To Love a Highlander (36 page)

“That I know.” Gillian turned to the sea, another truth giving her strength.

She took a deep breath, pretended to smooth the folds of
her cloak so she could touch the small, heavy pouch hidden beneath her skirts.

“I will greet Donell MacDonnell as is expected of me.” She forced the words, her hand resting on her secret treasure. “I shall take his measure then, and not before.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Gowan sounded relieved.

Gillian didn’t say that she already knew how the dice would fall.

She’d seen the hunger in Donell’s eyes the day of their betrothal ceremony.

To be sure, he’d looked at her in lust. Even young and innocent as she was, she’d recognized the male need burning in his gaze.

More than that, she’d seen the blaze of greed.

However much she might have pleased him, her father’s riches, so proudly displayed in Castle Sway’s great hall, had impressed him more.

Donell MacDonnell desired coin above all else.

The knowledge helped her summon a smile. “All will be well.” She reached to squeeze her brother’s arm, hoping to reassure him. “But I would like to be alone now. I need the fresh air and sea wind to prepare myself to meet my future husband. You surely understand?”

Gowan looked at her sharply, perhaps not so easily fooled as she’d thought. Then he stepped back and flashed a grin, once again looking relieved.

“As you wish.” He looked off into the distance, toward the still-empty horizon. When he turned back to her, he leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Dinnae think you’ll e’er be alone, lass. Your brothers and I sail past here often enough. We’ll look in on you, make certain the MacDonnell is treating you right.”

“I know you will.” Gillian didn’t doubt him.

She just wanted to believe there’d be no need for such concern.

Gowan nodded once, then reached to pat her shoulder comfortingly before he turned and started back up the steep cliff path.

Gillian watched him go, her hand still on her hidden treasure. She rubbed the lumpy pouch, grateful for its bulk and weight. The silver coins and cut-up brooches it held. The armlets and rings, ancient bits and pieces of a Viking hoard her great-great-grandfather had discovered buried in a riverbank many years ago, in his youth. Riches well preserved in a lead-lined chest.

The portion in her leather pouch was all that she could claim.

Her share was enough, she was sure.

Wealth untold, which she hoped would buy her freedom.

She wouldn’t be given to a man she abhorred, whatever tradition and duty demanded of her.

Resolve cloaked her like a shield, and she could feel her pulse slowing. The racing of her heart returned to a strong, steady beat as she pushed her worries away. Her breath came easier and the cold began to leave her bones. She was strong and brave, courageous. She wasn’t called the Spitfire of the Isles for nothing.

She’d stand against Donell MacDonnell.

She’d walk away the victor. The silver in her secret pouch would pave the way for her escape.

But then, as if the gods resented her boldness, the wind quickened, blowing harder. The gusts shrieked and howled, whipping her hair and tugging at her cloak. Not to be outdone, the sea rose, turning angry as white-capped waves hissed past the rocks, flinging icy spray onto her. Salt stung her eyes and she blinked and rubbed her fists against the burning. It was then, as she struggled to see, that chills raced through her, prickling her skin. The fine hairs on her nape lifted and a terrible cold swept her, worse than a dark winter night before the onslaught of a blizzard.

“By all the gods…” She shivered, still blinking furiously.

In truth, she didn’t want to clear her vision.

She knew what would greet her when she turned her gaze on the sea.

Even so, the shock slammed into her, her eyes widening at the sleek galley racing so fast toward Laddie’s Isle. The ship cleaved mist and waves alike, seeming to fly across the water. A fierce dragon’s head glowered from the prow, minding her of Viking ships. And even at a distance, she could see that the twin banks of oars were lined with big, powerfully muscled men. Their mastery of the oar-blades sent up plumes of white water so that the serpent-headed ship didn’t just appear to bear down on her, but seemed to froth in hunger.

Most alarming of all was the huge warrior at the prow.

Donell MacDonnell.

His dark hair blew in the wind, and mail glinted at his broad, plaid-draped chest. A true giant, he was every inch as big as she remembered. Only now he looked even more formidable. Thick-bearded and frowning, he could’ve been Thor swooped down from Asgard to put fear into the hearts of mortal men. Most surprising of all, his girth of old had somehow shifted so that rather than a great ale-belly, what now drew her eye was the width of his shoulders and the many silver rings lining his muscular arms.

