How to Abduct a Highland Lord

  Fiona threw her arms about the priest’s neck. “Oh, thank you, Father! I knew I could count on you.”

  He returned the hug, sighing. “Ye’d just find another if I didna assist ye, anyway.”

  “I wouldn’t wish anyone else to marry me, Father.” Of course, she’d never thought to marry this way at all. She’d thought that someday, she’d meet a bonny man who would fall deeply in love with her, and they’d have a lovely wedding here in the church, surrounded by flowers and her family. None of that would happen now.

  Sadness for what she’d never have pressed on her heart, but she resolutely pushed the feeling aside. “Father MacCanney, this is the right thing. It will be a new beginning for us all.”

  The priest sighed again, then turned to Hamish. “At least bring the lad to his feet. No man should marry from the dirt on the floor.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Fiona said again. “You won’t be sorry.”

  “’Tis not me who might be sorry for this day’s work, lassie.”

  Fiona hoped he was wrong.

  Hamish prodded the fallen man with his huge boot. “Perhaps I should dunk his head in some water.” He turned to gaze at the cistern.

  Father MacCanney gasped. “That is holy water!”

  “I dinna think God would mind. Besides, ’tis his wedding day and—”

  “No,” Father MacCanney said firmly. He pursed his lips. “Perhaps a wee dram would stir the man.”

  Hamish stiffened.

  “Hamish,” Fiona reproved. “We must all sacrifice.”

  “Ye ask a lot,” Hamish growled. He reached into his coat and pulled out a flask. Reluctantly, he opened it, tilted back Kincaid’s head, and poured a bit into the man’s mouth.

  Kincaid sputtered, but he didn’t push the flask away. Still half-conscious, he reached up and grabbed at it, then poured it into his mouth.

  “Damn ye!” Hamish yanked away the flask. “Ye drank half me whiskey!” The Scotsman grabbed Kincaid’s jacket collar and hauled him up, looking ready to punch him.

  “Thank you, Hamish,” Fiona said swiftly, moving to stand beside Kincaid.

  Kincaid blinked, then looked around woozily. “This is…church? I’ve never before dreamed I was in a church.”

  Fiona slipped an arm through his, trying to steady him. He slumped against her, his masculine scent of sandalwood and musk enveloping her. She immediately had a memory of another time, long ago, of hot hands and hot desires, the desperate ache of wanting—

  Outside, thunder rumbled again over the sun-drenched garden.

  Father MacCanney seemed to have trouble swallowing. Hamish sent Fiona a hard look.

  She blushed, then cleared her throat. “Kincaid, you are indeed in a church. You are here to marry me.”

  “Marry?” He looked down at her, and she was struck by the vividness of his gaze, the brilliant blue of Loch Lomond.

  She felt herself drawn into that gaze, pulled in, sinking as if into a pool of heated water.

  A faint smile curved his lips. “Fiona MacLean.” The words tickled her ear, smoky and seductive.

  To her utter dismay, a low heat simmered at his nearness, building with a rapidity that made her gasp. The thunder rumbled louder, and a stir of heated wind sent the flowers bobbing, the grass rippling.

  Fiona clenched her hands into fists, forcing her heart to resume a steady beat. She could not let herself lose control. She’d known the dangers of this errand. Jack Kincaid had this effect on every woman. Every woman. None is special, she reminded herself.

  Her passions cooled at the thought. “Kincaid, stand alert,” she said in a brisk tone. “We’ve important things to do this day.”

  His gaze flickered over her face, lingering on her eyes, her lips. He lowered his face until his whiskey-scented breath warmed her ear and cheek. “Tell me, love, if I marry you in this dream, will I win my way back into your bed?”

  Her breath caught, and she whispered back, “Yes, you will be welcome into my bed. This is a real marriage, though we do not care for each other.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  She raised her eyes to his, her heart strangely still. “What…what do you mean?”

  “I mean I do care for you. I lust at the thought of touching you, of—”

  “That is not caring.” Why had she thought he’d meant anything else? If her time with Jack had taught her anything, it was that he was not capable of caring. Not really. “We can discuss all of this later. Right now, we must marry.”

