by Paula Quinn
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 © 2017 by Paula Quinn
Preview from Laird of the Black Isle copyright © 2017 by Paula Quinn
Cover design by Claire Brown
Cover illustration by Alan Ayers
Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBN: 978-1-4555-3533-0 (mass market), 978-1-4555-3531-6 (ebook)
E3-20170778-DA-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
MacGregor/Grant Family Tree
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
Epilogue
A Preview of LAIRD OF THE BLACK ISLE
About The Author
Also by Paula Quinn
Acclaim for Paula Quinn’s Novels Featuring the MacGregor Clan
Fall in Love with Forever Romance
Newsletters
Chapter One
Southern Ayrshire
Summer
Ye’re undressing me with yer eyes, rogue.”
Patrick MacGregor, the new Devil of the Highlands, slanted his mouth into an unrepentant, dimpled grin that made the serving wench’s hands tremble and the jug of ale she carried slosh and spill onto the floor. He reached out to capture her wrist in his fingers. She’d been teasing him all night with her swaying hips and veiled, come-hither glances. He’d rather get himself a room and sleep for the next two days, but he wasn’t one to turn down a willing maiden.
Up for the game, he pulled her into his lap and plucked the jug from her hand without spilling a drop.
“’Tis well beyond that, lass,” he told her dipping his mouth to the jug and then her neck. “Ye’re already bare in m’ arms and I’m aboot to fill m’self with the sweet taste of ye.”
She giggled and groaned and nestled her rump deeper into the nook of his thighs. “I should slap ye fer yer boldness, stranger.”
“If that is how ye like to play the game,” he replied burying his face in the folds of her russet hair at her nape.
Another woman in the pub caught his gaze for an instant, mayhap longer while she moved through the light and shadows of the tavern. A stray lock of hair, black as onyx, fell over a high, pale cheek. Her dark, beautiful eyes captivated him, commanded his attention while they passed over him, moved through him, and then came away, unimpressed. He thought about getting rid of the lass in his lap for the one in the shadows. But she was gone, taking the only spark left in the room with her.
The lass in his lap tugged on his sleeve urging his attention back to her. He obliged, liking the full dip of the wench’s lower lip and the promise of pleasure in her hooded eyes.
But pleasure was fleeting when the chase ended before it began; surrender, rather dull.
“What are we doing still sitting here then?” she asked.
Aye, what were they still doing here? He swigged his ale, wiped his mouth, and called to the tavern owner for a room.
“This isn’t a brothel,” the taverner blustered beneath his bushy brown moustache. “I run a respectable establishment.”
“Good thing.” Patrick rose from his chair with the lass in his arm and gave the taverner a pat on the shoulder with his free hand. “I’m certain this lovely lass would cost more coin than I carry.”
She lifted herself on the tips of her toes and whispered to Patrick that he didn’t have to pay her and to follow her to her room abovestairs.
He did, tossing the taverner a wink as he went.
On the way up the stairs, Patrick set his gaze on the wench’s well-rounded rump and thought of all the things he’d like to do with it. It didn’t startle him when he could think of only two. He’d fought twelve fights today. His muscles still ached with tension. He smiled at her when she turned, catching the direction of his gaze. Mayhap she’d understand if he changed his mind.
When they reached the second landing, she stopped, looped her arm through his, and leaned in close. “I’ve been thinking about how ye taste as well.”
He felt his blood heating his veins. He’d been a fool to reconsider. “Lead the way.”
Inside her room he watched her run to her moldy-feathered bed and slip off her shoes. Hell, he wanted to sleep on something soft. Sleeping on his plaid in the grass stopped being pleasant after three hours with pebbles in his back. He undraped his plaid and pulled his léine over his head, groaning at his sore muscles as he stretched and then tossed the shirt to the floor.
He heard a little sound escape her lips. He looked at her from beneath the inky sweep of his lashes and found her gaze fastened to the thick muscles in his arms, his taut, rippling abdomen. He wondered if he could convince her to rub him down with some oil. He’d been hit a few times in the ribs and the belly, but mostly his arms were tired from his expert defense.
“Don’t ye want to know my name?” she asked, tugging at the laces of her stay.
“Nae,” he said, giving her a slow half smile while he moved toward her, unbuckling his belt. “’Tis less to ferget.”
She pulled the laces loose and her breasts spilled forth like ripe apples from a basket.
Well, that helped fire up his blood a bit. They were free apples and he was hungry. But that was all this was and in truth, he was beginning to lose his appetite. There was
no chase, no seduction, and no challenge. There hadn’t been for a long time.
