Kenleigh-Blakewell Family Saga Boxed Set (Books 1 & 2)

  He closed his eyes, fought to subdue the slick current of panic that slid up from his belly, caught in his throat.

  She was not Lyda. This was not the Wyandot village.

  His heartbeat slowed. The panic subsided, left white-hot rage in its wake.

  “Why did you do this? I told you I meant you no harm.” He craned his neck, saw that she stood before the fire, ladling liquid into a tin cup, a brown knitted shawl around her shoulders.

  “Is that no’ what the wolf always says to the lamb?” She carried the cup to the bed, sat. “Drink. It will help to replenish your blood. Careful. ’Tis hot.”

  Tantalized by the smell of the broth and suddenly aching with thirst, Nicholas bit back the curse that sat on his tongue, drank.

  Bethie held the cup to his lips, watched as he swallowed the broth, her heart still racing. For one terrible moment, she’d feared the ropes would break or come loose. She’d known he would be angry with her, but she hadn’t expected him to try to rip the bed apart.

  Truth be told, she feared him despite the ropes. Although he’d given up for the moment, she could feel the fury coiled inside him. She could see it in the rippling tension of his body, in his clenched fists, in the unforgiving glare in his eyes. He made her think of a caged cougar—spitting angry and untamed. He was not used to being bested.

  The arrogant brute! Did he imagine she would grant him warm hospitality after the way he’d treated her? It served him right to be bound and helpless!

  As if a man of his strength were ever truly helpless.

  Her gaze traveled the length of him as it had done many times while he’d slept, and she found her eyes focused of their own will on the rounded muscles of his buttocks where the butter-soft leather clung so tightly.

  Mortified, she jerked her gaze away, felt heat rise in her cheeks. Her stepfather had always said she was possessed of a sinful nature.

  “More.” His boorish command interrupted her thoughts. He glowered at her through eyes of slate.

  “Aye.” She stood, hurried to the fireplace, ladled more broth into the cup, uncomfortably aware that he was watching her.

  “How long do you intend to keep me a prisoner?” His voice was rough, full of repressed rage.

  She walked back to the bed, sat, feigned a calm she did not feel. “’Tis your own fault you lie bound. You cannae be expectin’ to be treated as a guest when you behaved like a felon. Drink.”

  He pulled his head away, his gaze hard upon her, held up the ropes that bound his wrists. “This isn’t necessary.”

  “You threatened me, held your pistol to my head, forced me to do your will and admitted to killin’ two men. Do you truly expect me to trust you?”

  He frowned, his dark brows pensive. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “As I recollect, you seemed quite bent on frightenin’ me.”

  “I didn’t have time for social graces. My need was dire.”

  “So is mine!” She stood in a surge of temper, met his gaze. “I cannae risk you regainin’ your strength and then, when you no longer need my help, hurtin’ me or my baby or takin’ what is ours and leavin’ us in the cold to starve! I dinnae even know your name!”

  For a moment, he said nothing. “Kenleigh. Nicholas Kenleigh.”

  She repeated his name aloud.

  “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, Mistress Stewart, you will release me.”

  “Nay, Master Kenleigh. I willna—no’ just yet.” She lifted her chin. “You’ll stay as you are till I’m certain you pose no threat to me and my baby.”

  He gave a snort. “And how will you determine that?”

  “Drink.” She held the cup once more to his lips. “Perhaps I shall have you swear an oath, a bindin’ oath.”

  He drained the cup, looked up at her. “And if I am a murdering liar, a man with no honor, the sort of man who would harm a woman ripe with child, how would this oath prevent me from doing whatever I want the moment you cut me free?”

  Bethie stood, walked back to the fireplace to refill the cup once more, the truth in his words dashing her sense of safety to pieces. “Are you sayin’ I should never set you free, Master Kenleigh?”

  “No, Mistress Stewart. I’m saying that unless you plan to keep me a prisoner forever and care for me as if I were a babe untrained in the use of a chamber pot, sooner or later you have no choice but to trust me.”

  She walked back to the bed, felt her step falter. In truth, she hadn’t thought about how or when she would release him when she’d bound him to the bed. Nor had she considered what keeping him bound would mean. She’d been thinking only of a way to restrain him and deprive him of his weapons, and she had accomplished that.

  A babe untrained in the use of a chamber pot? Good heavens!

  She reached the bed, sat, held the cup once more to his lips. “Very well. I shall cut you free. But you shall first swear to me by all you hold sacred that you willna do anythin’ to harm me or my baby or to deprive us of our hearth and home.”

  He swallowed, licked broth from his lips. Then a queer look came over his face. He stared at the tin cup, then gaped at her. “You drugged me!”

  How did he know? “I-I gave you medicine to ease your pain—and make you sleep.”

  He laughed, a harsh sound. “You drugged me so that you could bind me and take my weapons.”

  He stated it so plainly that Bethie could find no words to soften the truth of what she’d done. She rested a hand protectively on her belly, felt her baby shift within her. “Y-you left me no choice.”

