Kincaid said, “I love a woman with long hair.”
“You love all women, long hair or no.” Fiona removed a hairpin from one place and tackled a particularly unruly curl near her temple.
He sent her a roguish wink. “I especially love women with long brown hair and green eyes.”
“Kincaid! Stop that.”
“Stop what?” he asked, all innocence and amazement.
“Stop flirting with me.”
“Was I flirting?”
“Aye. As easily as you breathe. With you, every sentence is an offer.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. As he settled, his thigh slid over to press against hers once more. “And with you, my love, every sentence is a challenge.”
Acclaim for Karen Hawkins’s bestselling
romantic novels…
“Luscious, romantic, witty, sexy, and emotional.”
—Romantic Times
“Fast paced, lively, sexy and laugh-out-loud funny.”
—Romance and More!
“Delightful…sparkling.”
—Mary Balogh
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Karen Hawkins
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
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To Nate V. N.
Thank you for never getting tired of my endless quest
for “just the right word” and for keeping your
snickering to a minimum when I sing in the shower.
Nate, you make my heart smile.
T. A. I.
Acknowledgments
I would like to acknowledge my agent, Karen Solem, who never says, “You want to write WHAT?”
And a huge hug to my new editor, Micki Nuding, who was also my old editor from a long time ago. Micki, you were right! We’re working together again! WOOHOO!
How to Abduct a Highland Lord
Prologue
Och, lassies! Such doubters ye are! I’ve met men who were cursed. And women, too…
OLD WOMAN NORA OF LOCH LOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT
Stirling, Scotland
April 9, 1807
Jack Kincaid died as he had lived: awash in a haze of fine bourbon, his perfectly tailored coat pockets stuffed with his winnings from a night of wild gaming, and reeking faintly of the perfume of another man’s wife.
Jack had whiled away this particular evening at a grand house outside Stirling, lured from London by the charms of the lovely Lady Lucinda Featherington. Lord Featherington, ambassador to a distant foreign clime, was due home any day. Jack had overcome the lady’s qualms at his presence with a heated kiss and a murmured suggestion that had sent a delighted flush through that not-easily-shocked woman. “Black Jack” lived lustily, and many were the hearts tossed his way only to be smashed upon the hard rocks of his heart. Women were always guaranteed a good time in his bed, though.
Hours later, the sound of a carriage rumbling up the drive had caused the lady to gasp, throw back the covers and scramble from Jack’s arms. Jack just laughed. He didn’t fear Lord Featherington; the man was a pitiful shot and had never hit his man. Jack never missed.
But Lucinda had no wish for a scandal. Concern for her reputation outweighed her feelings for Jack, and she begged him to leave.
Amused and a mite tipsy from sampling her husband’s excellent cellars, Jack allowed himself to be coaxed into climbing out the window. Just as the doorknob of the master bedchamber turned, Jack leapt from the trellis to the garden below.
Whistling to himself, he sauntered through the gardens to the stable, where he gathered his horse from a surprised groom. Then he was off, flying back to the amusements to be had in London. If he changed horses along the way, he would arrive in two days, in plenty of time for Lord Mooreland’s private card party. Mooreland was a fool, but he entertained with a lushness that was unparalleled.
A more prudent gentleman would have taken the York Road, with its wide avenue and frequent inns. Jack took the stage road to Ayr, a dark and lonely road notorious for its highwaymen. The Ayr Road was doubly dangerous for a lone man on horse, especially one dressed in London finery, a ruby flashing on one hand, his head muddled by Lord Featherington’s best bourbon.
Jack urged his spirited horse to a gallop, heedless of the darkness and highwaymen alike.
As he turned a corner, the calm, balmy weather changed with an abruptness that stunned him. The skies suddenly opened with a clap of thunder, and a heavy, drenching rain slashed down. Cold and sharp, it soaked him in a second, and the thunder caused his horse to rear. Jack’s hands slipped from the wet reins, and he fell. As the ground rushed up to greet him, the faint scent of lilacs tickled his nose, then the fall stole both his breath and his consciousness.
Sometime later, he awoke to the stinging slap of rain on his face. He lay in a deep puddle of mud, its thick ooze gluing him in place. His hair stuck to his forehead and clung to his neck, rain running over him in rivulets. The warm mud that held him to the ground was in striking contrast to the cold rain sluicing down upon him. Rain that smelled like lilacs…
Fiona MacLean.
But surely not. He hadn’t spoken to her in fifteen years, though he could still picture her exactly as he’d seen her last: rich brown hair falling about her face, her tears hidden by the rain—
His heart tightened. There was no sense in remembering that. And to think that this accident involved Fiona merely because of the scent of lilacs was ridiculous. He must have hit his head harder than he thought. Indeed, it was difficult to think at all, his temples ached so much.
Bloody hell, he didn’t have time for this. There were women to be bedded, wagers to be won, bourbon to be tasted.