Until tonight when he’d been struck by the disdainful gaze of a lass trying to remain unseen in the nooks and crannies of the tavern. He’d wanted to chase her.
She smiled and it struck him, as it always had, how most lasses didn’t mind his detachment—until after, which was why he tried not to remain in one place too long.
He pulled one leg out of his leather breeches and then stopped to think about what he was doing here.
He wanted sleep. He’d left Camlochlin with enough coin to last long until he’d arrived at his uncle Cameron Fergusson’s Tarrick Hall. But women and whisky didn’t come cheap and he’d stopped in almost every town for all three while he traveled to Colmonell, using up his supply.
To earn coin to eat, drink, and be merry, he’d fought for the past sennight in competitions using his fists, and in tournaments with swords. He fought better than most, with or without a weapon, well enough to avoid being struck too often in the face or head, and to earn enough tender to eat and sleep in the best inns. Usually he liked to enjoy the delicacy of a lass’s sheath tight around his shaft, her arms and legs coiled around him as if his body possessed the solution to all her cares. But it didn’t. It sure as hell didn’t help him with his. Lately he’d been less inclined to prove it to any of them.
He didn’t really want to be here. All his bravado belowstairs had just been his usual play of getting the gel. He was tired of always being victorious. Hell, even fighting would soon grow dull if he won every match.
“Lass, I—”
She looked him over like a hungry cat and leaped at him. He laughed, catching her in his arms, and bent his head to brush his mouth over hers. If she wanted him this badly…
The tight little groan he pulled from her made his blood rush to his loins like liquid fire. He hauled her into his embrace, parting his lips and molding his hungry mouth to hers to devour her with leisurely demand.
She pushed him down on the bed and he smiled on the way, liking her boldness and her eagerness for him.
But hell, the bed felt good under him.
A knock came at the door. Patrick ignored it and continued kissing her. As he’d suspected, her lips were soft, yielding to his masterful tongue. Aye, he knew how to kiss a lass. He’d been doing it since he was a lad of thirteen summers, practicing the art almost as often as he practiced fighting.
The knock came again, harder than before. Patrick leaped from the bed and yanked his bare leg back into his breeches.
A kick followed, tearing the meager bolt away. The lass screamed at the giant figure of a man blocking the doorway.
“Unhand her before I rip the head from your shoulders.”
Patrick cast the wench a sour glance. The intruder was either her husband or her brother or some other damned guardian she’d failed to mention. He held up his palms to ward the brute off. He didn’t want to fight. He wasn’t sure if his strength would hold up.
“I’m certain we can—”
The brute didn’t care about talking and came at him swinging, giving Patrick no choice but to fight back.
Patrick ducked with ease and struck the first blow, and then the second. He quirked his mouth in a feral smile when he felt the ogre’s nose crack against his knuckles. All right, so he fought even better than he kissed.
Shaking off the pain of his broken nose, the man threw another punch, bringing a slight breeze close to Patrick’s face as he warded off the blow.
Legs planted, Patrick bent to the left and then backward, avoiding two more punches to his jaw.
Coming back at him, Patrick delivered a left to the beast’s guts and a right hooking strike to the jaw, then ended the combination with another fist to the belly.
Pain seemed only to enrage the brute further.
Surprised that his blows had done so little damage, Patrick blinked and took a fist to the jaw that snapped his head back and loosened a tooth.
As he rolled the tip of his tongue over his teeth, his eyes widened and turned a darker shade of green. This wouldn’t do. A broken, slightly crooked nose was one thing. A missing tooth and no profit for it was foolish.
“Let’s talk aboot this.” He held his hands up again, but his opponent showed no mercy and rammed his fist into Patrick’s side.
Hell, he thought as he hunched over trying to catch his breath, the blow might have been a little low.
“Hamish, enough!” the lass cried out.
Paying her no heed, Hamish yanked him up by the collarbone, hauled him out of the room, and then over the balcony. Patrick’s back shattered the table below. He almost blacked out, but tempting as it was, he fought to hold on.
Amidst the startled screams from some of the women present, he groaned and then tested the movement of his arms. The pain was bearable, and good thing because Hamish was barreling down the stairs and coming at him again.
Pushing the splintered wood aside, Patrick rose and faced the resilient bastard once more. He had a dagger in his boot, but why kill a man when it was unnecessary? His father’s voice echoed within him. Hamish was big and dangerous, but Patrick wouldn’t give him the chance to cause him harm. He wouldn’t kill Hamish, but he was going to have to put him out quickly.