  Nicholas saw the defiant tilt of her chin, noticed the pink that crept into her cheeks. He noticed, too, the way her hand softly caressed the swollen curve of her abdomen as if to calm the small life inside her.

  What would he have done in her place?

  He dismissed the question—and the irritating impulse to defend his previous actions toward her. There was only one rule in the wild—survival. He’d only done what he’d felt he had to do to stay alive.

  And so had she.

  An excerpt from …

  Surrender

  Book 1 in the MacKinnon’s Rangers series

  Available Now

  It seemed to Annie she’d just fallen asleep, when Iain nudged her awake again. Her body achy, her mind dulled by fatigue and hunger, she sat up and saw that it was not long past dawn. Had she ever been this tired? What she wouldn’t give for just one more hour of sleep! Or a hot bath. Or porridge and a cup of tea.

  How could Iain look so alert and vigorous when she felt listless and painfully weary? They were alive only because of his labors. ’Twas he who’d borne her through the forest on his back, he who’d rowed the boat through two dark nights, he who’d kept watch while she’d slept. ’Twas he who should be worn with fatigue.

  Humbled by her own weakness, she sat up straighter, tried to force the cobwebs from her mind. The least she could do was to press herself as hard as he pressed himself and to endure without complaint. She was no squeamish, spiritless lass, and although she might not have been born to this rugged life, she had her wits and at least some courage.

  If she’d understood him, they had most of a day’s journey before them over land to Fort Edward. She could endure another day.

  Iain handed her the leather pouch of cornmeal. “Bide here a wee.”

  Then he headed off toward the lake with the tin bucket in his hand.

  She took a handful of cornmeal, chewed it, and washed it into her empty stomach with a mouthful of cold water from his water skin.

  It had been a long night. Wary after their encounter with the French ships the night before and determined not to fail Iain again, shed made certain to stay awake and had watched the darkness glide past, reluctant even to breathe.

  Yet, he’d seemed angry, his voice gruff the few times he’d spoken, his face hard. Perhaps he was in a temper over the things she’d said earlier about Culloden and the war. Or maybe he was still vexed with her for giving them away to th
e French on the ship. Or perhaps it was the poisoned rum, though that certainly had not been her fault.

  You take more lookin’ after than a bairn.

  She’d wanted to be helpful and had offered to take up the other set of oars and row, but he’d shaken his head.

  “A pair of oars in your hands would make a bloody din.”

  She’d felt ashamed to know he was likely right. And so the perilous, long watch of the night had passed in frosty silence, with Annie feeling useless and angry and afraid.

  Oh, how he confused her! One moment he held her and comforted her to help her nightmares pass. The next he belittled her, humiliated her.

  At least he hadn’t kissed her again.

  Why hadn’t he kissed her again?

  Each time she thought of it, her heart seemed to trip. The hot feel of his lips against hers. The scorching shock of his tongue in her mouth. The hard press of his body.

  Oh, Annie, I knew you would taste sweet.

  The memory of his words made her breath catch in her throat, and she realized she’d taken pleasure in it. She’d taken pleasure in his kiss.

  Even as the truth of it came to her, she rejected it. She’d been asleep and caught up in a dream when he’d stolen that kiss from her. ’Twas a deception of her dream that she’d enjoyed it. How could she, who’d been raised a lady, find any pleasure in kissing a traitor, a rough Ranger, a Highland barbarian?

  She looked up and saw the man who bedeviled her thoughts walking toward her. The shadow of beard on his chin had grown thicker and darker, and his black hair still hung, long and unbound, lending him a wild appearance. His shirt had come open at the throat, revealing a wedge of dark curls. She remembered what he’d looked like without his shirt, how it had felt to be held against that chest, and her breath caught again.

  He moved almost silently, his motions sure, agile and smooth despite his size. He was, she realized, quite graceful. The very idea surprised her. Male grace was a quality she’d never thought of beyond the ballroom; either a man could dance a quadrille with skill and without stepping on her feet or he could not. But here was another kind of grace altogether — an untrained grace, an instinctive grace, an animal grace.

  He set the bucket down before her, then knelt beside his pack and took out the soap and cloth she’d seen yesterday, together with the little jar of salve. “The cold water will soothe your feet. Wash them if you like and put on more salve.”

  Surprised by his thoughtfulness, Annie took the cloth from his hand. “Thank you.”

  Be quick about it. I’m goin’ scoutin’.” He rose and strode silently into the forest.

  She felt the water with her fingers, found it ice cold. She removed the moccasins, exposing her battered feet. Then she dipped the cloth in the water, squeezed it out and rubbed the soap against it. Although she had every intention of washing her feet, she found herself pressing the cloth to her face instead.

  She almost moaned. It felt wonderful. The cold water made her skin tingle, washed away the grime, brought her back to life. Careful not to waste a drop, she washed her face, then her throat, water running in icy rivulets down her neck and beneath her gown. Next, she washed her feet and ankles.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  She glanced about her to make certain Iain was nowhere near. Then she sat up on her knees, let the bearskin coat fall to the ground and slipped her gown and shift down her shoulders to her waist. All she needed was a few moments.

