Extrait
Chapter One
Loch Chon, near Aberfoyle,
the Central Highlands of Scotland
1816
A thick mist swirled around the sheepskin ghillie brogues that covered his feet, making it impossible to see where he was stepping. But stealth was imperative -- he could see the French camp through the trees directly ahead and wondered how they had managed to track him all the way to Scotland. Obviously, they were still searching for him, still intent on killing him, just as they had been on the Continent.
Liam crouched down behind a tree, observing them. They had stopped for the night, lying about a small fire, one of them roasting some small animal, blessedly unaware of the danger that lurked just beyond the tree line. God, but he wished he could see his men! His Scottish compatriots were just on the other side of the French camp, waiting for him. Liam stood, tried to move again, but the thick mist prevented it, and in fact, his legs felt as if weights had been tied to them, as if he were dragging them through water.
Suddenly, to his right, a flash of color -- a French soldier! Liam quickly reached for the dirk at his waist, but it was gone, dropped from the belt of his kilt. The soldier, returning from the call of nature, was startled to see him and fumbled for his pistol. His dagger, where was his dagger? There was no time to think -- Liam instantly dropped to his haunches, and in one swift movement pulled the ebony-handled sgian dubh from its sheath at the top of his stocking and lunged before the Frenchman could cry out.
They fell to the ground, Liam landing on top and knocking the air from the man's lungs as his pistol went flying into the mist. Silently and quickly, as if the man were a beast, Liam slit his throat as he had been trained to do, rolled off him and onto his feet, crouched down with his hands held before him, waiting for the next Frenchman.
What was that? A soft whistle -- the bastard Frog somehow had alerted the rest of them! Jesus God, where were his men? His breath coming in heavy grunts now, Liam took one step forward, felt something whisk across his ear, and unthinkingly swiped at it. Another step, and a movement to his left caught his eye. He jerked around, could not help but gasp at the sight of the two-headed troll that faced him, the same one that -- Could it be? -- had haunted his dreams when he was a wee lad.
He had no time to think; the troll started for him, swaying side to side to maintain its lumbering girth. Something was pushing at Liam's back, pushing him off balance, but he ignored it, focused only on the troll coming toward him, his hands outstretched, as if he meant to snatch him. His heart pounding, Liam gripped the bloodied sgian dubh and readied himself. Just as he was about to throw himself forward and tackle the troll, he felt a sharp jab to his bum, almost as if someone had wedged a boot --
Liam's eyes flew open; he saw his brother Griffin standing over him, a feather in his hand, and remembered, groggily, that the war with France was over.
"Ye were dreaming again, laddie," Griffin said matter-of-factly, and added with a lopsided smile, "I hope she was a bonny thing."
"Ugh," Liam groaned, and rolled over in his bed to bury his face in a pillow. "Why must ye bother me so, Grif? Can ye no' leave a man to sleep?"
"The sun is already shining on the loch, Liam. Yer mother asks after ye, and Payton Douglas has come -- did ye no' promise him a lesson in swordplay?"
Damn if he hadn't. "Aye," he said, yawning, "that I did." He reluctantly pulled the pillow from his face and blinked against the sunlight pouring into the room. He was drenched in sweat again, the result of another nocturnal battle with the French. He'd be glad when his regiment deployed and he could put his dreams behind him.
"Father is due back from Aberfoyle today," Griffin said, crossing over to the bureau against the wall to examine Liam's things there, "and Mother requests your presence at the supper table." He spared Liam a glance. "She's no' happy with yer prowling about in the wee hours of the morning."
Liam simply ignored that -- his family did not understand his need to keep his skills finely tuned, something that could only be accomplished by practicing various maneuvers at night as well as day. He pushed himself to his elbows, watched as Griffin picked up the hand-tooled leather ornamental sporran he had purchased from a leathersmith near Loch Ard. "I'll thank ye to put it down," he said as his brother peered inside.
With a chuckle, his brother obliged him by tossing the leather pouch back atop the bureau. He moved on to the length of plaid that Liam had draped across a chair, rubbed a corner of the fabric between his fingers, felt the weight of it. Griffin -- who had never been given to the old ways -- wore black pantaloons, a coat of dark brown superfine, and a pale gold waistcoat, striped in lovely shades of blue that reminded Liam of a flock of peacocks -- particularly the fat overfed ones that roamed the gardens in and around the family estate, Talla Dileas.
"'Twas hand woven by the old widow MacDuff," Liam informed him.
"Ah, of course it was, for who but the old lady MacDuff still makes them?" Griffin asked, and dropping the corner of plaid, turned his attention to Liam. He folded his arms across his chest, crossed one leg over the other, and glanced at his brother's naked chest. "Tell me, did ye learn to sleep bare-arsed in the army?"