  His gaze drifted over her face again, resting on her lips. A slow, seductive smile curved his mouth. “I will marry you, Fiona MacLean, and bed you well, as is meant to be. That is indeed the stuff of dreams.”

  She whispered furiously, “Jack, this is serious. If we marry, we can end the feud.”

  “Feud?”

  She blinked. “The one between our families.”

  “Oh. That feud. I’d worry about that myself, if I weren’t already dead and dreaming.” He slung his arm over her shoulder. “What the hell! Do your worst, Father,” he said grandly. “It’s just a dream.”

  Father MacCanney met Fiona’s gaze. “Are ye sure, lass?” he asked again.

  Outside, the wind was dying a bit, though the heavy taste of rain and the unmistakable scent of lilac filled the air.

  Fiona took a deep breath. In a few moments, she would be married. Married to a man who would shortly be sober and furious at the events she’d forced upon him. Married to the man who had long ago betrayed her. A man who would betray her again, if she were foolish enough to give him a chance.

  She straightened her shoulders. There would be no more chances.

  “Yes, Father,” she said in a steady voice. “I am ready.”

  Chapter Two

  Long, long ago, before there was an England or even a Scotland, seven clans lived in this valley. Times were peaceful, and everyone strove to get along. Everyone, that is, but the MacLeans. Och, a proud clan they are, and fiery of temper. Even back then, before kings drew their lines on the land and called them countries…

  OLD WOMAN NORA OF LOCH LOMOND

  TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT

  Jack awoke slowly, drifting to awareness as if he floated on a feather pillow. He turned his head slowly, then frowned. He was on a feather pillow, covered with fresh-smelling white linen. Cautiously, he spread his hands and discovered that he was resting on an equally soft feather mattress.

  This wasn’t death. This was an overstuffed featherbed.

  Jack slitted open his eyes, struggling to focus against the painfully bright light. His head throbbed at even that small effort. By Zeus, what had happened? He remembered riding in the woods. A sound in the brush. Thunder, then the feel of icy cold rain—

  Rain. And the smell of lilacs. Fiona.

  Good God, it couldn’t have been. And yet…rain and lilacs? It had to be.

  Jack frowned, struggling to remember more. He had a distinct image of Fiona and her giant of a servant, Hamish, standing over him in the rain.

  Other images followed. Fiona and Hamish and…Father MacCanney? In a church? Jack had a vivid impression of the taste of whiskey, bright and burning, and the deep green of Fiona’s eyes. Eyes he’d thought he’d managed to forget.

  Apparently not.

  He rolled to one side and sat upright, wincing at the shrill sunlight coming through a crack in the curtains. What a strange, oddly disturbing dream. Perhaps it would teach him not to drink more whiskey than God intended a man to have in a single sitting.

  Jack swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his stockinged feet finding the cold floor. Bloody hell, it looked as if they’d built this tavern on a ship, the way the room was rocking back and forth. He carefully stood, gripping the bedpost tightly.

  Where the hell was he? The chamber was appointed in the finest of two-decades-old fashion, carefully preserved but well worn. There was a large oak wardrobe and a marble-topped table holding a bowl and pitcher and a neatly fol
ded towel, flanked by a sturdy but threadbare upholstered chair. The scent of lemon and wax tickled his nose; the floor and woodwork were scrubbed and shiny, even in the dim light.

  No tavern sported such cleanliness. Where was he, then? He leaned against the bedpost, his forehead resting on the thick, worn blue velvet draperies, his gaze dropping to his knee. The breeches he wore weren’t his. He looked at his shirt and found that it, too, belonged to someone else. He’d never possessed a shirt with such silly lacings on the sleeves. The only familiar things in the room were his boots, which sat in one corner, cleaned and neatly shined. But why? Why was he here, and wearing someone else’s clothes?

  A rustle sounded in the passageway outside the door, then the brass handle turned and the door swung open. The bright light from the hallway outlined the figure of a woman. Small and curvy, she presented an intriguingly vague picture.

