Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
epilogue
Praise for the novels of Tess Mallory
“A delightful tale that her fans will cherish.”
—Midwest Book Review
“An enchanting story [with] sharp wit . . . A must-read.”
—The Romance Reader
“It’s fairies, fantasy, love, and lust, all gone awry . . . A great book to pack for a vacation . . . The romance is steamy and the story is intriguing. If you are a Diana Gabaldon fan, be sure to pick [it] up.” —Roundtable Reviews
"Very funny [and] unique . . . Have a rollicking good time with Mallory’s latest.” —Booklist
"A wild time-travel ride . . . A romantic Back to the Future.” —The Best Reviews
“I laughed and cried with the characters, and finished the book with a smile. Then I ran out and looked for more.”
—Paranormal Romance Reviews
“Outrageously funny at times, yet sprinkled with poignant moments . . . Will bring you to laughter and tears.”
—Romantic Times
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
HIGHLAND ROGUE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / May 2008
Copyright © 2008 by Tess Mallory.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-436-21726-2
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is lovingly dedicated to:
My husband, Bill, for his love, his patience, his crazy humor, and for saying every day, “I’m proud of you, Moonbeam.”
My daughter Erin Burns for her extraordinary editing skills, amazing butt-kicking abilities, and for saying, “It’s good, Mama,” when I really need to hear it.
My daughter Heather for giving me the best hair in Texas, for sharing her faith, and for always telling me, “You look beautiful!”
My son, Jordan, for cheering me up with Mystery Science Theater, and taking the dog out even when it’s cold, but most of all for saying, “I love you, Momarr,” with amazing frequency.
And darling Mackenzie for bringing light and joy to my heart every time I see her precious face.
I love you all so very much.
Acknowledgments
This book has been quite a journey. To those of you who traveledalong with me, offering your support and encouragement,you have my heartfelt love and thanks. Those stalwart companions especially include my extended family and the Usual Suspects. I hope you all know how much I love and appreciateeach of you.
Special thanks to:
The Tuesday Afternoon Group, for listening to me babble. I love you all.
Piper Mark MacIntire of Sisters, Oregon, for sharing his knowledge of all things piper and MacIntire, which helped to make this a better book.
Charles Buchanan of Birmingham, Alabama, for sharing his website on the Buchanan House in Scotland and for sending me a picture of the duke’s eighteenth-century domicile.
Jdeancorp.com for producing an awesome website for me! (Thanks, Jason!)
My agent, Roberta, and my editor, Kate—for being so amazing.
prologue
ScottiSh Highlands, 1711
Quinn MacIntyre fixed his gaze upon the distant purple hills and watched as the moon, a round copper disk perched between earth and sky, ruined his plans.
The brisk Highland wind howled like a banshee across the rough mountainside where he waited, his hair dancing in the gale as if some vile enchantment had given the dark strands a life of their own. Ignoring the fanciful thought, Quinn shifted his attention back to the narrow road below and began to plan anew. His horse nickered softly in the stillness, the sound echoing against the Scottish night.
“Easy, Saint,” he said. “Where the bloody hell are they?”
“Aye, where indeed?” Ian MacGregor whispered beside him, astride his own black pony. “Ah, well, ’tis the luck of the draw.”
Quinn smiled at the unconcerned tone of his friend’s voice. Never mind that they were about to risk their lives once again for ill-gotten gain. No matter that the expected carriage filled with aristocrats dripping with jewelry and velvets had not arrived as scheduled. Never mind that if the moon got much higher, they could be recognized in the bright moonlight.
No, Ian was as boneless as a kitten about such things. If it didn’t concern a woman, it was no serious matter. In all the years Quinn had known him, he’d yet to see Ian lose his temper. He wished he could say the same for himself.
“Something isna right,” he murmured. A tiny muscle in Quinn’s jaw began to twitch.
Ian shrugged. “Either they will come or not.”
“’Tis bright enough on a summer’s night already,” Quinn said in irritation, “and once the moon rises completely,we could be recognized. I’ve no desire to see a badly drawn sketch of my face posted on the kirk door, nor to feel the steel of the duke’s iron shackles around my wrists.”
Ian looked over at him with a frown. “This should be a rich
haul tonight. Surely ye willna let a little thing like the moon keep ye from it?”
“’Tis hard to spend riches when ye’re dead,” Quinn said.
