How to Abduct a Highland Lord (3 page)

 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 folded 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’remarried ?”

 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. “Youhad 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.”

 “Hadto? 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 anger 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.

 Jack had thought they were lying, until they’d given him the letter she’d written.

 Dear Jack, I cannot do this. Please leave and do not look for me again. My feelings for you are not what they should be. I am sorry if you believed otherwise. Sincerely, Fiona.

 His jaw tightened at the memory. He’d been left with nothing to do but turn the carriage and ride away, humiliated and furious.

 Damn it all, he’d known better than to put his faith in something as fickle as emotion, yet he’d been unable to resist.

 It was a mistake he never made again. Emotion was to be sipped and savored briefly, like champagne, before it went flat.

 “I refuse to believe this marriage will stand.”

 Her jaw firmed, her eyes narrowing. “I made certain it would. With you as a member of the family, my brothers will halt their quest for blood.”

 “I know your brothers. It would take more than a mere marriage to keep them at bay.”

 She dropped her gaze. “Perhaps.”

 Jack tensed, his gaze narrowing. “Perhaps?”

 She shrugged and began to turn away.

 He grabbed her arm and yanked her back around. “Explain yourself.”

 “No! Not while you’re holding me so!”

 “You bloody witch,” he snapped. In two short steps, he had her trapped between his body and the wall, the warmth of her skin seeping through her pelisse. For some reason, that only angered him more. “Whatever it is that you’ve done, you will undo. I willnot be married. Not now, not ever!” He lowered his face until their eyes were even. “I will not give up my freedom, and I don’t give a damn about Callum or my brothers or anyone else.”

 There was a moment of shocked silence. Fiona might pretend to be brave, but he could see from the way her lips trembled and her chest rose and fell with her short breaths that she was frightened.

 “I will not undo anything,” she said in a low, breathy voice. “We are married. We will stay that way. I am sorry, but there is nothing you can do about it.”

 He had the sudden impression of being held underwater, unable to breathe. His fingers tightened on her shoulders cruelly.