But Finlay would put an end to that, finally, if he wasn’t killed himself. And if he did emerge the victor, then what?
His mind filled with images of Kenna Graham. Her head thrown back as she took her pleasure, her mouth tightening with anger at his high-handedness, her bowed head as she wept in loneliness. She was a mate, so the lust was there, but in truth, he simply liked her.
If only his life were something—anything—to offer a woman. If only he’d made himself something more than a murderer.
A noise floated on the air.
Finlay tensed, cocking his head. “This is ridiculous,” a male voice complained in French. “He’s disappeared like a snake into the grass.”
“He will be at Stirling,” another voice responded. Jean.
“You said he would be at his castle.”
There was a loud crack, followed closely by the panicked scream of a horse and a woman’s laugh. “Stop it,” the woman scolded, her voice husky with amusement. “You fight like small children. This trip was supposed to be entertaining, and I am growing bored.”
“Hold your tongue, wench,” Jean growled. He was getting closer. His words echoed off rock. They were riding through the notch.
Finlay raised his head above the bank of the stream. Two horses approached. Jean was on one, a man and woman on the other. The wind shifted for a bare moment, carrying the scent of old smoke with it. Not opium smoke, but the stench of burning houses. Finlay’s heart sank.
“I need a new woman,” the younger man said, causing the woman in his arms to hiss. Her fangs flashed in the moonlight. “Bah,” her companion complained as he pulled too hard at the reins. “You are too eager. I like the scent of fear while I’m fucking.”
She rained a flurry of words down on his head in a language Finlay had never heard, so he shut them out. The man’s words, on the other hand, penetrated Finlay’s brain like a knife. “After you kill the Scotsman”—he chuckled—“can I have the wench?”
If Finlay failed in this, Kenna would suffer at the hands of these creatures.
He tightened his hold on his claymore and counted to ten. They approached the bridge. Closer, closer. The first horse stepped onto the bridge. Jean.
Finlay waited.
When he heard the first horse’s back hooves touch the stone, Finlay rose up with a banshee’s cry and swung his claymore toward the male rider on the second horse. While the woman was still drawing a breath to scream, his blade sliced into flesh and the man’s head tumbled toward the water.
The horse snorted and pawed the ground as if it would rear. Finlay slapped its hindquarters and sent it running, the woman’s scream escaped to trail behind her into the night.
Jean wheeled his horse around with a shout of fury.
“Get down,” Finlay ground out. “Get down and fight.”
“You crazed bastard!” Jean’s horse pranced sideways, eyes rolling. “You’ve been alive only seventy years. Don’t tell me you’ve already gone mad.”
“Get off the horse and face me!” He circled around, trying to trap Jean against the low stone wall of the bridge, but Jean pulled back on the reins, sawing into the horse’s mouth and forcing it backward.
“You took my arm, you Scottish bastard. I can’t imagine what the fuck you are so angry about.”
Finlay heard the blade sing through the air just in time to jump back. “You killed my entire clan, Jean. And now I will kill you.” He swung the claymore over his head, power pushing through him as he aimed for Jean’s thigh.
The vampire slid off the other side, and Finlay pulled back just in time to avoid killing the horse. “Damn it.”
“Your clan,” Jean spat, backing off the bridge toward the far side of the road. “They were humans. Cattle. The only reason we spared you was because you were one of us.”
“You made me into one of you!” he screamed as he moved toward him, matching Jean step for step.
“You begged for it,” Jean sneered.
Rage exploded through him. Aye, he had begged for it. He’d wanted power and women and strength. Finlay raised his claymore with a scream and rushed toward the man he’d waited fifty years to kill. The swords clashed so hard that sparks flew into the night.
Jean’s sword slid down and he spun away, stepping just out of the reach of Finlay’s blade. “Where is the wench?” he sneered.
Finlay swung again, meeting Jean’s blade with another jarring crash.
“I can smell her on you. Fresh. Very fresh. She’s here. Hiding.”
Clang.