Ian laughed and leaned back in his saddle. “Aye, but I’d rather take the risk than plod behind the rump end of a cow the rest of my life.”
Leave it to Ian to put things in perspective. Quinn’s black mood lifted, and he grinned. “Aye,” he said. “Though Rob Roy wouldna agree. He thinks me a villain for ever getting ye involved in this.” His smile faded at the thought.
Ian reached up and pulled the black scarf he wore from his head, releasing a wealth of white blond hair tucked beneath.The two men wore the same black clothing, from boots and breeches to shirts and the gloves on their hands, down to the black cloaks around their shoulders. His friend’s blue eyes gleamed boyishly from the two eyeholes in his black mask. Quinn had not yet donned his own mask, but when he did, the two would look like twins, except for his own green eyes.
“Och, Rob Roy was just angry to have lost two of his best drovers, ye know that,” Ian went on. “He admires what we’re doing.”
“He thinks I’m daft, and ye as well.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “but he still considers ye family.”
Quinn let the tension in his shoulders relax a little. “AlthoughI am not,” he reminded him.
Ian turned to him, his gaze serious for once. “Ye know that isn’t true.”
“I’m no MacGregor, laddie.” He kept his voice casual, even as his grip tightened on the horse’s reins.
Ian frowned at him. “Ye came to Rob after Montrose hanged yer father and brother for reiving his cattle. Ye asked his protection and he granted it. That makes ye a MacGregor.” He paused, one hand stroking the tuft of beard at his chin. “Though whether that’s a good thing or no at present remains to be seen.”
Quinn shook his head and smiled without humor. “I’m a MacIntyre, and proud to be one, though my clan has all but disowned me for my father’s crimes.”
A rumble behind them made Quinn glance over his shoulder. Dark gray storm clouds brewed in the distance. Saint shifted nervously beneath him once more.
“If yon thunderheads will cooperate and arrive with the carriage, darkness will be ours,” Quinn mused. “Then we can still keep to our plan this night.”
As if to give lie to his words, the moon rose above the treetops, leaving the clouds behind. The full force of the light struck Ian’s blond hair and chiseled features, bathing them in stark relief. A year younger than Quinn at twenty-five, Ian was almost foppishly handsome, with a smile that made every lass in the Highlands sigh.
“Cover that hair. The glare fair blinds me.”
Ian tied his hair back with a strip of cloth, and then retied the black scarf over his head, tucking wayward strands of blond hair under the makeshift cap, while Quinn tied his own mask in place.
Quinn had always been the leader of the two, ever since they first met at the MacCrimmons School of Piping as lads. He’d once been fool enough to think that he could be a piper to a clan. That was before he had his illusions shatteredand his dreams ground into pulp. He should never have asked Ian to join him after his father’s death forced him to leave MacCrimmons, but his friend had insisted. As a result, Ian’s own father had disinherited him, and now Quinn lived with that guilt as well.
So far they had played the game well and their wits and skill had kept them from being caught or recognized. But he knew, as in every game, it was always possible to lose. He pushed the thought away. They weren’t going to lose.
“I keep thinking the duke will send his guards one night,” Quinn said.
“Montrose is too cheap,” Ian said. “But t’would seem the guests are as tight-fisted as the duke, for few come with guards.”
“Whist!” Quinn’s fingers tensed against Saint’s mane. The sound of horses and carriage wheels traveling over the rough Highland road echoed in the distance. He glanced up at the sky and grinned. “Luck is with us, lad. Look.”
The storm had picked up speed and moved across the horizon. As the two men watched, the clouds swaddled the moon and shadowed the land.
“Make ready,” Quinn said. The familiar surge of excitementcoursed suddenly through his veins. He might have become more cautious, but he still felt the intense thrill that came with taking a chance.
“Do ye have the pipes?” Ian whispered.
“Aye.” Quinn patted a bag tied to his saddle horn. “Safe from the rain to come.”
“I still think ye should just play a few notes first,” Ian said. “That alone would send those in the carriage to their knees.”
“And who was it burst our first teacher’s eardrum with his ill-played skirl?” Quinn demanded with a grin. “Off with ye now, while the storm is with us.” He kicked Saint into action, and plunged into the darkness below.
Thirty minutes later, the storm and the highwaymen had swept through the glen below, leaving a group of wet aristocrats,drivers, and guards tied and gagged and shoved into the bottom of the carriage. From the top of a nearby hillside,the two drenched highwaymen sat on their mounts, as the haunting strains of a bagpipe danced upon the now still night air.