He looked stronger than six men. His scowl—a dark one surely aimed at her—left no doubt that he wasn’t a man to cross. She could see him whipping out his sword in a heartbeat, swinging with deadly skill.

She pressed a hand to her throat, finding it difficult to breathe.

In her memory, wielding such a great blade as the one strapped low to his hip would’ve winded him. He’d have huffed and puffed, his face turning red with the effort.

Now…

The five long years away must’ve hardened and strengthened him.

Gillian inhaled tightly, not knowing what to think.

She did know he was staring at her. She could feel his gaze slamming into her, branding her with the same shock and disbelief stunning her.

Their gazes locked, the impact intense and disconcerting.

Her breath caught again, snagging in her lungs.

But before she could lift her chin and narrow her eyes, showing she wouldn’t be intimidated, the sea mist thickened and billowing sheets of gray swirled around the ship’s prow, hiding Donell and his galley from view. But she could still hear the creak and splash of the oar-blades, the steady beat of the gong as the ship sped closer.

Any moment, it would flash up onto the nearby landing beach. She could almost feel the sand trembling now, the very cliffs shaking with the fury of Donell’s arrival.

She also knew, deep in her bones, that he was more than a changed man.

She’d only caught a glimpse of him, but it’d been enough.

He wouldn’t be bought.

He’d claim her and seize her little leather pouch of ancient treasure. Then he’d devour her whole and spit out her bones. Laughing, he’d crack his knuckles and glance about for his next victim.

His ruthlessness left her with one choice.

She’d have to be just as bold.

Better yet, even more so.

Dear Reader,

Some people are heroic by nature. They act to help others without thinking. Sometimes at the expense of their own safety. Sometimes without ever considering the consequences. That’s just who they are. Especially when it’s a friend in need.

We associate these traits with soldiers who risk their lives on a dangerous battlefield to save a fallen comrade. Not because it’s their job, but because it’s their brother. Or a parent who runs into a busy street to save a child who’s wandered into the path of an oncoming car. Or an ocean life activist who places himself in a tiny boat between a whale and the harpoons of a whaling ship.

Is it so hard to believe that Daphne Bevington, a London debutante and the earl of Wolverton’s granddaughter, could be such a hero? When her dearest friend, Kate, needs her help, she does what’s necessary to save her. In her mind, no other choice will do. After all, she knows without a doubt that Kate would do the same for her if she needed help. It doesn’t matter one fig to her that their circumstances are disparate, that Kate is her lady’s maid.

But Daphne finds herself in over her head. In a moment, everything falls apart, throwing not only her reputation and her future into doubt, but her life into danger. Yet in that moment when all seems hopelessly lost… another hero comes out of nowhere and saves her. A mysterious stranger who acts without thinking, at the expense of his own safety, without considering the consequences. A hero on a quest of his own. A man she will never see again…

Only, of course… she does. And he’s not at all the hero she remembers him to be.

Or is he? I hope you will enjoy reading NEVER ENTICE AN EARL and finding out.

Best wishes, and happy reading!

LilyDalton.com

Twitter @LilyDalton

Facebook.com/LilyDaltonAuthor

Dear Reader,

Story ideas come from everywhere. Snippets of conversation. Dreams. The hunky guy at the office supply store with eyes the color of faded denim. THE BROKEN, the first book in my new romantic suspense series, The Apostles, was born and bred as I sat at the bedside of my dying father.

In 2007 my dad, who lived on a mountain in northern Nevada, checked himself into his small town’s hospital after having what appeared to be a stroke. “A mild one,” he assured the family. “Nothing to get worked up about.” That afternoon, this independent, strong-willed man (aka stubborn and borderline cantankerous) checked himself out of the hospital. The next day he hopped on his quad and accidentally drove off the side of his beloved mountain. The ATV landed on him, crushing his chest, breaking ribs, and collapsing a lung.

The hospital staff told us they could do nothing for him, that he would die. Refusing to accept the prognosis, we had him Life-Flighted to Salt Lake City. After a touch-and-go forty-eight hours, he pulled through, and that’s when we learned the full extent of his injuries.