But as with all things in Jack Kincaid’s badly lived life, it was too late.
Far too late.
Groaning, he rolled to his elbow, the mud sucking at him, his head protesting with a burst of colors and pain as he moved. Suddenly, he knew this was the end. He wasn’t going to make it. This is death. And here I am; cold, sodden, and alone. He’d never meant to die like this. He’d never meant to die at all. His eyes slid closed as a wave of blackness descended upon him, and he fell backward into the mud.
And there he lay, the rain slowing to a faint splatter on his upturned face.
Chapter One
The MacLeans are an ancient family, long of grace and fair of face. ’Tis a pity they know their own worth, fer it makes ’em difficult to bargain with. Shrewd they are; ’tis rare they come out on the bottom side of any bargain. Yer own pa says he’d rather be bit by a sheep than dicker with a MacLean.
OLD WOMAN NORA OF LOCH LOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT
Gretna Green, Scotland
April 9, 1807
Fiona MacLean forced herself to smile. “Father MacCanney, we’ve come to be married.”
The heavyset priest looked uncertainly from Fiona to the groom and
then back. “B-but—he’s not—I canna—”
“Yes you can, Father,” Fiona said in her calmest voice, her hands fiercely fisted in the strings of her reticule.
Come hell or high water, she was about to end the longest, most drawn-out, and most foolish feud in all Scotland. And thereby lose her freedom, her carefully planned future, and perhaps even a bit of her heart.
The thought made her stomach sink lower. But this marriage was necessary if she wished to keep her brothers safe from their own foolish tempers. It’s the only way. I cannot waver.
“Fiona, lass,” Father MacCanney said in an exasperated voice, “he’s not fit to be a groom!”
“All the more reason for me to marry the fool.” At the priest’s blink of surprise, she quickly added, “’Tis a known fact that a good woman can turn even the most contrary, rotten, stubborn ne’er-do-well into a responsible man.”
The priest glanced uneasily at her prospective groom. “Aye, but—”
“Have no fear for me, Father. I know he’s no prize, but he’s the one I want.”
“Fiona, I know the lad might benefit from the match. ’Tis just—”
“I know,” she said, sighing bravely. “He’s a philanderer who’s been with every woman from the North Sea to the fleshpots of London.”
The priest flushed at the mention of fleshpots. “Yes, yes. So everyone knows, but—”
“He is also a complete wastrel who has made no effort to embrace a useful life. I know he’s not the best choice of groom, but—”
“He’s not even conscious!” the priest burst out. “He canna even say his own name!”
Fiona glanced down to where her man, Hamish, had dropped her groom on the cold flagstone at her feet. Muddy rivulets dripped onto the church floor from Kincaid’s clothing. “I was afraid that was your problem.” Even unconscious, Jack was a royal pain. Some things never changed.
“Lassie, ye canna drag an unconscious man to the altar.”
“Why not?”
“Because—because ’tis just not done, that’s why!”
The priest eyed Hamish with suspicion. Fiona’s massive guard stood silently behind her as he’d done since she was a child. A large sword hung at his side, three primed pistols were stuck into his wide leather belt, his bushy red beard bristled, and his fierce gaze pinned them all in place.
“How did the lad come to be unconscious and muddy?” Father MacCanney asked pointedly.
Fiona hated to lie. She really did. But the less the priest knew, the safer he’d be from retribution from her brothers. Torn in pain at the loss of their youngest brother, they raged through Castle MacLean, fists lifted to the sky, fury pouring from them.
The curse of the MacLeans had flowed then. Rain and thunder had flooded from the skies for days, threatening those who lived in the village below Castle MacLean. The river had already been swollen from early spring rains, and the danger of flooding was imminent.
Fiona could not let that happen. And she knew how to stop the feud. First, she’d had to find Jack Kincaid. Thank goodness Hamish had heard rumors of his dalliance with some woman in nearby Stirling; it was simple to find the wastrel then.
She could only hope that the rest of her plan would follow so easily. Somehow, she greatly doubted she’d be so blessed. She shrugged and said with as much cheerful indifference as she could muster, “We found him.”
“Unconscious?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the road. His horse must have bolted.”
The priest did not look convinced. “How did the lad get so wet?” He eyed her with deep suspicion. “There’s not been any rain in this part of Scotland in over three weeks.”
Fiona had to distract him. “Hamish, can you awaken the lout? Father MacCanney will not marry us unless he’s conscious.”
Hamish grunted, then bent over, grabbed the unconscious Jack Kincaid by the hair, and lifted his head.
Fiona’s gaze fell on his face, and her heart leapt. Even splashed with mud, his dark red hair plastered flat from the rain, Jack Kincaid was painfully handsome. Fine, firmly cut features with a strong jaw and masculine nose, deep auburn hair, and, had they been open, the blue, blue eyes of an angel.
But angel he was not.
In the distance, a faint rumble of thunder caused the priest to look toward the open windows. Outside, bright sunshine warmed the stone walls, nary a cloud in the blue sky.
