by Lynsay Sands
Turning, he took a shot off the stainless steel tray, held it needle up and tapped the side to ensure any bubbles in the liquid floated upward before he ejected them out through the needle. It was more out of habit than anything. It wasn't really necessary with these immortals. While air bubbles would stop a mortal heart, it took a hell of a lot more than that to kill an immortal. He knew that for a certainty. He'd made it his business to learn everything he could about these creatures. And he was quite sure he'd discovered almost everything there was to know, except for the one thing he wanted most to learn.
Frowning, Dressler peered at the man on his table and pursed his lips. These immortals were stubborn bastards. Not one had given up how they turned mortals. He knew for certain that it could be done now, he just had no idea how and he needed to know. Quickly. Because while there was a possibility things would go his way and he'd soon have dozens of immortals to question and experiment on, and all the time in the world to do so, there was also the possibility things would not go his way. If that was the case, he was running out of time.
Another moan drew his gaze down to see that his subject's eyes were blinking open and closed, his expression a combination of confusion and pain.
"Relax, my friend," Dr. Dressler said soothingly as he bent to give him the shot he'd prepared. "The game is about to begin."
An Excerpt from Falling for the Highlander
Can't get enough of Lynsay Sands?
Keep reading for a sneak peek
of her upcoming Scottish historical romance
FALLING FOR THE HIGHLANDER
Available February 2017 from Avon Books
One
"They're here!"
Murine glanced up sharply from the message she was writing as her maid entered the room. She waited until Beth closed the bedchamber door before asking, "Did ye find out who they are?"
"Nay." The brunette looked vexed. "None o' the maids or the lasses in the kitchen seem to ken, or if they do they're no' telling me."
"Oh," Murine said with disappointment, then shook her head and returned her gaze to the message she'd been writing. Mouth tightening, she signed her name to the bottom. "It matters not. They're Scots. Surely their trip home will take them past the Buchanans or the Drummonds and they will deliver this for me." Biting her lip, she began to wave the parchment about to dry it and added, "I ha'e a couple coins left I can give them fer their trouble."
"Most like they'll pocket the coins, say they'll deliver it and toss it away as soon as they've left Danvries," Beth said unhappily. "I do no' ken why ye just do no' send one o' yer brother's men with the message."
"I have sent three that way and got no response," Murine reminded her grimly. Mouth flattening with displeasure, she admitted, "I begin to suspect Montrose is not sending them at all."
"But why would he do that?"
"'Tis hard to say with my brother," Murine muttered unhappily. "He's a . . . difficult man."
Beth snorted. "He's a selfish, greedy cur, hell-bent on wagering his life away and yours with it. But I see no reason for him no' to send yer messages to yer friends."
"Neither do I," Murine admitted unhappily. "But if he did send them, then . . ." She bit her lip, unwilling to give voice to her biggest fear. If Montrose had sent her messages, then Saidh, Jo and Edith just weren't bothering to answer.
That thought was a troubling one and made her worry that she had said or done something when last they were together to upset them all. Murine had wracked her brain trying to sort out what that might be, but could think of nothing. She'd then switched to wondering if perhaps her brother wasn't sending them as he assured her he would. She couldn't imagine why, but was actually beginning to hope that was the case. It was certainly preferable to thinking her three best friends had turned their backs on her for some reason.
"It should be dry enough now," she muttered and quickly rolled, then sealed the parchment.
"How are ye going to get it to the Scots without yer brother seeing?" Beth asked worriedly as she stood up.
"I heard Montrose ordering Cook to be sure he has lots of food and drink on hand when the Scots get here," Murine explained as she slid the parchment up her sleeve and checked to be sure that it was concealed and wasn't being crushed. "I shall slip the message to one of the men when Montrose is distracted with eating."
"Yer brother is offering food and drink to someone?" Beth asked dryly. "I never thought to see the like. The bastard's so cheap I'd think he'd choke on the offer."
"I expect he's hoping to fill them with ale or whiskey to make them more amenable to accepting credit rather than demanding payment for the horses he wants," Murine said, satisfied that the parchment would be fine up her sleeve.