He’d had
multiple
strokes. The not-so-mild kind. The kind that meant he, at age sixty-three, would be forever dependent on others. His spirit was broken.

For the next week, the family gathered at the hospital. My sister, the oldest and the family nurturer, massaged
his feet and swabbed his mouth. My brother, Mr. Finance Guy, talked with insurance types and made arrangements for post-release therapy. The quiet, bookish middle child, I had little to offer but prayers. I’d never felt so helpless.

As my dad’s health improved, his spirits worsened. He was mad at his body, mad at the world. After a particularly difficult morning, he told us he wished he’d died on that mountain. A horrible, heavy silence followed. Which is when I decided to use the one thing I did have.

I dragged the chair in his hospital room—you know the kind, the heavy, wooden contraption that folds out into a bed—to his bedside and took out the notebook I carry everywhere.

“You know, Dad,” I said. “I’ve been tinkering with this story idea. Can I bounce some stuff off you?”

Silence.

“I have this heroine. A news broadcaster who gets stabbed by a serial killer. She’s scarred, physically and emotionally.”

More silence.

“And I have a Good Guy. Don’t know much about him, but he also has a past that left him scarred. He carries a gun. Maybe an FBI badge.” That’s it. Two hazy characters hanging out in the back of my brain.

Dad turned toward the window.

“The scarred journalist ends up working as an aide to an old man who lives on a mountain,” I continued on the fly. “Oh-oh! The old guy is blind and can’t see her scars. His name is… Smokey Joe, and like everyone else in this story, he’s a little broken.”

Dad glared. I saw it. He wanted me to see it.

“And, you know what, Dad? Smokey Joe can be a real pain in the ass.”

My father’s lips twitched. He tried not to smile, but I saw that, too.

I opened my notebook. “So tell me about Smokey Joe. Tell me about his mountain. Tell me about his
story
.”

For the next two hours, Dad and I talked about an old man on a mountain and brainstormed the book that eventually became THE BROKEN, the story of Kate Johnson, an on-the-run broadcast journalist whose broken past holds the secret to catching a serial killer, and Hayden Reed, the tenacious FBI profiler who sees past her scars and vows to find a way into her head, but to his surprise, heads straight for her heart.

“Hey, Sissy,” Dad said as I tucked away my notebook after what became the first of many Apostle brainstorming sessions. “Smokey Joe knows how to use C-4. We need to have a scene where he blows something up.”

And “we” did.

So with a boom from old Smokey Joe, I’m thrilled to introduce you to Kate Johnson, Hayden Reed, and the Apostles, an elite group of FBI agents who aren’t afraid to work outside the box and, at times, outside the law. FBI legend Parker Lord on his team: “Apostles? There’s nothing holy about us. We’re a little maverick and a lot broken, but in the end we get justice right.”

Joy & Peace!

Dear Reader,

Jane Eyre
may have been the first romance novel I ever read. I know it made an enormous impression on me when I was in seventh grade and it undoubtedly turned me into an avid reader. I simply got lost in the love story between Jane Eyre and Edward Fairfax Rochester.

In other words, I fell in love with Rochester when I was thirteen, and I’ve never gotten over it. I re-read
Jane Eyre
every year or so, and I have every screen adaptation ever made of the book. (The BBC version is the best by far, even if they took liberties with the story.)

So it was only a matter of time before I tried to write a hero like Rochester. You know the kind: brooding, passionate, tortured… (sigh). Enter Gabriel Raintree, the hero of INN AT LAST CHANCE. He’s got all the classic traits of the gothic hero.

His heroine is Jennifer Carpenter, a plucky and self-reliant former schoolteacher turned innkeeper who is exactly the kind of no-nonsense woman Gabe needs. (Does this sound vaguely familiar?)

In all fairness, I should point out that I substituted the swamps of South Carolina for the moors of England and a bed and breakfast for Thornfield Hall. I also have an inordinate number of busybodies and matchmakers popping in and out for comic relief. But it is fair to say that I borrowed a few things from Charlotte Brontë, and I had such fun doing it.

I hope you enjoy INN AT LAST CHANCE. It’s a contemporary, gothic-inspired tale involving a brooding hero, a plucky heroine, a haunted house, and a secret that’s been kept for years.