by Paula Quinn
If Mailie weren’t the one telling him, he might not have believed a man could be so loathsome. He didn’t care why Sinclair had done it all. Lachlan was going to put an end to him.
“I’ll take care of it.” He handed his daughter to Niall and leaped to his saddle. He didn’t wait for anyone to join him. Not all of them did. Tristan and Luke stayed with Mailie and Annabel—after Niall handed her to Mailie and hurried off with the others.
Colin spotted the fallen rider first, despite him lying in the foliage at the edge of the cliffs, hidden from sight, his horse nowhere to be seen.
Lachlan dismounted and strode toward him. Here was the man responsible for the monster, guilty of killing Hannah and taking his child from him, of kidnapping his wife and striking her face.
Sinclair cried out for help when he saw the dragon standing over him. No help came. Lachlan took a moment to note Sinclair’s bloody side. His wife’s handiwork, no doubt.
“Wait!” Sinclair pushed away when Lachlan reached for him. But Lachlan didn’t want to hear his words, his voice, his breath. Mailie had called him a beast, and he was one now. He snatched up Sinclair by the throat and hauled him up in both arms. He didn’t pause to think or care what anyone else thought. He lifted the screaming man high over his shoulder above the jagged cliffs and hurled him over the side.
The screaming soon stopped.
Lachlan turned away and faced six Highlanders and a lad all wearing the same look of astonishment on their faces.
He smacked his hands together, ridding himself of Ranald Sinclair, and walked past them all. When he saw the cut saddle in the grass, he looked at Niall and nodded.
“Thank ye.”
He kept walking toward his horse. He wanted to take his wife and daughter home.
“Come with us, Niall,” Mailie told the lad after he retrieved a horse for her from the stable and helped her saddle it.
“Nae, I canna…This is my home. I have nowhere else to go.”
“This isna yer home. ’Tis only where ye live. Besides, there willna be anyone livin’ in it after General Marlow and Darach bring George and his wife before the queen. Ye’re too young to live alone. We willna hear of it, will we, Lachlan?”
“No, we willna,” Lachlan agreed, and smiled down at Annabel. “Ye’ll come home with us. There will be no more talk to the contrary. Aye?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Call me Lachlan.”
Annabel suddenly lit up. Lachlan’s heart faltered looking at her. He suspected it would for a long time to come. “Papa? Can ye be Niall’s papa too?”
He wasn’t about to refuse his daughter her first request. His castle was turning into…a home.
“I dinna see why not,” he answered, sighing at his indulgence.
Mailie caught his eye and mouthed that she loved him. His pitiful heart flipped. He would hear her tell him later. Alone in their bed, he would tell her what she meant to him. He would show her, worshipping every part of her. He regretted kidnapping her and causing her and her kin any anguish, but he was thankful that he’d met her, whatever the circumstance. She was a bold, braw lass who stood face-to-face with the dragon and tamed him with a sharp tongue and a tender heart.
The dragon wasn’t completely conquered. Lachlan would keep the beast around in case anyone like Sinclair showed up again—and let it roam free when he made love to Mailie. But otherwise, he was more than that now. His fingers could shoot an arrow at its target from a hundred paces or pick heather without losing…well, most of its blossoms. He was a husband, a father, a man brought back to life by the love of his woman…the love of his family. He coughed into his hand and swiped at his eye as if clearing it of a mote of dust. The wind blew his damp hood away from his face.
He didn’t bother to pull it back up. He was finally free.
Chapter Forty-One
Will and Lily rushed out of the castle with Ruth and the puppies close behind. Seeing them again made Mailie’s heart soar. She thought they’d never reach the top of the hill after they rode through the village and spoke to everyone who stopped them before they made their way up.
Here was the life she’d always dreamed of, with children and a perfect husband. A man who stood the test of her kin, even giving her uncle Colin a good fight. A husband who cherished her above himself and who proved it by surrendering to her every whim. In return, she would always do her best to make him happy by surrendering to his.
She dismounted and ran to her children, taking them up in her arms. They’d kept her going, kept her fighting to make it back to them.
A moment after greeting Lily with tender kisses, she noticed the lass’s eyes on Lachlan dismounting with a little girl in his arms.
Lily had confided in her that she didn’t want Annabel to come back. Would she be jealous?
Mailie watched her husband set Annabel’s feet on the ground and then bend his knees and hold his arms out to Will and Lily.
They ran to him, filling his embrace while he kissed their heads and patted the puppies at their feet.
He asked them if they gave Ruth any trouble, and after they shook their heads vigorously, he introduced them to Annabel and Niall.
Lily approached her sister and gave her a good looking-over. Timid Annabel dipped her gaze to her feet.
“Do ye like dolls?”
Annabel raised her gaze to the doll tucked in the crook of Lily’s arm. She nodded.
“This one’s mine, but ye have lots of others,” Lily informed her with a friendly smile. “Want to see them?”
“Aye,” Annabel said.
“Papa”—Lily turned to her father—“may I bring Annabel to her room?”
“Ye may,” he allowed with a smile that pulled at Mailie’s heart. He was happy.