"Aye, well, Lord knows he has no' the coin to actually buy them. He's already gambled away all of his own money, and your dower to boot," Beth said bitterly.
"Aye," Murine agreed wearily. It was not a subject she cared to contemplate. She'd been horrified when she'd learned that bit of news. She'd thought her situation dire enough when she'd had a dower but no betrothed, but without dower, it would be impossible to find anyone willing to marry her. It now looked like she would live out her days here at Danvries as an old maid, dependent on her selfish brother, and that was only if he didn't tire of her presence and send her off to the Abbey to become a nun.
Pushing that depressing thought from her mind, she brushed the wrinkles out of her gown, straightened her shoulders and headed for the door. "Come. We will sit by the fire in the great hall until they come in. Then once the food arrives, we will use that as an excuse to join the table and slip my message to one of the men."
"I'd been told your animals were superior and they certainly are that."
Dougall waited patiently as Montrose Danvries ran a hand down the mare's side and then circled the horse, examining every inch of her.
Lord Danvries next moved on to the stallion and gave him the same attention, examining his withers and legs, sides and head just as thoroughly. His expression was a combination of wonder and appreciation when he paused at the beast's head. Rubbing one hand down the stallion's nose, he murmured, "Exactly what I was hoping for."
"If they meet yer expectations, perhaps we should discuss payment," Dougall suggested.
Danvries stiffened, several expressions flickering across his face. Settling on a wide, fake smile, the man turned away toward the keep. "Come. Let us go inside for beverages."
"I told ye," Conran muttered, stepping up beside Dougall. "The bastard has no' the coin. He lost it all in that last wager with his king."
Dougall sighed at his brother's words, recognizing satisfaction amidst the irritation in the younger man's tone. Conran had always liked saying I told ye so.
"Come along, gentlemen," Danvries said without looking back. "There is much to discuss."
Mouth tightening, Dougall glared at the man's retreating back. Danvries should have tossed him a bag of coins, and bid him on his way. The only time the buyer wanted to "discuss" matters was when he didn't have the coin, or wanted to talk down the price. Dougall was not one to be talked down. Despite knowing this was a great waste of time, though, he waved away his brother's further mutterings and trailed the Englishman out of the stables and toward the keep. He didn't need to look around to know that Conran, Geordie and Alick were following. It had been a long journey here and they were all thirsty. The least Danvries could do was see them fed and watered before they took their beasts and headed home to Scotland.
"He'll try to cheat ye," Conran warned, on Dougall's heels. "Bloody English bastards. Most o' them'd sell their mother for a coin."
"Nah," their younger brother, Geordie, put in behind them. "It's their daughters they sell. The old women wouldn't be worth a coin. They're too bitter from years living with the English bastards to be worth anything. The daughters, though, are usually sweet and pretty and have not yet grown bitter. Get 'em away young enough and they're almost as good as a Scottish lass. Almost," h
e repeated, stressing the point.
"Lord Danvries has neither a mother nor a daughter, so I'm sure that's no' a worry," Dougall muttered impatiently.
"He has a sister though," Conran pointed out. When Dougall glanced to him with surprise, he nodded. "An old maid left to whither on the vine thanks to Lord Danvries wagering away her dower."
"He wagered away her dower?" Geordie asked with surprise when Dougall didn't comment.
"Is that even allowed?" Alick added with a frown.
"From what I heard, he was named her guardian in the father's will so had control over it," Conran said with a shrug.
Dougall shook his head and they all fell silent as they trailed Danvries into the great hall and noted the people milling about.
There were soldiers at the table enjoying their noon repast, servants bustling about cleaning, and a lady seated by the fire. Dougall's gaze slid over the woman in passing, and then almost immediately moved back to her. She was young. Not in the first blush of youth, but perhaps twenty or so and still retaining some of its dew. Dougall guessed she must be Danvries's bride. If so, he was a damned lucky man, for she seemed to glow as brightly as the fire in that dim great hall. Her gown was a pale rose color with white trim on a shapely figure, and her hair was a halo of golden tresses that poured over her shoulders and down her back. She was peering down at some needlework she was stitching, but when Danvries called for ale, she glanced over briefly and Dougall's attention turned to her face. Heart-shaped lips, large doe eyes and a straight little nose all worked together in an oval face to make her one of the most striking women he'd ever seen. Danvries was definitely a lucky man.
