by Amy Jarecki
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Amy Jarecki
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Cover illustration by Craig White
Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: January 2019
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ISBN: 978-1-5387-2961-8 (mass market), 978-1-5387-2962-5 (ebook)
E3-20181113-DANF
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
“We could wager kisses.”
Dedication
Acknowledgments
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
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Amy Jarecki
Praise for Amy Jarecki
Newsletters
“We could wager kisses.”
Covering her mouth with her fingers, Janet turned scarlet. “Sir, you are brash.”
“We’ve kissed before. I rather enjoyed it, and if I had to guess, you enjoyed kissing me as well.”
“I’ll not lie, but we mustn’t.”
He slid a finger along her forearm. “Whyever not?”
Her breath caught as those brilliant blue eyes met his gaze. He raised her chin with the crook of his finger. “A wee kiss never hurt a soul.” His heart thrummed faster while he slowly savored her beauty, lowering his lips until he plied her mouth with a single peck. “See,” he growled. “That was not so wicked.”
“I beg to differ. I daresay even a simple kiss from you is unquestionably wicked.” Her eyelids fluttered closed as she puckered her lips, clearly wanting more.
But she might be even more tempted if they played the game he planned—one he couldn’t lose.
I would like to dedicate this novel to my friends Barbara and Maria, who have faced the brave fight with cancer and, through it all, continue to be avid readers and reviewers. I love seeing your faces and posts on social media.
I’d also like to dedicate this book to every brave soul out there who must stare down adversity and continue to fight. You are my heroes.
Acknowledgments
To all the amazing people who have helped with this novel, I am truly grateful. To my agent, Elaine Spencer, who stands by me through thick and thin. To my fabulous editor, Leah Hultenschmidt; not only is she tactful, she is brilliant. To the Grand Central Publishing Art Department, especially Craig White and Elizabeth Turner Stokes, for their brilliance in creating smoldering Highlander covers that ooze masculinity and foreboding. To Estelle Hallick for donning her armor and guiding my books through the tempestuous marketing maze, and to Mari Okuda and S. B. Kleinman for their fastidious and diligent copyediting, without which all my typing faux pas would shamefully be on display.
Chapter One
The Highlands, late October 1712
The sign on the alehouse door caught Janet’s eye as Kennan carried her across the muddied street.
Samhain Gathering, 7 o’clock, Inverlochy Hall, Friday, 31st October.
No spurs. Weapons must be checked at the door.
Her stomach fluttered at the thrill. The best part of the fete was the gathering after the livestock auction. There’d be a feast of roast pork, music, and dancing.
A great deal of dancing.
Two drovers brushed past them, nearly knocking Janet’s hat from her head. The enormous red plume adorning it batted her in the eye.
“Watch yourselves, ye maggots,” Kennan growled as the two men pushed inside. Her brother could be overly protective, though he was as lovable as a puppy. Strong, too. He didn’t miss a step, not even when the drovers practically ran them over in their haste for a pint of ale. If Kennan felt any strain from Janet’s weight, he showed no sign of discomfort. But she knew better. The wool of her riding habit alone most likely weighed a stone.
Janet straightened her tricorn bonnet, shifting the feather out of her line of sight while Kennan gently deposited her on the footpath. “Those men must have a terrible thirst,” she said.
He glanced toward the door, busy with people entering and exiting. “Thirst or not, a month of droving is no reason for a man to be careless. What if I’d dropped you in the mud?”
“But you didn’t.”
Kennan took her hand and led her inside. Janet had attended the fete at Inverlochy during Samhain annually as far back as she could remember, but she’d never seen the town this crowded. “Every year there are more people at the harvest.”
He scowled at another brash drover heading for the bar. “And more bloody scoundrels. Stay close to me.”
Any other week, Inverlochy was a quaint and quiet town, but right before Samhain, clans and kin descended from the hills or sailed from the Hebrides to peddle their livestock and goods. It was only fourteen miles from the Clan Cameron seat at Achnacarry, and Janet and her kin visited two or three times a year to purchase supplies. Though not large, the town boasted a haberdasher, a modiste, and a tanner who made saddles as well as shoes.
At the center of town was the alehouse. The only establishment that served meals, it catered to all manner of fellows. A lady must never enter unaccompanied, lest she be mistaken for a harlot. Judging by the way her brother had clamped his fingers around her hand, Janet need not worry about being mistaken for a woman of e
asy virtue, though she wouldn’t mind if Kennan weren’t quite so protective. After all, she did have an ulterior motive for visiting the fete without her father. Da hadn’t before missed the Samhain gathering, though much had changed since he’d taken a new bride.