“Come.” Lily took Annabel’s hand, ignoring her scars. “Ye’re goin’ to like yer room. Papa kept all yer things. I hope ye’ll share so we can play.”
“I will share,” Annabel promised, and the two gels smiled at each other and then ran off with Meadow and Fig nipping at their heels.
Ruth stopped them at the doors and bent to her knees to get a better look at Annabel. Mailie smiled when Ruth clasped the gel to her bosom and dabbed her eyes with her cloth.
Will took a bit longer to warm up to Niall, but by the end of the day, they too had become friends.
After supper, Mailie was glad to hear Will helping Niall set up his room abovestairs. She hoped they fell asleep soon. She was exhausted and wanted a little time with Lachlan before she collapsed in bed. First, she needed a bath. She was thankful that Lachlan had prepared one for her in their chamber, the water heating by the hearth.
She went in search of him and their daughters now and found them in the study. He was seated in his chair by the hearth with Lily on one knee and Annabel on the other. Both gels rested their heads on his chest while he opened a book and began to read.
“Once upon a time…”
Mailie listened to him read “The Sleepy Beauty of the Wood” to both of his daughters. His voice faltered often, but they pleased the more for that. The less there was of eloquence, the more there was of love. Perrault certainly was right about that.
Later, after he carried his daughters to their beds, he carried Mailie to his. He didn’t say much, save to tell her how he loved her. He kissed her head, her eyelids, her nose, her mouth. He undressed her slowly, kissing every inch he exposed. He made love to her, carried her over waves of passion, exhilarated by his heart poured out to her in his gaze, his meaningful thrusts.
She ran her fingers down the side of his face, over the scar that had once defined him.
Not anymore.
He’d ridden out into the light for her, for his children, and filled their lives with heather, and dogs, and figs.
He might still have some beast in him, but he was perfect.
Devil-may-care rogue Adam MacGregor doesna desire to be the next clan chief nor endure an arranged marriage―especially to a golden-haired princess
who refuses to obey her lord and master. But this muleheaded Scot is no match for her wild, unrestrained heart…or the call of his destiny.
A preview of Highlander Ever After follows.
Chapter One
Camlochlin Castle
Summer 1714
Sina d’Arenburg ground her jaw, closed her eyes, and said a prayer. She hoped that since she was in a chapel, God would hear her request and grant it, even if she was a bastard. A royal bastard of George of Hanover and the direct heir to the throne, but a bastard nonetheless.
Her strength renewed, she opened her eyes and looked around at the faces of people she didn’t know. People she didn’t want to know. Highlanders, barbaric in appearance. Nothing like the men at court, who dressed appropriately and covered their knees.
She knew she didn’t look much better with her long blond tresses messily plaited over her shoulder, her ears and neck unadorned, and her body covered in a wrinkled gown.
How had she arrived here—moving toward a priest and a savage-looking man she didn’t know, ready to be bound to him in holy matrimony?
“I would like to speak to my father!” she demanded. “He’s to be king. He would not agree to this!”
Where had her father been when the queen’s men had come for her and carted her off to the middle of nowhere to marry Adam MacGregor, son of the chief?
She didn’t care who he was. She wanted to go home.
“This is a mistake,” she called out, hoping, praying someone would listen. “I cannot wed this man. I am already betrothed to Mr. William Stanhope.”
Someone behind her gave her a gentle shove to get her moving along. Her throat closed up. Her heart rang in her chest like an alarm, dire and urgent. Run! her head screamed. Run the other way! Where would she go? She didn’t know where she was. She wiped her tears but they continued.
Why? Why her? Had she offended the queen in some way that she would wed her to a Highlander? They were savage, barbaric people who scared the blazes out of her. Why had she been sent so far away from everything she knew?
She was still mourning her grandmother, Sophia, the queen’s direct Protestant heir, who died less than three weeks ago. Did this have something to do with her father now becoming direct heir? What did the MacGregors have to do with anything regarding the throne? No. It had to be something she’d done. But what? Why was she being punished?
A cough to her left echoed through the small chapel. She stopped and was shoved again, a bit more forcibly this time. She couldn’t move. She refused to move. “I…I refuse to wed this man.”
Her eyes swept to the man to whom she had to promise her life on the whim of a queen.
“’Tis the queen’s order,” a man behind her, the one who’d prodded her onward, whispered.
The queen’s order. Her eyes filled with tears, blurring her vision of the groom. When she reached the small bench, she was supposed to kneel but her knees locked together.
Her betrothed looked up at her, already bending to the priest. At least he wasn’t ugly. In fact, he was most striking in the dancing candlelight. If one could call a savage handsome…even beautiful in a dark, devilish kind of way. Coal-black hair fell to his shoulders and swept away from his high, chiseled cheekbones and strong jaw. He reminded her of some of the Roman statues she’d seen during her visits to Vienna. Carved in ivory, his complexion was flawless, save for the dark shadow of hair dusting the lower half of his face. His eyes were the color of storm-filled skies. He didn’t smile or offer a word of comfort.
A hellhound of black fur and lanky bones sat beside him and bared its white fangs at her.
“No.” Its master’s command was low and deep, resonating through her. He said something else, and the hellhound lifted its haunches and moved to the other side of him.