  Jack knew her instantly. Knew her from the scent of lilacs that permeated the room. Knew her from the curve of her cheek where the light caressed it. Knew her from the graceful way she held the door. Knew her from the way his loins leapt at the sight of her.

  It hadn’t been a dream, after all. “Fiona MacLean,” he said, his voice rusty and deep. “What is all this?”

  She closed the door and walked forward, the beam of sunlight from the window sparkling on her hair.

  Jack’s jaw tightened. It had been fifteen years since he’d last seen her. Her eyes were greener than he remembered, her lashes casting mysterious shadows over them. The sunlight burnished her rich chestnut hair gold, and framed her delicately shaped face. He’d thought he’d forgotten her, but this moment proved otherwise: he remembered everything.

  Her lips were plump and lush. Her nose was short and sprinkled with freckles. She was also more rounded than when he knew her before—no longer a young maid but a woman grown.

  He could tell her breasts and hips were luxuriously full, though she was dressed in the height of propriety, her sedate morning gown an innocuous dove gray, her pelisse tightly buttoned to her throat.

  Jack had avoided such women in London. Prim, proper misses you dared not talk to for fear of ending up leg-shackled. He’d learned to avoid such obviously dangerous women from this very one.

  Fiona wet her lips nervously, drawing an instant response from his loins again. “Kincaid, I am sorry about this.”

  Low and husky, her voice sent a shocking quiver of heat through him. “Where the hell am I?”

  “My brothers’ hunting lodge. I dared not take you to Castle MacLean. Especially now.”

  Damn it all, his head was splitting, and she was speaking in riddles. Jack took a step forward, but the world immediately swayed to one side, then the other, his stomach roiling right along with it. Tight-lipped, he gripped the bedpost again.

  Her green gaze flickered from him to the door, then back, her eyes shadowed by long, sable lashes. She’d always had the most intriguing eyes—large and lushly lashed and slanted ever so slightly at the corners, accented by fly-away brows. They were exotic, those quick slashes of impudent brows and seductive eyes, on a face that was otherwise angelic.

  Of course, he knew otherwise. “Fiona, why am I here?”

  A flicker of uncertainty touched her face. “You…you don’t remember?”

  “Remember what? I was riding home and—” Bits of memory returned in a painful rush. He’d left Lucinda’s house because her husband had returned. The ride in the woods. The sudden rain. The lilac scent. Darkness, followed by the church, and Father MacCanney telling Jack to—He gripped the bedpost tighter. “We’re married?”

  She paled slightly but did not deny it.

  Bloody hell, it hadn’t been a dream at all! The room tilted, and he swayed unsteadily.

  Fiona started forward, but he waved her off as he sank onto the edge of the bed. “Do not touch me, witch.”

  The last word quivered in the room. Her eyes flashed, her lips compressing dangerously. “I am not a witch.”

  “I know otherwise,” he growled.

  “If you are speaking of the MacLean curse, then yes, I am capable of some”—she gestured vaguely—“activities.”

  “You can make it rain.” He snorted. “You just can’t make it stop.”

  She colored a bit, the cream of her cheeks bright pink.

  What a coil. He’d been captured and forced to wed a woman cursed with the ability to make clouds gather and rain fall, cursed like all in her family.

  She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “None of that has anything to do with why you are here. Why we are married.”

  Married. He couldn’t wrap his pained head around the thought. “It cannot be binding.”

  “Yes, it is. I—I made certain it would be.” Some of his fury must have been evident, for she put out a placating hand. “Please, Jack. I only did what I had to do. I had no choice.”

  He stood and took a step toward her, every fiber of his body pulsing with anger. “You had no choice? You were not the one who was dragged to the altar unconscious!” She had stolen his freedom from him. She, of all people.

  She stepped away, her back near the wall. “Jack, I am truly sorry. I only did what I had to.”

  “Had to? What was so urgent that you felt such a thing was necessary?”

  “I had to stop the feud. Our families are at risk.”

  “Are you crazed? That argument is as old as the mountains.”

  “Not anymore.” Her eyes flickered with a flash of emotion deep within. “Jack, surely you know about Callum?”

