out. Kenna waited, her hands braced against his shoulder. Blood dripped from his mouth. He swayed.

  “I do…” he started. “I do love you, Kenna. Lay me down now, lass.”

  “Oh, God,” she prayed as she guided him down to his side. “Oh, God, please save him. He’s a fine man. Please.”

  The blood bubbled faster in this position, forming a black puddle beneath his cheek. Finlay’s eyes drifted shut and stayed that way.

  On her knees, she prayed. If he was a demon, God would not save him. But if he lived, Kenna would know that he wasna truly cursed. She would convince him to believe it, too.

  The rattling stopped.

  “Finlay,” she cried, dropping to her hands to feel his breath. It was there. The bleeding from his chest had stopped. And he breathed. She waited longer, not sure if she should touch him. But the breathing continued.

  Her knees went numb. Her voice faded away from praying.

  Finally, she grasped the handle of the narrow sword. If it had been a claymore, she couldn’t have budged it. But it was a French sword, and when she pulled, it slid free of his flesh with a sickening squish.

  Finlay awoke with a roar, both hands flying to the wound she’d left behind.

  “Finlay! Finlay, don’t touch it!”

  “Nay,” he coughed. “Press it hard.”

  He tumbled to his back and Kenna pounced on him to press against the seeping wound. He grunted in pain, but she didn’t even flinch. “You will live,” she ordered.

  He didn’t smile this time. He was too busy grimacing in pain. Kenna took that as a good sign and pressed harder.

  “Jesus Christ, woman!”

  Kenna smiled. He was going to live.

  He was going to live.

  Chapter Eight

  Finlay stood expressionless, staring at the ruin of the last remains of his life.

  Smoke still curled from the black, blank windows of the castle. Embers glowed in the faint glimmer of dawn. The gray stone of the castle had turned black at all the edges.

  Kenna’s hand squeezed his. “Do you think Gray and Mrs. McDermott were gone?”

  He’d ordered them gone, but Gray was stubborn. He shook his head. “I canna be sure.”

  “Let’s look around.”

  Nodding, he let Kenna pull him toward the stables, which still stood whole and undamaged. When they were ten yards from the door, Gray stepped out.

  “Gray!” he shouted, and her solemn eyes rose to meet his.

  “Laird MacLain.”

  “You left as I ordered?” He couldn’t keep the doubt from his voice.

  Gray shrugged. “I sent Mrs. McDermott and her boy on to the cottage. I hid in the stable loft while the others were here. They didn’t notice.”

  “Well, it’s a relief to see you.”

  Gray shrugged again and went about her business, taking the reins of the horse and leading it into the stables.

  Finlay simply stood and stared, unsure what to do.

  “I think you should build a new castle, Finlay.”

  He glanced down to the woman at his side. Dark shadows marred the skin beneath her cheeks. “Why?”

  “This one was full of ghosts. You need a new home.” Her jaw edged out. Finlay almost smiled.

  “I don’t think we should stay here, Kenna. Let us go somewhere else.”

  She bit her lip, uncertain for a moment. “We will do what you like. But you are the leader of the clan, and there are MacLains out there still. You can call them home and start again.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know.” But the idea lodged beneath his breastbone and he knew it could find purchase there.

  “Whatever you decide, Finlay,” Kenna said. “But not today. Today we will sleep.”

  “Aye. But just to be clear, Kenna, you’re about to bed down with me in a stable.”

  “Aye?”

  “In a plaid stained with my blood.”

  “And?”

  “And you still think me a good enough man for you?”

  “Ha,” she huffed, her mouth curving up into a grin. Her hands reached for him, brushing his chin before she found his jaw and pulled him down to her. “You’re my man, Finlay MacLain, and you shan’t get rid of me so easily. Hay and blood and burned out castles willna scare me off. I’m yours.”

  His heart swelled so large that it pushed against his ribs. “Aye, Kenna, you’re mine. My old life is done. And you’re still mine.”

  “Take me to your stables, Laird MacLain.” She laughed.

  And so he did.

  Dear Readers:

  I hope you’ve enjoyed HIGHLAND BEAST. For my next single-title historical romance, I’m returning to visit the Murrays, the Highlands, and the heather. Sir Simon Innes—who appeared in both HIGHLAND WOLF and HIGHLAND SINNER—has been whining for his own story and his own special heroine. And who better for him than a Murray lass? A lass raised to be strong, quick of wit, adventurous, and destined to find trouble if it doesn’t find her first.

  Ilsabeth Murray Armstrong is the daughter of Elspeth Murray and Cormac Armstrong from HIGHLAND VOW. Following in the footsteps of her illustrious ancestresses, she stumbles her way into a lot of trouble. She overhears her betrothed speaking with another man of a plot against the king. Before she can get home to speak to her parents she is warned that a man has been murdered, her dagger found in his heart, and that the king’s men were already searching for her.

  Knowing that she cannot drag her family into the midst of such treachery and suspicion, she seeks out a man who has already saved two Murrays from the hangman—the dark, sober Sir Simon Innes. Ilsabeth finds him to be a man very much to her liking despite the distrust he reveals as she pleads for his help. She is not one to back down from a challenge and sets her heart and mind on proving her innocence. But can she prove to him that she is the perfect woman for a man who is too much alone, his spirit burdened by the evils he has seen?