Fiona’s gaze remained on Kincaid. It took all of her moral strength not to kick him—just a little—while he was so conveniently at her feet.
Since that dark day fifteen years ago when she’d discovered Jack Kincaid’s true nature, she’d kept her emotions and thoughts about him locked away. She’d thought they’d died, but apparently some anger and resentment remained.
Still grasping Jack’s hair, Hamish shook his head, then looked at Fiona. “The jackass is not awakening.”
“I can see that.” Fiona sighed. “Let him be.”
Hamish dropped his burden, ignoring the thud that made the priest wince.
Relief filled Father MacCanney’s face. “Ye can’t marry him, then.”
“Yes, I can,” Fiona said firmly. “He will awaken soon.”
The priest sighed. “Ye are the most stubborn lass I ever met.”
“Only when I must be. You cannot deny that ’twill be good for the lout to be in the care of a strong woman.”
“No,” Father MacCanney said in a constricted voice. “I canna deny that.”
“I’ll put up with neither drinking nor carousing. He will also be made to attend church regularly. Whether he knows it or not, Jack’s wild days are over.”
Something like pity flickered over the priest’s face. “You canna make a person change, lassie. They have to want to change.”
“Then I shall make him want to change.”
The priest took her gloved hand in his. “Why do you wish to embark on this madness, lassie?”
“’Tis the only way to stop the feud. Callum’s death must be the last,” she said in a hard voice.
The priest’s eyes had filled with tears. “I mourn your brother, too, lass.”
“You cannot mourn Callum more than I. And as if his death is not enough to bear, my older brothers are calling out for vengeance. If someone does not stop this nonsense now—” Her voice broke.
Callum, beautiful Callum. Her youngest brother, with his quicksilver grin and equally fast flashes of temper, was now lying six feet under, a stone marker the only reminder of his life. And all because of an idiotic feud that began hundreds of years ago.
The MacLeans and the Kincaids had been fighting for so long that no one remembered the true cause of their hatred. Now, because of Callum’s stupid refusal to let a silly insult from a Kincaid slide, things had come to a head. Callum had pushed the argument, pushed the fight. And paid the price with his life.
One blow, the edge of the stone hearth…and that was it. Callum was dead, and the banked fires of the age-old feud had erupted into flames.
The priest pressed her hand. “I’ve heard that the Kincaids feel Callum’s death was not their fault. That perhaps someone else—”
“Please, Father. Do not.”
The priest looked at her face. She knew what he was seeing: the circles under her eyes, the paleness of her skin, the tremor of her lips as she fought desperately to keep her tears at bay.
“Father,” she said softly, “my brothers blame Eric Kincaid for Callum’s death. Nothing I say can cool their thirst for vengeance. But if I marry Jack, he and his kin will be a part of our family. My brothers will be forced to let go of their plans.” Her determined gaze locked with the priest’s. “I will not lose another brother.” Anger surged through her, raw and furious.
Outside, the ominous rumble of thunder darkened the otherwise clear day. Hamish nodded, as if agreeing with an unspoken thought. Father MacCanney, meanwhile, paled.
The priest was silent a long moment, and Fiona cou
ld see he was on the verge of agreeing. He just needed a little push.
“Besides, Father, if I make this sacrifice and marry to end the feud, it might break the curse.”
Father MacCanney swallowed noisily and pulled his hand from her grasp. “Hsst, lass! I’ll have none of that curse talk in this holy place.”
That was because he believed it. According to the old tales, a white witch, disgusted with Fiona’s greatgrandfather’s temper and self-serving ways, had declared that from then on, every member of the MacLean family would be given tenuous control over something as tempestuous as they were—the weather.
Whenever a MacLean lost his or her temper, lightning caused thatched houses to catch afire and made the ground tremble. Hail tore away the leaves of every tree and greenery within sight. Floods roared through the valley, ruining harvests, washing away homes and, sometimes, people.
When the people of the village saw clouds gathering at Castle MacLean on the hill, they huddled in their houses in fear.
Fiona closed her eyes. They were her people. Hers. Just as Callum had been her brother. She could not fail in this. If she did not defuse the situation, her brothers’ fury would unthinkingly destroy everything.
The only way to break the curse was for every member of a generation to perform a “deed of great good.” So far, no generation had succeeded. Perhaps this would count as Fiona’s deed.
Fiona looked at the priest from beneath her lashes. “The curse has been proven time and again, Father.”
The priest shook his head. “I feel fer yer family, lass. But this mad idea—”
Desperate, Fiona pressed her hands over her stomach. My last hope. “Father, I have no choice. Kincaid has to marry me.”
Father MacCanney’s eyes widened. “Blessed saints above, ye can’t mean—ye haven’t—ye didn’t—”
“Aye. I am with child.”
The priest whipped out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Dear me! Dear me! That changes everything, it does. I’ll not have a bastard born in my parish.”