"No," Liam said, pushing his legs over the side of the bed, "I learned to sleep bare-arsed in the ladies' boudoirs."
Griffin laughed, his grin as wide and as inviting as their sister Mared's. With a yawn, Liam studied his younger brother. He was built like Liam -- tall, muscular, dark brown hair, and eyes as green as heather -- but he wasn't quite as big as Liam, having more of the slender, aristocratic frame than the warrior physique for which Liam prided himself. And he was, admittedly, a very handsome man, whereas Liam was...well, plain.
Still laughing, Griffin moved toward the old plank wood door. "I'll tell Douglas ye'll join him yet," he said. "And I'll tell yer lady mother that ye have indeed promised to attend supper." He stooped and ducked out of the cavernous tower chamber where the lairds of Lockhart had slept for decades until one had come along and added an entire manor to it.
Liam stood up, let the sheet slip from his naked body, stretched his arms high above his head, then moved to the narrow slit of a window that overlooked the old bailey.
That was Payton Douglas he saw below, parrying his own shadow. Liam rolled his eyes -- there wasn't a Scot around Loch Chon who didn't think he could be a soldier. But it took more than a wish. It took strength and cunning and courage. He would know, naturally -- he had worked his way up through the ranks of the Highland Regiments over the last ten years, had achieved the vaulted status of captain, and had earned not one, but four medals of honor for heroic feats in the Peninsular Wars and at Waterloo. Yes, he knew a thing or two about soldiering, and in his estimation there weren't many men who had the character for it.
This was precisely what he intended to demonstrate to Payton Douglas.
It was no secret around Loch Chon that there was no love lost between the Douglases and the Lockharts; it was a distrust that went back centuries. Just what, exactly, had happened between them, Liam didn't know. He only knew that Payton was a Douglas. Nonetheless, he couldn't help but admire him -- he was a capable man, prosperous in hard times...but not so admirable that Liam would give him as much as an inch.
Aye, he'd just have a look at what Douglas had beneath that fancy coat he wore. With a low chuckle of glee, Liam turned from the window, walked to where the plaid was draped, and proceeded to dress.
As he waited for Liam (what full-grown man could sleep so late in the bloody day?), Payton amused himself by fencing with his shadow on the old bailey wall. He hadn't a clue how to go about it, as he had never had the luxury of fencing lessons. But he had seen a few duels and was rather convinced it really wasn't so difficult. He thrust forward, withdrew, and thrust again, moving his way down the massive stone wall. But he quickly was bored with that and amused himself further by imagining Lockharts were attacking him from all angles. He spun around, jabbed his sword in the air, then spun around again, prepared to lunge, but with a small exclamation of surprise, he stumbled backward, knocking up against the wall and dropping his old dull sword.
"Christ Jesus, Mared, ye could startle a man clear out of his wits!" he exclaimed hotly as he tried to catch his breath.
Having appeared from nowhere, Liam's younger sister shrugged insouciantly, flipped the long tail of her braid over her shoulder, and adjusted the heavy basket she held at her hip. "Ye should look where ye point that thing."
Oh, how very helpful. Hands on hips, Payton glared down at Mared. Fat lot of good it did -- she hardly seemed to notice. This one had to be the most exasperating of all the bloody Lockharts, which was in and of itself a rather remarkable accomplishment, since they were the most exasperating group of human beings he had ever known.
Mared's dark green gaze flicked to where his sword lay on the ground. "One canna help but wince when a man is foiled by a stone wall, can one?" she drawled.
Oh, aye, she was exasperating, maddeningly so, and Payton wished to high heaven she weren't so bloody beautiful. But in that gown of emerald that matched the deep color of her eyes, she was, in a word, bewitching. The emphasis, of course, being on witch. He leaned over, snatched up his sword, and proceeded to knock the dirt from the handle. "Ye've a tongue as sharp as a serpent, Mared," he said, looking up from the sword's handle, "but damn me if ye donna look as bonny as a clear summer day."
With a snort, Mared rolled her eyes. "There's no point to yer flattery, Douglas."
"Should beauty no' be admired, then?"
Mared's eyes narrowed; she reached into the large basket she held, withdrew a bramble berry, and popped it into her mouth. "Ye must take me for a featherbrain," she said, nonchalantly chewing the berry. "Ye donna admire beauty, ye admire land, that's all." She helped herself to another berry. "And ye ask after the Lockhart lands as if they were barren."
Ah-ha! So she had heard of his inquiries as to the acreage dedicated to cattle on Lockhart land, inquiries that had been made discreetly in Aberfoyle. How she had discovered it, he could only guess, but he'd wager a month's income that it had something to do with those green eyes of hers. "Ach, yer a naïve lass," he said, with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Ye confuse a man's appreciation with yer foolish pride."
"Foolish pride?" She grunted her opinion of that sentiment and ate another berry. "And ye confuse ambition with centuries of history, Douglas."