The instant the giant reached him, Patrick landed his left fist into his face, followed by his right. He swung his fist upward, lifting Hamish’s feet a little off the ground with a tooth-crunching uppercut. Another man would have succumbed to Patrick’s onslaught, but not this one.
He answered Patrick with a punch to the jaw that made Patrick shake his head to stay upright. Hell, he was tired from fighting all day. He just wanted a damned bed!
From the corner of his eye he saw his bedroom wench hurrying toward them with a wooden jug clutched against her haphazardly laced stays. Patrick sighed with relief. It was just what he needed. He swiped it from her hands as she reached him and, ignoring her cry of surprise, swung the jug across Hamish’s temple.
The ungainly oaf hit the floor with a crash that shook the walls. The lass hurried to him while Patrick watched. He knew the jug had been meant for his head. Thankfully, his reflexes were quick. He didn’t ask her who the man was or why he’d kicked the door in to get to her. Patrick didn’t care. But why had she taken him to her bed when she knew there was a giant brute prowling about, waiting to protect her from rogues like him? He’d almost had a tooth knocked out. And for what? A bit of pleasure and a warm bed? He had neither. Women were trouble.
He stepped around the wench and her fallen hero and looked around at the faces in the tavern. Each wore the same expression of stunned disbelief. He parted the silent crowd with a step toward the taverner, tossed him a few coins to pay for the table, and then left, cursing his sore muscles. There would be no bed for him here tonight.
Charlotte Cunningham, along with the other patrons at Blind Jack’s, had heard Beth’s door ripping from its hinges when Hamish had reached it. Everyone knew Hamish loved Bethany. Well, she allowed, the stranger hadn’t known. No one had moved while listening to the two men fighting abovestairs. She, along with poor Ennis the taverner, watched the stranger sail out of Bethany’s room and destroy the table beneath him.
Charlotte thought he was dead, and was surprised when he wasn’t. What stunned her more though was when he stood up and readied himself for another onslaught from his larger opponent. His plaid and the léine he’d worn under it had been discarded, likely to the floor inside Bethany’s room. His long, bare torso rippled with coiled muscle. His broad chest was well-defined by a dusting of hair a few shades darker than his auburn crown. She liked his courage and marveled at his skill when he landed a series of brutal blows to Hamish’s face. She wondered who he was. Word usually spread quickly when a stranger arrived in any of the neighboring villages.
She wasn’t able to wait around to find out. She’d been there too long already. If one of her brothers or her father woke and found her gone, they’d make her life hell
for the next month.
She left the pub before the victor was crowned. It wouldn’t take long to reach home if she pushed her horse.
As she raced toward Pinwherry she cursed herself for lingering about earlier, watching the rogue at work. She’d noticed him when she’d first arrived at Blind Jack’s. It was difficult not to notice a fallen star illuminating the dark tavern. Utterly at ease with his surroundings, he’d laughed with some of the other customers and flashed a roguish dimple at the serving girls. His hands were quick when he caught Bethany in one and her jug in the other.
Charlie would admit, she thought as she thundered toward home, that the stranger was without doubt the most wickedly alluring man to ever cross her path. He’d drawn her from her table where she’d sat with a patron who’d just given her a well-received bit of information.
She’d followed the sound of the stranger’s laughter. She watched him from the shadows while he pulled Bethany into his lap. She suspected he was the worst kind of rogue, the kind she’d been warned about, but she’d moved closer while he bent his mouth to Bethany’s throat. She hadn’t expected him to look up and find her in the shadows. His eyes smoldered, a fire contained with measured control. His full, intoxicating lips slanted with arrogance and victory when she pretended disinterest.
He was a knave and a very dangerous one. She couldn’t help but wonder how he had managed to beat a furious man who was twice his size.
She didn’t care. Thankfully, she’d never see him again after tonight. She’d stop thinking of him now.
The next day Patrick traveled south toward the village of Pinwherry on his way to Colmonell. The journey alone gave him time to consider the things that had recently begun to prick at him. For instance, when had wenches begun to lose their luster and his interest? Why, despite the hard earth beneath him, had he been relieved to sleep alone last night? Was he ill? What had changed? Normally he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Change was good. It helped one grow. But not this time.
His lack of interest in marriage was something he’d often had to explain to his kin. Patrick knew what was expected of him. But he liked his life the way it was, with no one to answer to, no one to be responsible for but himself. He didn’t want it to change.