  Sir Simon Innes is a man dedicated to finding the truth and he is not all that sure that the beautiful Ilsabeth is being completely honest with him. She may have Murray blood but she is also an Armstrong and they do not have a particularly sterling reputation. He finds himself tempted by her big blue eyes and her lively spirit, however, and is drawn deep into the danger and betrayal surrounding her. Passion soon rules them both and he risks his position as a king’s man to try and save her.

  Oh, yes, Simon and Ilsabeth have a hard row to plow, enemies to fight, and doubts to conquer. Will she win? Or will treachery defeat all her plans? And what of Simon? Can he give his well-protected heart to a woman he is not sure he can trust?

  After the tale of Simon and Ilsabeth I do plan to return to the Wherlockes. There are so many stories about their vast and gifted family that need to be told. I am thinking it is time the cocky, randy, but ohso-charming Sir Argus Wherlocke gets his tale. He is certainly demanding one. Nudging at my mind even as I turn my attention back to the Murrays.

  But what sort of woman would deal well with a man who has two illegitimate sons? A man who has bedded far too many women, starting at a very young age? A man who can make anyone tell him their deepest, darkest secrets?

  She would have to be a very strong woman. She would also have to have some defense against that strange gift of his. After all, what woman wants a man who knows all her secrets? Where would be the mystery in that? Matching that arrogant rogue w
ill not be easy but I know there is a woman out there ready to take him on. And I think Argus should have to work very hard to deserve her, don’t you?

  Here’s hoping you will enjoy a return to the Murrays!

  Happy Reading!

  Hannah Howell

  Secrecy and intrigue ignite dangerous passions in New York Times

  bestselling author Hannah Howell’s

  seductive new novel….

  It is whispered throughout London that the members of the Wherlocke family are possessed of certain unexplainable gifts. But Lord Ashton Radmoor is skeptical—until he finds an innocent beauty lying drugged and helpless in the bedroom of a brothel.

  The mystery woman is Penelope Wherlocke, and her special gift of sight is leading her deep into a dangerous world of treachery and betrayal. Ashton knows he should forget her, yet he’s drawn deeper into the vortex of her life, determined to keep her safe. But Penelope is no ordinary woman, and she’s never met the man strong enough to contend with her unusual abilities.

  Until now…

  Please turn the page for

  an exciting sneak peek of

  Hannah Howell’s

  IF HE’S SINFUL,

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  London—fall, 1788

  There was something about having a knife held to one’s throat that tended to bring a certain clarity to one’s opinion of one’s life, Penelope decided. She stood very still as the burly, somewhat odiferous, man holding her clumsily adjusted his grip. Suddenly, all of her anger and resentment over being treated as no more than a lowly maid by her stepsister seemed petty, the problem insignificant.

  Of course, this could be some form of cosmic retribution for all those times she had wished ill upon her stepsister, she thought as the man hefted her up enough so that her feet were off the ground. One of his two companions bound her ankles in a manner quite similar to the way her wrists had been bound. Her captor began to carry her down a dark alley that smelled about as bad as he did. It had been only a few hours ago that she had watched Clarissa leave for a carriage ride with her soon-to-be fiancé, Lord Radmoor. Peering out of the cracked window in her tiny attic room she had, indisputably, cherished the spiteful wish that Clarissa would stumble and fall into the foul muck near the carriage wheels. Penelope did think that being dragged away by a knife-wielding ruffian and his two hulking companions was a rather harsh penalty for such a childish wish borne of jealousy, however. She had, after all, never wished that Clarissa would die, which Penelope very much feared was going to be her fate.

  Penelope sighed, ruefully admitting that she was partially at fault for her current predicament. She had stayed too long with her boys. Even little Paul had urged her not to walk home in the dark. It was embarrassing to think that a little boy of five had more common sense than she did.

  A soft cry of pain escaped her, muted by the filthy gag in her mouth, when her captor stumbled and the cold, sharp edge of his knife scored her skin. For a brief moment, the fear she had been fighting to control swelled up inside her so strongly she feared she would be ill. The warmth of her own blood seeping into the neckline of her bodice only added to the fear. It took several moments before she could grasp any shred of calm or courage. The realization that her blood was flowing too slowly for her throat to have been cut helped her push aside her burgeoning panic.

  “Ye sure we ain’t allowed to have us a taste of this, Jud?” asked the largest and most hirsute of her captor’s assistants.

  “Orders is orders,” replied Jud as he steadied his knife against her skin. “A toss with this one will cost ye more’n she be worth.”

  “None of us’d be telling and the wench ain’t going to be able to tell, neither.”

  “I ain’t letting ye risk it. Wench like this’d be fighting ye and that leaves bruises. They’ll tell the tale and that bitch Mrs. Cratchitt will tell. She would think it a right fine thing if we lost our pay for this night’s work.”

  “Aye, that old bawd would be thinking she could gain something from it right enough. Still, it be a sad shame I can’t be having me a taste afore it be sold off to anyone with a coin or two.”

