The Kilted Heroes series by Janice Maynard
Hot for the Scot
Scot of My Dreams
Not Quite a Scot
Also by Janice Maynard
By Firelight
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
By Firelight
Janice Maynard
LYRICAL SHINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
The Kilted Heroes series by Janice Maynard
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
By Firelight
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Hot Arctic Nights
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
NOT QUITE A SCOT
SCOT OF MY DREAMS
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
LYRICAL SHINE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016 by Kensington Publishing Corp.
By Firelight © 2006 by Janice Maynard
Hot Arctic Nights © 2010 by Janice Maynard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Lyrical Shine and Lyrical Shine logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: October 2016
ISBN: 978-1-6018-3898-8
eISBN-10: 1-60183-898-0
For Anna and Chris:
God bless and keep you as you celebrate
your second anniversary.
May your marriage always be as bright
and beautiful as your Christmas wedding.
By Firelight
One
The Irish setter dozing on the rag rug in front of the hearth lifted her head and whined. Grant looked up from his book. The shrieking of the wind was nothing new. The weather had worsened progressively during the past two hours, and the gusts of blowing snow buffeting the small cabin were increasingly loud. The howling storm wasn’t entirely unprecedented for late December in central Virginia, and on his sky-high mountaintop the inches of white stuff were piling up fast.
But the dog had slept through most of it. Why was she uneasy now? She growled low in her throat, rising and lumbering toward the door. Her age and accompanying arthritis made her slow. The dog sniffed the door.
He stood and followed her. “What is it, girl?” Automatically he checked for the rifle standing to the left of the doorframe, just out of sight of any intruders. He enjoyed his self-imposed isolation, but he wasn’t immune to its dangers.
The dog barked, a sharp, quick sound filled with knowledge denied to the inferior hearing of humans. Grant felt the hair rise on the back of his neck as his pulse picked up. What was out there? A bear? A bobcat? Either was a possibility.
Something hit the door, and the dog went wild, scratching and pawing at the sturdy oak. Grant hesitated for a split second, and then a sound, almost surely human, made the decision for him. He unlocked the door and jerked it open, jumping back in surprise when a bundle of snow-covered cloth tumbled in and literally landed on his feet.
The next few minutes were chaotic. The dog jumped and barked at the lump on the floor while Grant struggled to close the door against the force of the wind. When he finally managed that and quieted the frantic dog, the resulting silence resonated with unanswered questions. He knelt cautiously and put a hand on what he now could see was a person’s shoulder. Gently, he turned him/her over.
He sucked in a shocked breath. His visitor was definitely a woman, but for one heart-stopping second he thought she might be dead. Carefully, he edged the hood back from her face, brushing aside the layers of caked snow and ice. Her hair, once freed, was a reddish-gold, lighter at the back of her head where it was still dry.
Her skin was so white and her lips so blue, she looked like the ice princess he remembered from a childhood fairy tale. He stripped away her sodden gloves and felt for a pulse, sighing shakily when he found one. But it was by no means steady.
He removed her damp outer garments, including her pants that were wet to the knee, then raced to a hall closet and retrieved a heavy wool blanket. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her closer to the fireplace and snagged a couple of sofa cushions to make her a nest. The dog curled up beside their unexpected guest, offering her own warmth as well.
He tugged off the woman’s shoes, grimacing when he saw they were cloth sneakers rather than boots. The socks were wet through, so he tossed them aside and began rubbing his charge’s delicate feet. She was slender all over, including a pair of spectacular legs, which he’d been hard-pressed not to notice as he wrapped her up. Nor did he spend an inordinate amount of time admiring the lacy pink panties that were now safely hidden.
When it seemed as if the blood was finally flowing back into her extremities, he checked her pulse once again and grunted with satisfaction. It felt markedly stronger.
Without warning, her eyes opened.
He released her wrist, feeling strangely guilty. He watched her warily.
One hand gripped the blanket, pulling it toward her chin. Her eyes were amber, an unusual color a few shades lighter than his dog’s soft coat. Her lips moved but no sound emerged.
Grant leaned closer, smiling to reassure her. “You’re okay. I’m Grant Monroe. This is my cabin.”
Her free hand reached out and grabbed his arm, her slender fingers gripping him so tightly her nails left crescent-shaped marks on his skin. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “My bag. Please get my bag.”
He frowned. Surely she didn’t expect him to go out in the storm for a few personal possessions.
She must have seen his instinctive refusal. Her eyes welled with tears. “Please. It’s important.”
He wasn’t immune to such naked entreaty. He tucked her arm beneath the blanket and rose to his feet. “Okay. But don’t move. You need to stay by the fire until you thaw out.” Her eyes drifted shut, and he didn’t know if she heard him or not. Her skin was regaining a bit of color, but she still looked infinitely fragile.
