The Sweet Surrender of Janet Buchanan

by Paula Quinn

  With a company of thirteen men, including William, he started out for the Menzie holding. Roddie must have headed back to his homestead. Darach hoped so. He was ready to take them all on. Roddie was already dead for taking her and for threatening to take Malcolm’s castle. No one would stop Darach from killing him. If Menzie touched her, hurt her… The thought pushed Darach to pick up his steps until he was running, bounding over fallen branches and rocks, forgetting William and the others behind him. He leaped over a creek and broke through low-hanging branches. One sharp twig cut his cheekbone. He didn’t feel it, too busy concentrating on his other senses to worry about blood trickling down his face.

  He picked up a whiff of smoke about ten minutes into his run. Slowing to a pause, he held his palm up to stop Will and his men.

  “They’re close.”

  “What are we going to do?” Janet’s brother asked, catching up with him.

  “Find their camp, skirt it, take down as many as we can before we’re seen. Since they didna’ make it back to their holding, their number is as I left it. We can finish them quickly, but I want Roddie.”

  “Darach,” Will tried to stop him when he turned to go. “She’s my sister. If he’s touched her—”

  Darach’s eyes darkened and he shook his head. “Roddie’s mine, Will.” He offered no other explanation before he left, stalking low in the foliage, his senses honed to everything around him.

  When he came upon the Menzies’ camp, it took everything he possessed not to storm them, swinging at heads and limbs as he went.

  He looked through the web of branches, his eyes searching for her.

  He didn’t find her right away, but then he spotted a small tent farther back within the trees. She had to be inside, but with who? Was Roddie inside having his way with her? Darach had to get to her with haste.

  Silent as the sunset, he crept along the ground and reached two Menzies sharing a drink and some laughter at the outskirts of the camp. He released Janet’s daggers from where they were tucked in his belt and flipped them both end over end. Catching the hilts in his hands, he drove them into his victims’ backs, yanked them out, and continued on toward the tent.

  He heard the muffled grunts of Will and the others taking down more of the Menzies, but he didn’t stop to take notice. He sliced his way through three more men before the rest in the camp realized they were being attacked… again.

  The Menzies fought back as best they could but they were no match for Darach’s skill and raw determination to get Janet back. Will and his cousins took down six more, with one of their own—Andrew was his name—taking a blade through the thigh. Two more were bearing down on Kevin, who stood between Darach and the tent, but with a swoosh of his claymore, Darach left one bent over and bleeding out on the forest floor. The other went down easily enough with a blade to the throat and a merciless kick to the ground.

  By the time he reached the tent, Darach still hadn’t seen any sign of Roddie. The bastard had to be inside.

  With a stalled breath, Darach pulled open the flap, trying to prepare himself for what he might see. He didn’t note right away that Roddie wasn’t there. All he saw was Janet standing in the corner, her mouth gagged, his plaid tightly wrapped around her, binding her with a length of rope into a cocoon of wool.

  And what looked like a huge purple welt on her bonny face.

  He stopped in his tracks. She’d been struck. His heart went black. He knew how close she’d come to dying and the thought of it nearly drove him mad. War or not, he was going to kill Roddie Menzie for touching her.

  He heard a sound behind him as he rushed toward her, and then the shooting pain of something hard hitting his head.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Janet watched Darach come toward her. Her heart was torn between the joy and relief of seeing him and the terror of knowing two of Roddie’s men were waiting for him in the shadows of the tent. She wanted to cry out. She tried, but with the knotted rope in her mouth it was impossible to form any intelligible words. She jumped up and down in place and motioned with her head for him to turn around. If she had to watch Darach die, she would never recover.

  He must have understood her meaning because he ducked just in time to avoid having his skull smashed open by Donald Menzie’s hilt. Still, the metal struck him and he nearly went down. Janet screamed as the second man, John Menzie, leaped away from the shadows and into the fray. He grabbed Darach’s arm and tried to pull him down, but her Highlander didn’t budge. With his eyes fixed on her, he hauled Donald over his shoulder and smashed him into the ground. While Donald was still gasping, Darach turned to John and thrust his dagger into John’s chest. Donald scrambled to get to his feet but Darach’s merciless claymore stopped him.