Needless to say, Janet was relieved to enjoy a wee respite from Achnacarry and her imposing stepmother, awkward as things had become.
“I wonder where all these people will stay,” she said as Kennan pulled her deeper into the crowd.
“Tents, the alehouse, the loft in the stables.” He raised his voice to be heard.
Through the haze of pipe smoke, Janet looked to the rafters, doubting the wax had been cleaned from the chandeliers since her visit six months past. “Aye, Mrs. MacNash couldn’t possibly take in the half of them.”
Kennan grasped Janet’s elbow and led her to an area near the back where respectable-looking patrons gathered. “Fortunately, we have a long-standing booking at the boardinghouse.”
“Thank heavens.” She scanned the faces of the rugged Highlanders dressed in kilts with their plaids pinned at their shoulders. Gazes shifted her way. Interested gazes. Brows arched. A ruddy man winked. Janet’s cheeks burned as she tried not to smile.
With luck, she might meet someone who struck her fancy. Her stepmother had already started mumbling about finding Janet a husband, and in no way did she want that woman meddling in her affairs. By the eel-eyed way the new Lady of Lochiel looked at Janet, dear Stepmother would hog-tie the first poor sop who happened past their lands and force her stepdaughter into a life of misery.
Please, Lord, help me to find someone I like. If there actually was a man out there with whom she could fall in love. At the age of two and twenty, she hadn’t given up hope, but she had grown anxious. And unfortunately, according to Her Ladyship, Janet was unduly particular.
“If it’s not the Camerons!” a familiar voice called from a table in the corner. “Och, I haven’t seen the likes of you since we were wed. Come, share our table.” Dunn MacRae, chieftain of his clan, stood and beckoned them.
Janet’s heart soared. One of her dearest friends, Lady Mairi, daughter of the Earl of Cromartie and Dunn’s lovely wife, waved. Returning the gesture, Janet hastened to follow her brother to the table. The two men shook hands while she slid onto the chair beside her friend. “I’m so happy to see you. I was afraid I would be following Kennan to and fro for the entire sennight.”
“What about John and Alan? Did your younger brothers not come?”
“Nay, they are both away at university.”
“Then I agree, spending all your time with one brother for a sennight would be miserable.” Mairi grasped Janet’s hand, grinning and stretching the splay of freckles across her nose. “I’ve ever so much to do. I would be delighted to have you accompany me.”
“To the haberdasher?”
“Indeed, that will be our most important stop.”
Janet nearly squealed. “We might need a whole day just for that shop.”
“I agree.”
“Oh, this will be fun. Though I must drop the woolens I’ve knitted at the Highland Benevolent Society first.”
“Bless your heart, dearest. ’Tis very kind of you to always be thinking of the unfortunate.”
Dunn flagged a barmaid. “Ale, bread, and pottage all around, if you please.”
The woman, looking haggard, gave him an exasperated nod. “Aye, sir, but it will be some time. We expected half these numbers.”
An icy chill crept over Janet’s skin when the door opened with a whoosh. All eyes shifted to soldiers dressed in scarlet. Not a one smiled as they sauntered inside with muskets slung over their shoulders and daggers at their hips. The laughter transformed into intense silence.
People scuttled away while the officer leading the retinue turned full circle, his heels clomping against the floorboards. “I am Lieutenant Winfred Cummins, in charge of keeping the peace at this uncivilized, pagan gathering.”
Low murmurs of dissent rumbled through the hall. Janet knew him, unfortunately. He oft called into Achnacarry when his regiment rode out on “peacekeeping sorties.”
He stopped and glared directly at her. “All disturbers of the peace will be escorted to Fort William and face the magistrate. There will be no malicious maiming of cattle, no poaching, no begging without a license, and all persons caught with a blackened face after dark will promptly be led to the gallows.”
Janet drew her hand to her chest, leaned toward her friend, and whispered, “I have no idea why he’s looking our way. He should be speaking to the drovers at the bar.”
Mairi opened her fan and held it over her mouth. “He’s looking at you, lass.”
Janet slipped lower in her chair. “Heavens, no. That man is a snake.”
“You know him?” Mairi asked while the soldiers shouldered through the crowd.
“Aye, as does everyone who lives within twenty miles of Fort William. He’s notorious.”
“I do not doubt it.” Her Ladyship snapped her fan shut. “When a dragoon dons a red coat, it seems his mind is instantly addled.”
“You have a way with words, wife,” Dunn said.