He dressed quickly in his coat and snow boots and wrapped a heavy scarf around his head. He had a high-powered flashlight that should give him enough illumination, despite the gathering gloom of dusk. When he opened the door, a swirl of snow entered the room, and he exited quickly, unwilling to sacrifice any of the cabin’s precious heat. The cold and wind took his breath away.
He brushed flakes from his eyes and stumbled down the steps, shining a beam of light in front of him. Her small footprints were still visible, but just barely. The heavy snow was filling them rapidly. He followed the narrow indentations, stopping now and again to make sure he was on the right track. About thirty yards from the cabin he found what he was looking for.
A large, black backpack lay in the snow, its bulky outline softened by a thin blanket of white. He picked it up by one strap and cursed as he realized how heavy it was. That slip of a female had been carrying this? Impossible.
He trudged back to the house, pausing on the porch to stomp his feet and brush the worst of the snow from his clothing. Inside, the dog barked a greeting but didn’t move from her post. She seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. Grant dumped th
e pack in a chair and knelt beside the dozing woman. When he touched her cheek, her eyes flew open. “Did you find it?”
He motioned across the room. “It’s over there.” The relief in her eyes made him glad he’d done as she asked.
He detoured to the bedroom and rummaged in a drawer for the heaviest socks he could find. When he returned and put them on her feet, she barely moved. He brushed his thumb across her cheekbone. “I’m going to heat up some soup and hot chocolate. Won’t take but a minute.”
* * *
Maddy peeked from beneath her eyelashes and watched as he left the room. Her pulse beat with rapid jerks that had as much to do with her rescuer’s almost-overpowering presence as it did with her recent ordeal. He was a huge man, broad through the chest and shoulders, and tall enough to tower over her even if she was standing.
But the kindness in his deep blue eyes and the gentle touch of his hands erased any qualms she might have felt about her safety.
In hindsight, entering a strange man’s cabin in the middle of nowhere was not the smartest move she’d ever made, but at the time her options had been limited. Even if Grant Monroe had been a card-carrying member of an antigovernment survivalist militia group, she would probably have kissed his feet and thanked him for bringing her in out of the cold. Seeing the light in his window had literally saved her life.
There had been a brief half hour when she faced the very real possibility that she was going to die. The knowledge had been sobering. She hadn’t been scared, not really, but she remembered feeling a searing regret that she was going to exit this earth without ever experiencing the kind of love the poets wrote about.
She snorted, causing the dog to lift her head and whine. “Sorry, girl.” Maddy stroked the canine’s silky ears and blinked back a rush of tears. Love. Hah! Judging by her parents’ recent antics, love was a myth, a pretty illusion invented to dress up the sex drives of men and the emotional needs of women.
Her own brief experiences with male relationships were nothing to write home about. After three abortive tries at the love/sex dance, she had given up on men, and when her own physical needs demanded attention, she found release with a phallic toy and a couple of AA batteries.
Sex was messy, and love . . . if it existed . . . was impossible to control. Who needed the aggravation? Her self-imposed celibacy suited her just fine—at least until she came face-to-face with death and then was rescued by a man who made her rethink the virtues of plastic.
She pulled the blanket more closely around her shoulders and stared into the fire, mesmerized by the pop and crackle of the dancing flames. The heat was so delicious she wanted to purr. She understood now why primitive man worshipped fire. It was life-giving.
Her eyelids were heavy, but she blinked drowsily, determined to stay awake. She surveyed the room with interest, noting the large leather chairs and sofa as well as the brightly colored rag rug partially covering the hardwood floors. Some kind of antler chandelier hung overhead, casting a warm circle of light. A coffee table, littered with books and magazines, occupied the center of the room. The bottom shelf of the table held an assortment of childhood games—Chutes and Ladders, Candy Land, Monopoly. To the left of the fireplace, in the corner, stood a brightly decorated Christmas tree.
Seeing the tree made her heart squeeze with a now-familiar ache. She’d done her best to forget that today was December twenty-second. And she was a bit surprised to find that a single man living alone had gone to the trouble of putting up a tree. Well . . . She assumed he was single. But that might be wishful thinking. As far as she could see, there were no signs of anyone else occupying the cabin.
Which brought her to the picture. Over the mantel hung a large oil painting, probably four feet wide and at least two feet high. The subject was a nude woman, reclining on a patchwork quilt in a field of daisies. Her hair was black, her skin olive. She had a lush, sensual beauty that riveted the viewer. Her breasts were full, and the curve of her hip was nothing like the stick-thin Hollywood version of beauty. The picture was striking, the artist’s vision pure and full of joy.
Maddy wondered who the woman was and if Grant knew her or had simply purchased a beautiful picture.