  He paused. “Your brother?”

  “Yes. He was my youngest.” Her voice caught on the last word, her lip quivering.

  Jack blinked. “Was? Fiona, what happened?”

  “There was a fight in a tavern a week ago. Your half brother Eric fought Callum. Callum died. Surely you knew—” She broke off, her expression uncertain.

  “The last time I saw anyone in my family was five years ago, at my grandfather’s funeral.” They’d been none too happy to see him, either, especially after they’d discovered that his grandfather had left his entire fortune to Jack. “I have not seen Eric or anyone since.”

  “Eric and Callum met in a tavern. They had an argument. Blows were exchanged. Callum died.”

  He frowned, unable to look away from her tear-bright gaze. “I didn’t know.”

  “Your family says it was a simple brawl, that Callum’s death was an accident. But my brothers do not believe him.”

  The sharpness of her voice told him it wasn’t only her brothers who believed Eric’s guilt.

  Jack had been born almost a decade before either of his half-brothers. By the time he’d been fifteen, he and his stepfather had already reached the nadir of their relationship, a fistfight that had left them bloodied, bruised, and too angry ever to live under the same roof again.

  So at the tender age of fifteen, Jack had packed his portmanteau, strapped it to the back of his favorite horse, and left for England. He rarely came home to visit. His family were all strangers to him now, and Jack was used to being alone. In fact, he treasured it.

  “None of this has anything to do with me,” he said.

  She paled, her lips tight. “Callum is dead. Do you understand that?”

  “Talk to Eric,” he said harshly. “This has nothing to do with me.”

  She grabbed his arm, her fingers pressing through his linen shirt. “Someone killed my brother.”

  He looked down at her for a long time, noting the tension around her mouth, the tiredness around her eyes. She was exhausted. The realization sent a quiver of something through him, a faint sense of…worry? Regret?

  He pulled his arm free. “You have the wrong Kincaid. You should have captured Eric or Angus, someone other than me.”

  Her eyes blazed. “How can you say that?”

  “I do not concern myself with my family, nor they with me. I never have. Why would I begin now?” He could still remember the day he’d left his house. Stiff with ang
er and pride, he’d hoped one of them—his mother or stepfather or even one of his little brothers—would ask him to stay, beg him not to leave. Instead, there was an air of palpable relief. In the months following, the lack of further communication had cemented the fact all the more—they didn’t care and never had.

  Jack had decided that he didn’t care, either. He had a decent income, provided by his mother’s brother, and he’d rented rooms in the fashionable part of town. He fell all too easily into a life of ease as he gambled, gamed, chased women, drank to excess, and learned to treasure the one and only thing that was truly his own: his freedom.

  By the time he was nineteen, he had a reputation as a hardened libertine and an inveterate gambler. He was also known for his outrageous good luck. Fortune, it seemed, really did smile upon those less lucky in areas of the heart. Until, at the age of twenty-two, on one of his sporadic jaunts to his homeland to run his hunters through the moors, he’d met Fiona MacLean. He would not become entangled again. “I will not be involved in this, MacLean. Find yourself another.”

  She lifted her chin, her eyes blazing up at him. “It’s too late, Jack.”

  “I refuse to believe that.”

  Her brows rose. “Do you think me a fool? That I would go to this much trouble for something that could be undone so easily? Our marriage will stand, Kincaid. It will stand forever.”

  Jack stared at Fiona, a sinking sensation in his stomach. Was she right? Was there no setting this union aside?

  Damn it all, how had this happened? And why with the one woman he hadn’t been able to resist?

  Only once in his life had he allowed himself to be swayed by his heart. He’d gambled it all—and lost. He’d been mad for Fiona from their first meeting. Within a week, he’d decided that she was the one, and with all the passion of youth, he’d pleaded with her to run away with him.

  She’d reluctantly agreed. He’d made arrangements, bought a carriage and six, and waited for her at the assigned location. Night had drawn, but she had not come. In her place had arrived a thunderstorm like none he’d ever witnessed, along with two of her brothers. Gregor and Alexander had brutally informed him that their sister had changed her mind.