  Janet watched it all, terrified, unable to breathe. When Donald and John lay dead at Darach’s feet, he moved toward her again.

  She wept while he freed her mouth of her binds and when he cut her free of the ropes she flung herself into his arms.

  “Ye came fer me.”

  “Of course I did, m’ love.” He held her tight, as if she meant more to him than he would ever admit. He placed tender kisses on her head and spoke softly, asking her how badly she was hurt and if the bastard had touched her in any lewd way. When she reassured him that her captor hadn’t and that she was not as bad as she looked, he traced his fingertips over her bruised face, then looked away as if the sight of her broke his heart. “Where is he?”

  “I do not know,” she told him. “He left about an hour ago. He did not say where he was going.”

  She was about to ask him if he’d stormed the campsite alone and killed all the men outside when her brother plunged inside the tent with her cousin Kevin directly behind him. Will looked at her, wrapped like a mummy in a Highland plaid, encased in Darach Grant’s arms, and took a tentative step forward.

  “Janet… I… Are ye…” He stumbled around his words and she smiled and met him the rest of the way. He took her in his arms, his expression almost as black as Darach’s at the bruise on her face. Then he let his gaze sweep over her covering. “Did Menzie… did he defile ye?”

  She shook her head. Had Darach told him that he’d claimed her? Did Will know that she was now considered Darach’s wife? She didn’t think he had. It was best. Too much for one day. They would tell him later.

  “I just want to go home,” she told them both.

  “There are a lot of dead bodies outside,” her brother told her, then looked at Darach. “Roddie is not among them.”

  Darach nodded, suspecting as much. “I’ll find him.”

  “Nae.” Janet turned to him. “I want ye to return to Ravenglade with us. I need ye there with me.”

  Darach shook his head. He wouldn’t take the chance of leaving Roddie alive and out there, somewhere. “I want his head on the end of m’ sword.”

  “Please, Darach,” she said, “leave him to tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow could be too late.”

  She was angry with him and pulled herself free of him. She stepped around her brother and when she looked at Darach again, he was already looking at her. He appeared worried, but determined. She was afraid for him. One against so many. He’d be killed.

  “Janet,” Will said in front of her. “Go with Kevin to the horses. I wish to have a word with Mr. Grant.”

  “Nae, Will. If ye are going to discuss me, which I suspect ye are, I want to hear what’s being discussed.”

  William scowled at her, but knowing that arguing with her was fruitless, he turned to face Darach directly. “Ye said Roddie took her from ye just before dawn. Can I assume then that ye spent the night with my sister?”

  Darach nodded, not bothering to deny it.

  “Was she properly clothed when ye both fell asleep?”

  “William,” she said, taking a step toward her brother, “this is not the—”

  But he silenced her with his palm held in the air. “Well?” he asked Darach. “Was she?”

  “Nae,
she wasna’ properly clothed,” Darach confessed. He didn’t bother to move out of the way when her brother’s fist sailed into his face. He took a blow to his jaw that clipped his lip and arched his spine backward and produced lights before his eyes. But he didn’t fall, and he didn’t strike William back.

  Janet covered her mouth to stop herself from shouting at her brother. As her guardian, he had every right to beat Darach senseless. But he didn’t. One punch and he seemed satisfied. He said nothing when she hurried to Darach’s side, her anger forgotten, and wiped the blood from the old tear in his lip with her thumb.

  “Ye’ll need stitches again. Come home, and I’ll see to it.”

  He smiled, consenting to her wishes and melting her heart all over her ribs. “Nae singin’ while ye do it this time, wife.”

  They left the tent together, leaving William stuttering after them. “What? Did ye just call her wife or witch? What the hell did he say? Janet?”