She got to her feet, swaying as her head swam and the room spun dizzily. She sucked in several deep breaths and concentrated on not throwing up. Her hands and feet tingled painfully. She took a tentative step toward the kitchen, stumbling slightly in the overlarge socks. The blanket made a modest, if cumbersome, skirt.
She paused in the doorway and studied her surroundings. The cabin might be rustic, but it was far from primitive. The appliances were top of the line, brushed aluminum with black trim. The walls were rough wood, the windows covered with simple muslin curtains, edged in hunter green.
A rectangular oak table with bench seats was set with navy and green plaid placemats and plain ivory dishes. A loaf of bread, still steaming, rested in the center of the table. Her stomach clenched with sudden, fierce hunger.
She steadied the blanket with one hand and swept her hair away from her face. “Can I help?”
He looked up, his expression etched with sharp concern. “Sit down,” he barked. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
She didn’t argue. He supported her elbow as she took the few steps toward the bench and slid in awkwardly, hampered by the blanket. Fatigue threatened to overtake her, but hunger won out, barely.
Grant was torn between concern and amusement. She looked like a lost child. He handed her a mug of hot chocolate and watched as she sipped it cautiously. Her hands trembled and dark smudges beneath her eyes emphasized her exhaustion.
He turned back to the stove, making his voice deliberately casual. “My brother-in-law is a police chief in a D.C. precinct. You can call him and he’ll vouch for me. If it would make you feel safer.”
When she remained silent, he kept talking, keeping his voice matter of fact. “You know my name. How about returning the favor? I promise I’m not an ax murderer. My worst sins are leaving the cap off the toothpaste tube and occasionally washing my whites and my darks together.”
Her eyes were large and expressive, and he hadn’t missed the wariness hidden in their depths nor her defensive posture.
She responded to his teasing with a faint smile. Her voice was soft but clear. “I’m Madison. Madison Tierney. Most people call me Maddy.”
He ladled vegetable soup into two bowls and carried them to the table. Before sitting down, he grabbed a beer from the fridge for himself. He settled across from her and smiled. “So . . . Miss Maddy Tierney. Want to tell me why you were wandering alone in the woods in a snowstorm?”
Her cheeks flushed under his steady regard. She took another sip of her chocolate, bending her head and allowing a riot of ginger-red curls to obscure her delicate profile. “No.”
He chuckled, charmed by her obstinate honesty. “Don’t you think I deserve an explanation?” He leaned forward and tucked her hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her neck for a brief second.
She flinched and he removed his hand. He took a spoonful of soup and watched as she did the same. She ate with ladylike manners, but the fact that she was starving couldn’t be missed.
He allowed her to eat in peace for several minutes, while he cut hunks of bread for each of them and buttered them. In no time she had emptied her bowl.
He reached for it. “More?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m fine. It was delicious.”
He carried the dishes to the sink and returned to the table, determined to crack her silence. She cradled the mug of hot chocolate between her palms, her expression pensive.
He sighed. “You might as well tell me. We’re going to be snowed in for several days.”
Her head jerked up, her face shocked. “Several days?”
He frowned. “Did you really not check a weather forecast before you set out? The snow won’t end until morning. The temperature is supposed to drop tonight. We’ll be lucky if the power st
ays on.”
Her mouth drooped. “Well, that’s just peachy.”
He realized that his masculine pride was a bit piqued. He knew at least a handful of women who wouldn’t consider being snowed in with him such a bad thing. Clearly Maddy was not of the same mind.
He ground his teeth together. “Spill it, Maddy. What was so important that you risked your life? You do know you nearly died.”
She glared at him. “Of course I know that. Despite evidence to the contrary, I’m not stupid. I’ll admit I made a few bad choices.”
He snorted. “That’s the understatement of the century.”
She nibbled a piece of bread, her eyes shooting sparks at him. “Why do men have to be so damned judgmental?”
He handed her another piece of bread as she finished off the first. Then he stood and paced. “Why do women have to be so suicidally impulsive?” He wasn’t shouting, but it was close.
They each stopped dead, staring sheepishly at one another. Her lips twitched. “Nothing like a little hidden baggage to spice up a meal.”
He sat down again, groaning and dropping his head in his hands. “Hell, I’m sorry. Can we start over?”
She sighed. “You’re right. You do deserve an explanation. But I don’t know where to start.”
“Anywhere will do. I promise not to be judgmental.”
She grinned. “Don’t be so rash. You haven’t heard my story yet.”
Grant felt a funny little jerk in the vicinity of his heart. Rested, and with a bit of food in her stomach, Maddy Tierney was regaining her spunk. The lively intelligence in her eyes and the gamine charm of her quick, expressive gestures delighted him. She was feminine and soft and yet clearly not a pushover. Her face, unadorned by makeup, radiated health and youth. He guessed her to be in her midtwenties.
By Firelight Page 1