Now it was Payton's turn to snort disdainfully, and he pointed the tip of his sword to the ground where her scuffed black leather boots peeked out beneath her gown. "Foolish and stubborn, that is what ye are, Mared Lockhart. Will ye deny, then, that the Douglas and Lockhart lands, if they were one, would prosper more than when they are apart?"
"Diah, ye must have lost yer mind! Why would a Lockhart ever join with a Douglas?"
"So that he...or she, as the unlikely case may be...might double the estate profits by giving wider range to the sheep. That's why."
Mared stilled. Blinked. "I think ye have lost yer bloody mind!" she exclaimed, and suddenly burst out laughing. "Honestly, Douglas, do ye truly think we'd trade our coos for sheep?"
Payton glowered at her. Beauty or not, she was as thick-skulled as every Lockhart he had ever known. "Ach, ye're a foolish lot, ye Lockharts! Ye willna face the truth, willna admit ye are drowning in debt and that yer cattle willna bring what ye need to survive! Sheep, Mared! They need less land and can traverse the terrain, whereas yer bloody coos devour what grass there is by midsummer. And everyone around Loch Chon knows that without the rents from yer tenants, ye canna keep yer head above water."
Mared's eyes sparked with fury. She abruptly adjusted the basket she was holding and wagged a slender finger at him. "Ye willna speak to me thus, Douglas! And ye will never put yer dirty hands on Lockhart land!"
"Mared, leannan, let the poor bastard be!"
Mared and Payton both turned as Liam strode purposefully into the old bailey, his plaid swinging around his knees, a thick leather belt holding the pristine white shirt he had tucked into the folds. Payton could not help but smile -- Liam Lockhart held fast and strong to tradition and honor, and wore his Scottish pride like a bloody badge. He truly admired his loyalty. And he envied Liam's life thus far -- on more than one occasion Payton wished he had gone off to experience life as Liam had done instead of attending the college as his father had insisted.
Liam stopped several yards in front of Payton and Mared, braced himself on his sturdy legs, and withdrew his sword from its scabbard. He held it as if it weighed nothing, point down, and silently perused Payton. After a moment, he gave a sly smile to Mared. "Best remove yerself from harm, lass," he said casually. "Douglas here would like a wee lesson in swordplay. Am I right, Douglas?"
"If ye'd be of a mind," Payton answered amicably.
"Ach," Mared muttered, "what foolishness." But she did as Liam suggested, walking to a crumbling old bench along the stone wall. To Payton's dismay, she put her basket aside and sat herself down, as if she intended to watch the lesson.
"So ye desire a lesson," Liam said again, slowly lifting the tip of his sword and drawing Payton's attention away from Mared.
"Aye," he nodded. "I've heard there's none better with a saber than Liam of Lockhart."
Liam snorted, lifted his sword. " 'Tis true -- I am the best. No man proved better." He took a step, then another, slowly circling as Payton stood patiently, letting the captain have his moment. Liam came to a halt in front of him, and touched the button of Payton's waistcoat with the tip of his sword. "Have ye ever fought a man sword to sword?"
"No."
Liam grinned. "I thought as much, or ye'd know to remove yer coat. Ye canna fight all trussed up like a Christmas goose."
Payton gave him a thin smile, thrust off his coat, and, for good measure, his waistcoat, too, tossing them onto the bench where Mared sat. She smiled wickedly, as if she hoped to see him sliced to ribbons. Payton wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't be obliged. He turned to Liam. "Let's have at it then, shall we?"
A broad, predatory smile spread across Liam's lips. "En garde," he said quietly, and instantly moved one leg back, settling on it, while he held the other out from his body, bent at the knee.
Payton lifted his sword, mimicking him, but Liam groaned, rolled his eyes, and touched his sword to Payton's. "What are ye doing then, Douglas? Put yer hand on yer hip there, and lift yer sword...aye, that's how 'tis done. Ye'll want to sweep aside or force mine down, do ye see?" he asked, demonstrating. Payton nodded that he did, and listened intently as Liam went on to explain how to lunge in attack, recover, and lunge again, attacking head, flank, and chest. "The blade precedes the body -- it shou...
Présentation de l'éditeur
On leave from his Highland regiment, Captain Liam Lockhart comes to London on an urgent mission: to repossess the stolen family heirloom that could save his ancestral estate. He never dreamed it would involve surrendering his heart. But the beautiful and scandalous socialite Ellen Farnsworth sets his Highland blood aflame with a will as strong and reckless as his own. Though bound to Liam by a soul-searing passion, duty impels Ellen to commit a terrible betrayal.
Now, driven by passion, pride, and vengeance that know no bounds, this fearsome Highlander will reclaim not only his family's ancient treasure, but the one daring woman he was meant to love for all time.
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