  She didn’t answer him. Not when Darach’s glorious mouth needed tending.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Darach paced the hall outside Janet’s chamber while her cousins Margaret and Agnes helped unravel her from his plaid, bathe her, and dress her properly. He should be out hunting Menzie, not waiting in the hall, wasting time. Hell, this is what became of men who fell in love. They gave in. They were conquered with a mere slant of a lass’s lips, a veiled look, the alluring sway of her hips. He should go. He should be out there finding the man who’d tried to take Janet from him.

  He eyed the other man waiting in the hall with him. William Buchanan leaned against the opposite wall, staring at him with eyes as frosty as his sister’s on her worst day.

  “Tell me again,” Janet’s brother demanded quietly, “about this Highland law that makes my sister yer wife without benefit of a priest or any witnesses.”

  Aye, Will was angry that Darach had spent the night alone with his sister. In a forest. With her unclothed.

  Darach sighed and told him again, though he suspected William Buchanan knew of it well enough. “’Twas the only way to keep Roddie from attackin’ ye again.” Darach stared at him. “Ye didna’ want another battle, aye?”

  “So ye wedded and bedded my sister?”

  Darach’s eyes slipped to the door, hoping Janet hadn’t heard. He’d let Buchanan hit him once. He wasn’t going to let him dishonor Janet by speaking about their night together. Not when he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Now that he knew she was safe, he wanted her in his arms, in his bed. Hell, what had become of him? His cousins would mock him, just as he’d mocked them for falling in love.

  “Does she know that ye did this only to avoid a war?”

  Darach let his irritation spark his eyes when he looked at her brother again. “And to save ye from havin’ to kill Menzie yerself… or did ye ferget?”

  “I see,” Will said, equally irritated. “So ye did us a favor.”

  “Aye,” Darach growled, frustrated and tired, not to mention his lip stung like hell. “I did. Someone had to. Ye can thank me fer it later.” He was angry, frustrated, tired. He didn’t mean a word of what he said, and when he looked up and saw Janet standing at her door, looking hurt and angry, he made a move to rush to her.

  “Menzie!” she screamed, motioning behind him.

  Like a slow motion dream, Darach turned to see Roddie Menzie at the end of the hall, a pistol in his hand. The shot rang out, close enough to deafen Darach’s ear as the ball sliced through the air where he’d been standing an instant earlier. Instead of going into him, it went into Janet.

  “Nae!” Darach heard his own voice shout, though he wasn’t certain it was him. Terror struck him like never before in his life. He heard William shouting… or was it him. She was going down. He moved in a blur of speed and caught her. Blood seeped through her gown at the tip of her shoulder. Her shoulder. It was a flesh wound. She would live!

  He turned, blood before his eyes, and saw Roddie trying desperately to load another shot.

  Darach handed Janet over gently to her brother with orders to get her to her bed and send for help, then he stalked forward, defiantly continuing when Roddie aimed the pistol at him. It jammed and didn’t fire. Darach smacked the weapon out of his hand and then tackled his enemy to the floor. He wanted to kill the Menzie chief, but it was too easy this way. He needed to send a message to the rest of them. With three crushing punches to the face, Roddie was knocked out cold. Tomorrow morning, the drawbridge would be lowered and Roddie Menzie would hang in view of what few men he had left. Let the rest of them come back. Let them try to start a feud. Darach was ready. His kin would be ready, too.

  For now though, he had more important things to see to.

  He entered Janet’s chambers and swallowed his heart when he saw her, beautiful and bloody, in her chair, her wound being tended to by her cousins. When she saw him, she tried to leave her chair but Darach held up his palm and went to her instead. He thought of what to say. He was a bard’s son, after all. But pretty, practiced words failed him and he let his heart speak. Kneeling at her feet, he took her hand and kissed it. “I didna’ return the first time because I was afraid of how ye made me feel. But ’twas stayin’ away from ye that hurt the most. I know this because now that I’m with ye again, I feel healed, and made whole. Ferget what ye’ve heard aboot m’ past. ’Twas ye I was searchin’ fer. I was a fool once, and I may be once again, but no’ aboot ye, Janet. Ye mean more to me than any other. I want to spend the rest of m’ days with ye.” He paused and looked toward her brother, who nodded his agreement. “I love ye, lass. I will love ye and only ye fer the rest of m’ days.”