Quinn let the end of the blowpipe slip from his mouth, feeling strangely somber as he rested the pipes against his saddle horn. For once Ian did not have a joke or a quip, but sat in respectful silence as the last notes echoed down the glen.
“That is your own composition, aye? ’MacIntyre’s Revenge.’ ” Ian smiled respectfully. “’Tis a bonny tune.”
Quinn straightened his shoulders beneath the sodden cloak he wore. “The driver said they got a late start becauseof a broken wheel,” he said thoughtfully. “So Montrosestill doesna care that his guests are being robbed.”
Ian nodded and glanced over at him. “Aye. What are ye thinking?”
Quinn lifted his face to the calming sky and watched the last of the storm clouds drift across the setting moon.
“I am thinking,” he said, “that perhaps it is time we made him care.”
one
Austin, Texas, Present Day
“Do we have to listen to that Scottish garbage again?”
Maggie Graham stuck her tongue out at her best friend, Rachel, and turned up the volume on the ancient CD player, smiling as the first song on the sound track from her favorite movie filled the interior of the VW Bug.
“You know you love it,” Maggie said.
“I don’t love it. I hate it. I hated the movie and I hate the sound track.” Rachel reached up to tighten her white and blue streaked ponytail and scowled as her turquoise glasses slid halfway down her nose. “Plus, if I have to swelter in this heap you call a car, I should at least get to listen to some decent music.” She pushed her glasses back in place and folded her arms across her chest.
The little car’s ever-faltering air conditioner had finally died earlier that week, and the July heat settled around the two women like a heavy blanket. A breeze devoid of coolnessbillowed through the open car windows and a strand of Maggie’s auburn hair escaped from her French braid. She pushed it behind her ear and smiled at her friend.
“It’s my birthday,” she said good-naturedly. “Suck it up. And please tell me how a drama teacher could possibly hate the movie Rob Roy?”
Rachel tapped her chin. “Um, lemme see—accents you can’t understand, Liam Neeson in a dress, Scottish history—did I leave anything out?”
“It was a kilt.”
Rachel reached over to pat Maggie’s hand resting on top of the gearshift knob. “I love you, kid, but you gotta get over this fixation with men who don’t exist.”
Maggie frowned as the sound of “Home from the Hills” swept over her. Her obsession with Scottish history—and Scottish heroes—had long been a source of amusement to her sisters and her best friend.
“Liam Neeson exists.”
Rachel shook her head. “But you aren’t in love with the actors—that would be understandable. You’re in love with the cha
racters. And honey, they’ve all been dead for a thousandyears!”
Maggie shifted into third gear. “Two hundred and seventy-three.”
“What?”
"Rob Roy MacGregor has been dead for about two hundred and seventy-three years.”
Rachel shook her head. “You are hopeless. Is it any wonder that you haven’t had a real boyfriend in the last ten years?”
The light ahead turned red and Maggie slammed on the brakes and then glanced into the rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t about to get rear-ended. As she thought about Rachel’s question, she met her own gaze in the mirror.
It was the same heart-shaped face she met every morningin the mirror, pale, a few freckles scattered across her nose, framed by waving tendrils of bright red hair with golden highlights. Her sky blue eyes tilted at the corners and used to sparkle with life, but now there were shadows beneath them, and they held a sadness she doubted would ever go away completely.
“Been a little busy, Rach,” she muttered, “what with raising Allie and Ellie and keeping food on the table.”
Rachel drummed her short nails on the glove box in front of her. “Maggie, your sisters are both twenty-one years old and you still act like they’re eleven! When are you going to stop using them as an excuse for not getting on with your life?”
Maggie bit back a sharp retort. Rachel was right. The twins were officially independent, and after taking care of them for the last ten years, she could finally have her own life again. She just wasn’t sure she knew what that meant anymore.
Ten years before, Maggie had graduated from college intent on pursuing her dream of becoming an archaeologist.She would travel the world, going from dig to dig, learning what she could, taking classes one semester, goingon digs the next, hopefully gaining graduate credits as she did.
Then everything changed in a heartbeat, or rather, the lack of two. Her parents were killed in a car crash, leaving Maggie to finish raising her eleven-year-old twin sisters. She adored Allie and Ellie and was determined not to let her sisters down.
Highland Rogue Page 1