  “Get your coin first and then go buy a little if’n ye want it so bad.”

  “Won’t be so clean and new, will it?”

  “This one won’t be neither if’n that old besom uses her as she uses them others, not by the time ye could afford a toss with her.”

  She was being taken to a brothel, Penelope realized. Yet again she had to struggle fiercely against becoming blinded by her own fears. She was still alive, she told herself repeatedly, and it looked as if she would stay that way for a while. Penelope fought to find her strength in that knowledge. It did no good to think too much on the horrors she might be forced to endure before she could escape or be found. She needed to concentrate on one thing and one thing only—getting free.

  It was not easy, but Penelope forced herself to keep a close eye on the route they traveled. Darkness and all the twists and turns her captors took made it nearly impossible to make note of any and every possible sign to mark the way out of this dangerous warren she was being taken into. She had to force herself to hold fast to the hope that she could even truly escape, and the need to get back to her boys who had no one else to care for them.

  She was carried into the kitchen of a house. Two women and a man were there, but they spared her only the briefest of glances before returning all of their attention to their work. It was not encouraging that they seemed so accustomed to such a sight, so unmoved and uninterested.

  As her captor carried her up a dark, narrow stairway, Penelope became aware of the voices and music coming from below, from the front of the building, which appeared to be as great a warren as the alleys leading to it. When they reached the hallway and started to walk down it, she could hear the murmur of voices coming from behind all the closed doors. Other sounds drifted out from behind those doors but she tried very hard not to think about what might be causing them.

  “There it be, room twenty-two,” muttered Jud. “Open the door, Tom.”

  The large, hirsute man opened the door and Jud carried Penelope into the room. She had just enough time to notice how small the room was before Jud tossed her down onto the bed in the middle of the room. It was a surprisingly clean and comfortable bed. Penelope suspected that, despite its seedy location, she had probably been brought to one of the better bordellos, one that catered to gentlemen of refinement and wealth. She knew, however, that that did not mean she could count on any help.

  “Get that old bawd in here, Tom,” said Jud. “I wants to be done with this night’s work.” The moment Tom left, Jud scowled down at Penelope. “Don’t suspect you’d be aknowing why that high-and-mighty lady be wanting ye outta the way, would ye?”

  Penelope slowly shook her head as a cold suspicion settled in her stomach.

  “Don’t make no sense to me. Can’t be jealousy or the like. Can’t be that she thinks you be taking her man or the like, can it. Ye ain’t got her fine looks, ain’t dressed so fine, neither, and ye ain’t got her fine curves.

  Scrawny, brown mite like ye should be no threat at all to such a fulsome wench. So, why does she want ye gone so bad, eh?”

  Scrawny, brown mite? Penelope thought, deeply insulted even as she shrugged in reply.

  “Why you frettin’ o’er it, Jud?” asked the tall, extremely muscular man by his side.

  Jud shrugged. “Curious, Mac. Just curious, is all. This don’t make no sense to me.”

  “Don’t need to. Money be good. All that matters.”

  “Aye, mayhap. As I said, just curious. Don’t like puzzles.”

  “Didn’t know that.”

  “Well, it be true. Don’t want to be part of something I don’t understand. Could mean trouble.”

  If she was not gagged, Penelope suspected she would be gaping at her captor. He had kidnapped the daughter of a marquis, brought her bound and gagged to a brothel, and was going to leave her to the unten
der care of a madam, a woman he plainly did not trust or like. Exactly what did the idiot think trouble was? If he was caught, he would be tried, convicted, and hanged in a heartbeat. And that would be merciful compared to what her relatives would do to the fool if they found out. How much more trouble could he be in?

  A hoarse gasp escaped her when he removed her gag. “Water,” she whispered, desperate to wash away the foul taste of the rag.

  What the man gave her was a tankard of weak ale, but Penelope decided it was probably for the best. If there was any water in this place it was undoubtedly dangerous to drink. She tried not to breathe too deeply as he held her upright and helped her to take a drink. Penelope drank the ale as quickly as she could, however, for she wanted the man to move away from her. Anyone as foul smelling as he was surely had a vast horde of creatures sharing his filth that she would just as soon not come to visit her.

  When the tankard was empty he let her fall back down onto the bed and said, “Now, don’t ye go thinking of making no noise, screaming for help or the like. No one here will be heeding it.”

  Penelope opened her mouth to give him a tart reply and then frowned. The bed might be clean and comfortable, but it was not new. A familiar chill swept over her. Even as she thought it a very poor time for her gift to display itself, her mind was briefly filled with violent memories that were not her own.

  “Someone died in this bed,” she said, her voice a little unsteady from the effect of those chilling glimpses into the past.

  “What the bleeding hell are ye babbling about?” snapped Jud.

  “Someone died in this bed, and she did not do so peacefully.” Penelope got some small satisfaction from how uneasy her words made her burly captors.

  “You be talking nonsense, woman.”

  “No. I have a gift, you see.”

  “You can see spirits?” asked Mac, glancing nervously around the room.

  “Sometimes. When they wish to reveal themselves to me. This time it was just the memories of what happened here,” she lied.