Jean danced away again. “After I kill you, I’ll find her, and I’ll fuck her.”
No. He swung with the full force of his body, spinning Jean to the left, forcing him onto the uneven surface of the grass.
Jean laughed. “And then,” he panted, “I’ll take her home with me. Perhaps I’ll even turn her and keep her forever.”
He’d counted on his words turning Finlay’s world red, and it worked. Roaring, he dove toward Jean as the man’s sword swung suddenly up. Finlay twisted just in time. The tip caught him, ripping open his shoulder, but it did not kill him, and it did not slow him down.
He used the force of his spin to turn him back around, and swung his claymore in a wide arc. “May you rot in hell!” he screamed as his blade sunk deep just at the juncture of Jean’s neck. It sliced through his shoulder and rib cage, traveling all the way to his belly before it stuck. Jean’s eyes widened, his body split, and he was dead as he fell to the ground.
Kenna was safe. She was safe. So Finlay hardly even minded the sword that stuck straight from his chest. Still, it was a surprise to look down and see it.
He’d told her not to leave the cave. He’d made her promise. But the shouting had started and there had been more than two voices, and fear for him had overwhelmed her. So she’d sneaked closer. Just to be sure. Just to know he was safe.
And now she could not move.
Finlay stood. He stood alive over the body of his dead enemy. Thank God.
But as she watched, frozen, Finlay looked down. Even in the moonlight she could see the confusion on his face. The stunned question. She followed his gaze…and she screamed.
Her wail chased the confusion from his face and replaced it with fury. “You…” he croaked as his legs buckled and he fell hard to his knees.
“Oh, my God. Finlay.” She ran as fast as she could across the grass and over the road. “Oh, God, no.”
“You weren’t to leave the cave,” he rasped. Blood bubbled from his lips, black in the moonlight.
“Don’t die!” she cried as she went to her knees beside him. “Don’t die.”
“There’s a woman on a horse. Do not trust her. She’s a vampire.” He swayed forward, terrifying her. If he fell on the blade, he would surely die. He would surely die anyway. She grabbed his shoulder to hold him up, as if she could support his weight.
“Did it hit your heart? You said it must hit your heart. Please tell me you won’t die.”
“I canna be sure.” Blood trickled down his chin. “Close enough, perhaps. But you are safe, Kenna. He’s dead and you’re safe.”
“Please.”
His body swayed. “Don’t forget the gold.”
“Damn you,” she hissed, terrified into anger. “You will not die. I won’t allow it. You are the best man I’ve ever known, and I want you, Finlay. Do you understand? I mean to keep you. You canna die.”
His smile was made grotesque by the blood. “You’re a miracle, Kenna Graham.”
“Stop speaking that way. Tell me what to do! Tell me.”
He coughed, and blood sprayed across her arm.
“No, please. Please, Finlay. Don’t deny me this. Stay with me.”
He drew in a deep, bubbling breath.
“I love you. You’re a good man. My good man.” She shook her head and begged. “Tell me what to do. Please.”
His eyes met hers for a long, quiet moment. They were so dark in the night. So beautiful. “Leave…” he whispered. “Leave
the blade in. If I fall, help me to my side. When the blood stops, if I still live…pull it out.”
“Aye,” she sobbed. “Aye.”
His breath rattled. In and out. Kenna waited, her hands braced against his shoulder. Blood dripped from his mouth. He swayed.
“I do…” he started. “I do love you, Kenna. Lay me down now, lass.”
“Oh, God,” she prayed as she guided him down to his side. “Oh, God, please save him. He’s a fine man. Please.”
The blood bubbled faster in this position, forming a black puddle beneath his cheek. Finlay’s eyes drifted shut and stayed that way.
On her knees, she prayed. If he was a demon, God would not save him. But if he lived, Kenna would know that he wasna truly cursed. She would convince him to believe it, too.
The rattling stopped.
“Finlay,” she cried, dropping to her hands to feel his breath. It was there. The bleeding from his chest had stopped. And he breathed. She waited longer, not sure if she should touch him. But the breathing continued.