"Come sit."
Dougall dragged his eyes from the vision by the fire, suddenly aware that he'd stopped walking and the Englishman was now at the great hall table while he was still just inside the door with his brothers at his back. Danvries was eyeing him with a tinge of amusement that suggested he was used to men ogling his wife.
Forcing himself to move again, Dougall led the men to the table and settled on the bench where Danvries indicated, noting that it left him with a clear view of the woman by the fire. Women, he corrected himself, for a dark-haired maid accompanied the blonde, working diligently over her own stitching. But the lady's beauty seemed to cast the maid into shadow; he'd hardly noticed her ere this.
"My sister," Danvries said quietly.
Sister? The word echoed in Dougall's mind, and he felt a sense of relief he didn't really understand. She definitely wasn't the withered old maid Conran had described, but what did it matter to him if she was Danvries's wife or sister? It didn't, he assured himself, and turned determinedly to his host, pausing as he noted that the man was eyeing the woman with something like speculation in his eyes. He frowned over that and then said, "About payment fer the horses . . . ?"
"Ah, yes," Danvries offered a somewhat tight smile and said, "Your horses are, of course, every bit the quality animals I'd been led to expect. Lord Hainsworth did not oversell them when he told me about your abilities at breeding quality mares and stallions."
Dougall nodded, waiting for the but.
"Howbeit," Danvries began and Dougall just restrained himself from rolling his eyes. But, howbeit . . . However the man chose to phrase it, it was a but.
"Howbeit?" Dougall prodded when Danvries hesitated.
"Well, I had the money here ready for you, but a bit of bad luck came my way."
The wager with the king, Dougall thought dryly. That hadn't been bad luck, it had been stupidity. The English king always won at wagers, and had backed La Bete at jousting, a smart move. Danvries betting against La Bete when the warrior had never ever lost . . . well, that was sheer stupidity. It wasn't Dougall's problem, though, except that it meant he'd made this trip for naught.
Sighing, he stood with a nod. "So ye do no' want the horses now."
"Nay, nay, I want them," Danvries said quickly, catching his arm as the men rose to stand as well. When Dougall turned his eyes to the hand on his arm, Danvries immediately released him. "Sorry. Sit, sit. I do want the horses. Of course, I do."
"Ye just can no' pay fer them," Dougall suggested dryly, still standing.
"Nay. I mean, aye. Aye, I can," Danvries corrected himself quickly. "Of course I can."
When Dougall remained standing and merely waited, Danvries muttered a bit irritably, "Do sit down so we can discuss this. I am getting a crick in my neck looking up at you."
Dougall didn't think there was much to discuss. Either he could pay for the horses or he couldn't. However, a young maid had arrived with the ale, so he settled back on the bench. His brothers were quick to drop back in their seats as well. It had been a long dusty ride here. He'd give Danvries until he'd finished his ale, but unless the man could come up with the coin, he was leaving . . . and taking his horses with him.
Nodding his thanks to the young maid, Dougall took a drink of his ale, his eyes wandering back to the blonde by the fire. She and her maid were chattering quietly now and casting glances toward the table.
"I'm sure it will only take me a couple of weeks to get your coin," Danvries announced, drawing his attention again.
The man's words were abrupt and overloud, a sign of anxiety, Dougall thought and wasn't surprised. He nodded slowly. "I can hold them fer ye fer a couple weeks. Ye can come collect them when ye have the coin. But if the month ends and ye have no' arrived, I can no' promise--"
"Nay, nay, nay," Danvries interrupted. "You do not understand. I need them now. I cannot be without a horse. I--"
"What happened to yer horse?" Dougall interrupted.