He commanded devils. She closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from crying. She failed and fell to her knees beside him. She dipped her head and wept.
After a moment, she heard him mutter something angrily. Her heart skipped. Was he ill-tempered? She wiped her eyes and set them on him. He was glaring at an older man standing over her shoulder.
Sina turned to look at him. She knew who the man was—the chief of these people. He was huge and as deadly looking as the rest of them. The one who’d read the letter she’d delivered from Queen Anne. The groom’s father.
She glared at him too. How did a man like him even know the queen? And who was he to give her to his son? She was already promised to Lord Stanhope, son of the Earl of Chesterfield.
The priest began speaking. God help her. The queen had ordered this. Sina had no choice but to obey.
After a long benediction that gave her time to consider how horrible her life was going to be from here on in, here in this wilderness with these mountain men rumored to be so savage they had to be proscribed. Her heart hammered in her chest, her throat. There was nowhere to run. She would never see her friends or family again.
The benediction stopped, and silence descended on the small chapel. The man beside her finally spoke. He looked as miserable as she while he promised to be her husband.
The priest set his stern gaze on her next.
Would her father dissolve this marriage when he became king? What would poor William do when he found out? What could he do when the queen had ordered this? He loved her. Would he defy the queen for her?
She closed her eyes and sobbed out, “Yes, I will.” It was all she could manage.
A few more words and a blessing, and it was over.
Her husband pushed off his knees with an angry growl—or the sound could have come from his hound. Sina couldn’t be sure. He stood to his feet, at least two heads taller than she was. She lifted her head to take in the full sight of him. She crossed herself.
Tightly leashed muscles stretched his léine across his chest. His large hands were balled into fists at his sides. Her gaze traveled upward to his face, dark and angry.
She wouldn’t consummate this marriage. She’d find a way to hold him off until someone came to help. Her father would come…or William…someone. She couldn’t fight now. Her heart was too heavy. But if any of them thought her meek and mild, they would soon discover that they had misjudged.
She pulled a bit of that fortitude up now as she stood and girded it around her.
“I would like to know why this terrible thing has happened to me,” she demanded, tilting her chin up when anger flashed across his silvery-blue gaze.
“It has happened to me as well, wife.” His voice burned across her ears. “I’ll leave it to my faither to explain why.”
Adam MacGregor leaned back in a chair in Camlochlin’s great hall. He ignored the servers scurrying about to complete last-minute details for the celebration. He smiled into his cup though this was the worst day of his life.
He thought of the lass he’d left a few moments ago, her enormous, sparkling blue eyes swollen and red, as was her small, pert nose, from crying. And hell, she could cry! He understood her misery, for he felt it too.
Neither of them had a choice, he thought somberly, hating once again the price of power he didn’t want.
This union between the MacGregors and the House of Hanover meant much for his kin, according to the queen. It would ensure the MacGregors’ loyalty to the throne, without ever needing one of them to stand up and claim it. She and George both agreed that no Highlander should rule, and neither would try to repeal the Act of Settlement. But the condition was that he marry Hanover’s daughter to keep the MacGregors’ connection to the throne alive. And if the future king ever needed men to fight for him, the MacGregors would come to his aid.
’Twas royal blackmail.
Adam had never wanted to be chief. He’d rather be dead than be king, so he’d agreed.
He liked his freedom, with nothing on his mind but trouble. He was a raider of cattle and of hearts, with no interest in taking his father’s place as chief. He never wanted to bear the responsibility of the people he served, and those same
people resenting him. He especially wanted nothing to do with the crown, even distantly. He wanted to do what he pleased, and everyone had seemed to accept it of him. Abigail was being seriously considered to be the next chief. And then this.
He wasn’t ready to be married. And certainly not to someone who began weeping when she stepped into the chapel and didn’t stop until he felt like the worst kind of beast.
He guzzled his ale, then looked up for the server. He saw his wife entering the hall with some of the women of Camlochlin at her sides, trying to soothe her. He rolled his gaze heavenward when she looked at him and made the sign of the cross.
She was gone, and a man with clipped auburn hair and a short beard to match stood in her place. Adam grimaced and cast a concerned glance at the cup.
“I’ll admit that was painful,” Daniel Marlow, his brother-in-law said, straddling a chair beside him. “But she isn’t hideous.”
“She wept the entire time, as if I was some beast and she’d rather God strike her dead than marry me.”
“So come home and prove her wrong,” Daniel challenged, rising from his seat to greet the women.
“Who says she is?” Adam muttered, staying in his seat.
“I do,” his brother-in-law said, taking him by the arm and pulling him to his feet. “Show her the thoughtful, intelligent man behind your roguish smiles. Make her happy. ’Tis your duty now.”
Aye, that’s what he was afraid of. How tiring it must be to constantly try to make someone else happy. He wasn’t looking forward to it.
His gaze fell to his reluctant bride. Her frame, in a gown that matched the sapphire of her eyes, seemed too small to hold such a courageous heart. She’d done her best to refuse—or stall—their marriage. Though it made him feel like hell, he liked her determination not to go down so easily—despite the fear that radiated off her.