  She’d never been naked in the open air like this, and a part of her could scarce believe she was doing something so reckless. She dipped the cloth into the bucket, squeezed it, then stared in astonishment at her own body. Purple bruises stained her skin, caused by her tumble down the embankment. One of her breasts was scratched, and there was an angry red welt above her right hip. Death had made its mark on her.

  She shivered.

  Eager to put it all behind her, she washed quickly, first her breasts and belly, then her arms and shoulders. The breeze raised bumps on her wet skin, but the cold water soothed her bruises. As dirt and mud and dried blood washed away, she began to feel like herself again.

  “You’d tempt a saint, lass. But I am no’ a saint.”

  Annie gasped and covered her breasts with her arms.

  He stood not ten feet away, the butt of his rifle resting on the ground, his hand around the barrel, his gaze sliding blatantly over her.

  “Y-you ought no’ be watchin’!”

  “You ought no’ be naked.”

  Iain was surprised he could speak. At his first sight of her kneeling bare-breasted and wet-skinned, the breath had rushed from his lungs. His thoughts had scattered like ashes in a gust of wind. He’d found himself rooted to the spot, his cock painfully hard, his anger and frustration from the past few days merging into sharp sexual need.

  Even scratched and bruised, she was bonnie. Her cheeks glowed pink with shame, her apple-green eyes wide with a maid’s innocent wariness. Her breasts were round and full, their rosy tips pinched from the cold. Her skin was creamy, her shoulders soft and curved.

  Iain had been raised to treat women gently, but he did not feel gentle just now. His mother’s Viking blood burned in him, ancient and hot, urging him to fist his hands in her hair and bear her onto her back, to claim her in the most primitive way a man could, to plant his seed inside her again and again.

  One arm still shielding her breasts, she fumbled for her shift and gown.

  “Leave them off.”

  She stared up at him, clearly alarmed, and reached again for her gown.

  “I said leave them.” He closed the distance between them, knelt down beside her, only one thought on his mind: He had to touch her.

  Her breathing was ragged, and she trembled. Her eyes were huge and round.

  He reached out, took her wrists in his hands, and drew them one at a time to his lips, exposing her. “Dinnae hide your loveliness from me, lass.”

  Then he feasted on the sight of her. Her creamy breasts rose and fell with each rapid breath, their weight enough to fill his hands. Her puckered nipples looked as if a man had already sucked them to tight, wet peaks. One was marred by an angry red scratch. Behind her breastbone, her heart beat fluttered like that of a wild bird.

  Desire lanced through him, sent a bolt of heat to his already aching groin, made it hard for him to breathe. He wanted to cup the weight of her breasts in his hands, to taste her, to draw her nipples into his mouth and tease them with his tongue and teeth.

  He ducked down, pressed his lips to the scratch, kissed it.

  She gasped, and her body jerked as if his lips had been a brand. “P-please dinnae—”

  Lust roared in his ears like the raging thrum of a heartbeat. His cock strained against the leather of his breeches, claiming the right to mate. “You’ve naugh’ to fear from me, Annie.”

  ‘Twas an outright lie. If she knew what he was thinking, she’d likely slap him soundly—or scream and run.

  You’re a bastard, MacKinnon. Can you no’ see the lass is an innocent and sore afraid?

  Fighting to defeat his need for her, he released her wrists, picked up the cloth and dipped it in the bucket. “Turn ’round. I’ll wash your back.”

  Covering her breasts again, she seemed to hesitate, then did as he asked.

  He squeezed out the cloth, lifted the heavy weight of her tangled hair over her shoulder, and pressed the wet cloth to her skin. He heard her tiny intake of breath, felt her shiver, saw the rapid beating of her pulse against the column of her throat.

  And the fire inside him grew hotter.

  For more on the MacKinnon’s Rangers series, visit Pamela Clare’s website.

  Colorado author Pamela Clare began her writing career as a columnist and investigative reporter and eventually became the first woman editor-in-chief of two different newspapers. Along the way, she and her team won numerous state and national honors, including the National Journalism Award for Public Service. In 2011, Clare was awarded the
Keeper of the Flame Lifetime Achievement Award. A single mother with two sons, she writes historical romance and contemporary romantic suspense at the foot of the beautiful Rocky Mountains.

  Books by Pamela Clare

  Kenleigh Blakewell Family Trilogy

  Sweet Release (Book 1)

  Carnal Gift (Book 2)

  Ride the Fire (Book 3) — Coming in February 2013!

  MacKinnon’s Rangers series

  Surrender (Book 1)

  Untamed (Book 2)

  Defiant (Book 3)

  Romantic Suspense

  The I-Team Series

  Extreme Exposure (Book 1)

  Heaven Can’t Wait: An I-Team novella (Book 1.5)

  Hard Evidence (Book 2)

  Unlawful Contact (Book 3)

  Naked Edge (Book 4)

  Breaking Point (Book 5)

  Skin Deep: An I-Team After Hours novella (Book 5.5)

  Table of Contents

  SWEET RELEASE

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Epilogue