Danvries dropped his gaze and looked away, a frown curving his lips. It was Conran who leaned close to Dougall and murmured, "Part o' the wager."
Dougall sighed. The man was gambling his life away. Shaking his head, he said, "Ye will no' be without a horse. I saw a good thirty in the stables, and--"
"They belong to my men, not me," Danvries said stiffly, and then added, "I need a horse. A lord without a horse is like a king without a country."
"A sale without payment is no' a sale at all," Dougall countered with little sympathy. It was hard to feel sorry for someone who had willfully and foolishly gambled away his horse and his wealth. Danvries had been one of the wealthiest estates in England under this man's grandfather, and then he had died and Danvries had inherited. Dougall had heard rumors the man was running through his inheritance with poor spending and worse bets, but had paid it little heed. His brother had apparently paid more attention.
"There will be payment. It will just take me a little bit of time to get the coin together," Danvries said pleadingly. "Surely you can extend me credit for a bit of time?"
Dougall eyed the man, and then glanced to his sister. She was staring down at her stitching, but unmoving. He suspected she was listening and briefly considered extending Danvries the credit he requested for her sake. The man wasn't just buying a stallion for himself. Dougall suspected the mare was for the sister. Obviously Danvries had also lost her horse in the wager and it seemed a shame that she would suffer for his bad habits. But in the end, Dougall shook his head. He never extended credit. He insisted on payment ere handing over any horseflesh and didn't like the idea of changing that now. Especially not with a man who had gambled himself so deep that Dougall suspected he wouldn't be able to pull himself back out.
"I do no' extend credit," he said calmly and stood.
"Wait." Danvries grabbed his arm again, desperation on his face. He then glanced wildly around, obviously seeking something to trade or to convince Dougall to give him credit. Dougall's stomach rolled over when the man's eyes landed on his sister and stayed there. Surely he wouldn't--
"My sister."
Dougall's eyes narrowed.
"Leave the horses and take her with you," Danvries said.
"I'm no' in the market fer a wife at the moment," Dougall said dryly.
"I did not say you had to marry her," Danvries countered at once.
Danvries hesitated, his eyes on his sister, and then he turned back, determination on his face. "Or you could keep her in place of payment. Until you think you have got your value for the horses. Of course, you would have to return her eventually."
Dougall's gaze shifted to the women by the fire as a gasp slipped from the blonde. She had been looking over her shoulder toward them with horror, but quickly jerked her face away now. If he'd been tempted by Danvries's offer, and if Dougall was honest with himself, the idea of having this woman in his bed was a tempting one, the woman's reaction was enough to make him forget it. He had never forced a woman into his bed and didn't intend to start now.
He shifted his gaze back to Danvries, dislike rolling through him. The man cared so little for the lass that he'd sell her as a sexual slave in exchange for horses. It made it hard to believe that he was actually buying one of them for her. Now Dougall suspected it was for another woman, his betrothed perhaps, if he had one. All of which mattered little, he thought and said coldly, "Ye shame yer sister, yerself, and me with the offer." Turning to his brothers, he added, "Our business here is done."
He needn't have bothered; Conran, Geordie, and Alick were already getting to their feet.
When the Scots all stood to leave, Murine released a little shudder of relief, and then drew in a deep breath. It was only then she realized that she'd been holding her breath ever since her brother had offered her to the Scot in exchange for horses. Her mind was still reeling from that event. She couldn't believe he'd done it. She and Montrose had not grown up together and, in fact, had spent very little time in each other's company until her father's death had left her in his care, so there was little in the way of affection between them. Still, he was her brother and she was his sister and charge, and the idea that he would offer her out like some lightskirt . . .
Murine swallowed and got stiffly to her feet, eager to escape the great hall and the possibility of having to deal with her brother after his monstrous action. She glanced to Beth to see that the other woman was already on her feet and ready to follow. Relieved, Murine hurried toward the stairs. They'd managed to mount the first few steps when she heard Montrose cry, "Nay. Please wait! If you will not--I can get you the coin."