Again Janet’s attention was drawn to the opening door. A wee gasp whispered through her lips while butterflies swarmed through her stomach just as they’d done when Robert Grant had ridden his enormous black horse into the stables earlier that day. She clenched her elbows to her sides, making the queasiness stop. The man was too unnerving. Especially today. He was unshorn and unkempt, and his hawkish eyes shifted across the scene as if assessing everything.
Janet brushed a hand over her curls. “That man is simply barbaric.” Barbaric and nerve racking. Every time their gazes met, he made her too self-aware. Curses to his braw looks, Mr. Grant was diabolical. And why was it that the most handsome of men always behaved like complete brutes?
“Aye, Grant looks as though he’s been mustering cattle in the Highlands for months,” Her Ladyship agreed.
Kennan snorted. “That brigand is mad—looks it, as well. As we were arriving, he had the audacity to accuse my kin of thieving his cattle.”
Dunn looked to the bar, where the big Highlander had shouldered in beside the other drovers. “Grant is a mite mistrustful of neighboring clans. He has cause, after all. But he’s a good man.” When Kennan guffawed, MacRae clapped him on the shoulder. “Though he’s wrong about the Camerons.”
“What do you mean, sir?” Janet leaned in. “I do not believe Mr. Grant to be a good man at all.”
“Och, you’ll find a heart of gold under that rugged exterior, lassie.” MacRae winked. “I’ll tell ye true, there’s no man I’d rather have fighting beside me in battle. Robert Grant’s loyalty may be hard to win, but once earned, you will not find a man more steadfast and true.”
Mairi gave Janet a nudge. “I thought you found him a wee bit braw.”
She snatched her fan from her chatelaine and cooled her face. “Pleasing to the eye, mayhap, but I could never be on friendly terms with a Highlander who accuses my father of thievery.”
“Thievery, did I hear?”
Her shoulders tensing, Janet hid her cringe behind the fan as Winfred Cummins moved to their table and blocked the view of Mr. Grant. Honestly, Janet liked nearly everyone, but today the alehouse seemed to be filled with the most churlish gentlemen she knew.
“It seems some of Laird Grant’s cattle were stolen. Some of Clan Cameron’s went missing as well,” Kennan explained.
“Is that so?” Flicking a bit of lint from his doublet, the lieutenant appeared unimpressed and disinterested.
The barmaid pushed in and placed four tankards of ale in front of them. “Your pottage will be along shortly.”
“My thanks.” Dunn reached for a drink and sipped. “So, Lieutenant, what news?”
Cummins shifted his gaze to Janet while she clasped her hands in her lap and stared at her fan, heat spreading up her face. “Things have been quiet,” he said. “Though I’m skeptical they
’ll remain so with so many miscreants in town.” He didn’t bother to look at Mr. MacRae, to whom he was speaking—the lieutenant continued to ogle Janet as if she were on display in a shop window.
“Miscreants? Hardly,” said Mairi.
At last Lieutenant Cummins shifted his attention and arched an eyebrow at Her Ladyship. “Whenever large numbers of Highlanders gather, there’s bound to be trouble.”
Casting her inner revulsion aside, Janet squared her shoulders and inhaled. “I certainly hope not. I came to Inverlochy to enjoy the Samhain celebrations, not rue them.”
“And that’s where you err, miss,” said Lieutenant Cummins. “You Highlanders refuse to cast away outdated and pagan fancies. This gathering ought to be called the harvest fete, or something more civilized.”
“That would be quite dull, indeed,” said Mairi.
“I agree.” Emboldened by Her Ladyship’s support, Janet nodded. “There’s a certain tradition in our Celtic heritage I think should never be lost, no matter who is on the throne or what religion is in vogue.”
The lieutenant shifted his leering eyes to her again. “Do you speak blasphemy?”
“Hardly.” This time, Janet wasn’t about to feign meekness and look at her lap. She narrowed her eyes and stared at him directly. “I speak the opposite. I speak of freedom.”
Kennan pushed his chair back. “Pay no mind to my sister. She is a strong-willed lass, passionate in her convictions.”
A wry grin played on the lieutenant’s lips. Still wearing his tall grenadier hat, he was a man of average height and acceptable appearance with gray eyes and a big mole on his right cheek. He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I should like to observe such passion at the Samhain dance—it would certainly liven up a dreary evening.”
“Aye, Lieutenant Cummins?” Janet continued to hold his stare, refusing to show any sign of the abhorrence roiling inside. “It is my opinion that the dancing at Samhain shall be the most vigorous in the Highlands.”
“I hope you are right.” He straightened before he bowed. “Good day.”
Mairi leaned in. “‘Most vigorous’?” she whispered.