Her knees went numb. Her voice faded away from praying.
Finally, she grasped the handle of the narrow sword. If it had been a claymore, she couldn’t have budged it. But it was a French sword, and when she pulled, it slid free of his flesh with a sickening squish.
Finlay awoke with a roar, both hands flying to the wound she’d left behind.
“Finlay! Finlay, don’t touch it!”
“Nay,” he coughed. “Press it hard.”
He tumbled to his back and Kenna pounced on him to press against the seeping wound. He grunted in pain, but she didn’t even flinch. “You will live,” she ordered.
He didn’t smile this time. He was too busy grimacing in pain. Kenna took that as a good sign and pressed harder.
“Jesus Christ, woman!”
Kenna smiled. He was going to live.
He was going to live.
Chapter Eight
Finlay stood expressionless, staring at the ruin of the last remains of his life.
Smoke still curled from the black, blank windows of the castle. Embers glowed in the faint glimmer of dawn. The gray stone of the castle had turned black at all the edges.
Kenna’s hand squeezed his. “Do you think Gray and Mrs. McDermott were gone?”
He’d ordered them gone, but Gray was stubborn. He shook his head. “I canna be sure.”
“Let’s look around.”
Nodding, he let Kenna pull him toward the stables, which still stood whole and undamaged. When they were ten yards from the door, Gray stepped out.
“Gray!” he shouted, and her solemn eyes rose to meet his.
“Laird MacLain.”
“You left as I ordered?” He couldn’t keep the doubt from his voice.
Gray shrugged. “I sent Mrs. McDermott and her boy on to the cottage. I hid in the stable loft while the others were here. They didn’t notice.”
“Well, it’s a relief to see you.”
Gray shrugged again and went about her business, taking the reins of the horse and leading it into the stables.
Finlay simply stood and stared, unsure what to do.
“I think you should build a new castle, Finlay.”
He glanced down to the woman at his side. Dark shadows marred the skin beneath her cheeks. “Why?”
“This one was full of ghosts. You need a new home.” Her jaw edged out. Finlay almost smiled.
“I don’t think we should stay here, Kenna. Let us go somewhere else.”
She bit her lip, uncertain for a moment. “We will do what you like. But you are the leader of the clan, and there are MacLains out there still. You can call them home and start again.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” But the idea lodged beneath his breastbone and he knew it could find purchase there.
“Whatever you decide, Finlay,” Kenna said. “But not today. Today we will sleep.”
“Aye. But just to be clear, Kenna, you’re about to bed down with me in a stable.”
“Aye?”
“In a plaid stained with my blood.”
“And?”
“And you still think me a good enough man for you?”
“Ha,” she huffed, her mouth curving up into a grin. Her hands reached for him, brushing his chin before she found his jaw and pulled him down to her. “You’re my man, Finlay MacLain, and you shan’t get rid of me so easily. Hay and blood and burned out castles willna scare me off. I’m yours.”
His heart swelled so large that it pushed against his ribs. “Aye, Kenna, you’re mine. My old life is done. And you’re still mine.”
“Take me to your stables, Laird MacLain.” She laughed.
And so he did.
Dear Readers:
I hope you’ve enjoyed HIGHLAND BEAST. For my next single-title historical romance, I’m returning to visit the Murrays, the Highlands, and the heather. Sir Simon Innes—who appeared in both HIGHLAND WOLF and HIGHLAND SINNER—has been whining for his own story and his own special heroine. And who better for him than a Murray lass? A lass raised to be strong, quick of wit, adventurous, and destined to find trouble if it doesn’t find her first.
Ilsabeth Murray Armstrong is the daughter of Elspeth Murray and Cormac Armstrong from HIGHLAND VOW. Following in the footsteps of her illustrious ancestresses, she stumbles her way into a lot of trouble. She overhears her betrothed speaking with another man of a plot against the king. Before she can get home to speak to her parents she is warned that a man has been murdered, her dagger found in his heart, and that the king’s men were already searching for her.