  She looked at him and smiled. “Ye’re only saying this because I was shot. If ye’re sincere ye’ll sing to me later on tonight.”

  He laughed. “Ask me fer m’ heart and it’s in yer hands, heartless wench.”

  She graced him once again with her bonny smile. Och, but if it was songs she wanted, he’d sing to her night and day. Already, he thought of a thousand words to describe her.

  Love. It made bards out of warriors. Hell, his cousins would never let up.

  About the Author

  New York Times bestselling author Paula Quinn lives in New York with her three beautiful children, six overprotective Chihuahuas, and a loud umbrella cockatoo. She loves to read romance and science fiction and has been writing since she was eleven. She loves all things medieval, but it is her love for Scotland that pulls at her heartstrings.

  Learn more at:

  PaulaQuinn.com

  Twitter: @Paula_Quinn

  Facebook.com/FansofPaulaQuinn

  Alexander Kidd vows to recover a treasure buried by his infamous father, Captain Kidd. But the map that leads to the fortune is in the hands of the Clan MacGregor—and specifically a bow-wielding, raven-haired beauty named Caitrina…

  Please turn the page for a preview of

  The Wicked Ways of Alexander Kidd

  Available fall 2014

  EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

  Chapter One

  Captain Alexander Kidd hooked his sapphire-ringed finger into the narrow handle of his jug of rum and brought it to his lips. The woman spread on the table beneath him looked up and moaned while she spread her palms over his sculpted chest. He wiped his mouth and looked at her. The hunger in the slow, salacious smile he lavished on her made her drip around the base of him. He ran his hand up her thigh, withdrew from her hot body, and then drove himself deeper into her, biting down on her pink nipple. Ah, but there was nothing better than warm rum and an even warmer whore. Plundering a ship was a close second, but he’d done that already this morning. He laughed and the wench tightened her legs around his waist. He tipped his jug and drizzled his rum over her breasts and her belly, watching with dark, hungry eyes.

  He wasn’t sure of her name. He didn’t need to know it. He paid her to please him and she did.

  He heard the sound of fighting from beyond the door of the candlelit room. Fighting was good, but now wa
s the time for pleasure. He bent forward and drank from her behind his veil of dark hair.

  He sank into her, deep and slow, then withdrew almost completely. Teasing her with what she wanted, he spread his palm over her belly and pulled cries from her throat with the gyration of his hips. His smooth thrusts arched her back and brought them both to climax.

  Done, he pulled back, fastened his breeches, and took another swig from his jug.

  “Will I see you again?” the wench asked when he stood over her, covering his tattoos of Neptune and Poseidon with his shirt.

  He looked at her and shook his head. The last thing he wanted in his life was a woman. His father taught him to trust no man, but he’d learned firsthand not to trust a woman. He’d never make that mistake again. He never returned to the same wench’s bed twice, providing no hope in forming attachments.

  Pity, this one was a lovely thing with eyes as dark as coal and long raven hair. She was likely a native of the Americas and brought here to New York as a slave to work in this backstreet brothel.

  He plucked an extra coin from a small pouch tied into his sash and tossed it to her, then stepped out of the room and out of her life, and into a brawl that sent his quartermaster flying across the full length of the front room.

  Alex downed what was left in his jug, then smashed the clay vessel over the head of the man who’d done the punching. He watched the culprit go down, then cupped his groin and readjusted. A woman at a table at the other end of the room smiled at him and waved. He returned the salutation but headed to a larger table, preferring, for now, to share drink and laughter with the drunken, rowdy seamen who helped him sail his ship. He tucked in his shirt then slipped into a chair and ordered another jug of rum.

  “Cap’n.” His tanned, one-eyed first mate turned to him. “Tell this scab-pickin’, bottom feeder”—he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing it at another sailor who looked insulted enough to start killing people—“who among us plays the better jig on the pipes?”