Knowing that she cannot drag her family into the midst of such treachery and suspicion, she seeks out a man who has already saved two Murrays from the hangman—the dark, sober Sir Simon Innes. Ilsabeth finds him to be a man very much to her liking despite the distrust he reveals as she pleads for his help. She is not one to back down from a challenge and sets her heart and mind on proving her innocence. But can she prove to him that she is the perfect woman for a man who is too much alone, his spirit burdened by the evils he has seen?
Sir Simon Innes is a man dedicated to finding the truth and he is not all that sure that the beautiful Ilsabeth is being completely honest with him. She may have Murray blood but she is also an Armstrong and they do not have a particularly sterling reputation. He finds himself tempted by her big blue eyes and her lively spirit, however, and is drawn deep into the danger and betrayal surrounding her. Passion soon rules them both and he risks his position as a king’s man to try and save her.
Oh, yes, Simon and Ilsabeth have a hard row to plow, enemies to fight, and doubts to conquer. Will she win? Or will treachery defeat all her plans? And what of Simon? Can he give his well-protected heart to a woman he is not sure he can trust?
After the tale of Simon and Ilsabeth I do plan to return to the Wherlockes. There are so many stories about their vast and gifted family that need to be told. I am thinking it is time the cocky, randy, but ohso-charming Sir Argus Wherlocke gets his tale. He is certainly demanding one. Nudging at my mind even as I turn my attention back to the Murrays.
But what sort of woman would deal well with a man who has two illegitimate sons? A man who has bedded far too many women, starting at a very young age? A man who can make anyone tell him their deepest, darkest secrets?
She would have to be a very strong woman. She would also have to have some defense against that strange gift of his. After all, what woman wants a man who knows all her secrets? Where would be the mystery in that? Matching that arrogant rogue will not be easy but I know there is a woman out there ready to take him on. And I think Argus should have to work very hard to deserve her, don’t you?
Here’s hoping you will enjoy a return to the Murrays!
Happy Reading!
Hannah Howell
Secrecy and intrigue ignite dangerous passions in New York Times
bestselling author Hannah Howell’s
seductive new novel….
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bsp; It is whispered throughout London that the members of the Wherlocke family are possessed of certain unexplainable gifts. But Lord Ashton Radmoor is skeptical—until he finds an innocent beauty lying drugged and helpless in the bedroom of a brothel.
The mystery woman is Penelope Wherlocke, and her special gift of sight is leading her deep into a dangerous world of treachery and betrayal. Ashton knows he should forget her, yet he’s drawn deeper into the vortex of her life, determined to keep her safe. But Penelope is no ordinary woman, and she’s never met the man strong enough to contend with her unusual abilities.
Until now…
Please turn the page for
an exciting sneak peek of
Hannah Howell’s
IF HE’S SINFUL,
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London—fall, 1788
There was something about having a knife held to one’s throat that tended to bring a certain clarity to one’s opinion of one’s life, Penelope decided. She stood very still as the burly, somewhat odiferous, man holding her clumsily adjusted his grip. Suddenly, all of her anger and resentment over being treated as no more than a lowly maid by her stepsister seemed petty, the problem insignificant.
Of course, this could be some form of cosmic retribution for all those times she had wished ill upon her stepsister, she thought as the man hefted her up enough so that her feet were off the ground. One of his two companions bound her ankles in a manner quite similar to the way her wrists had been bound. Her captor began to carry her down a dark alley that smelled about as bad as he did. It had been only a few hours ago that she had watched Clarissa leave for a carriage ride with her soon-to-be fiancé, Lord Radmoor. Peering out of the cracked window in her tiny attic room she had, indisputably, cherished the spiteful wish that Clarissa would stumble and fall into the foul muck near the carriage wheels. Penelope did think that being dragged away by a knife-wielding ruffian and his two hulking companions was a rather harsh penalty for such a childish wish borne of jealousy, however. She had, after all, never wished that Clarissa would die, which Penelope very much feared was going to be her fate.
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