Knight Everlasting

by Jackie Ivie

Genres: Historical Romance; Scottish & Highlander

Synopsis

In the heat of battle, a powerful Scottish laird takes a mysterious woman captive. . . His Powerful Desire When Aidan MacKetryck finds a flaxen-haired maid caught in the crosshairs of battle, he quickly saves her from certain death. But while Aidan expects gratitude, he is sorely disappointed--for the fiery lass makes it clear she wants nothing to do with him. . . Her Dangerous Secret Juliana D'Aubenville is in hiding from those who want her entire family to perish. Despite her attraction to the strikingly handsome Aidan, Juliana knows she must escape before her identity is revealed. The trouble is, Aidan refuses to let her go. . . Their Forbidden Love With each moment Aidan and Juliana are together, their desire becomes more enticing--and harder to resist. But just as Aidan tries to lay claim to Juliana once and for all, their darkest secrets are finally revealed--putting both their love and their lives in terrible danger. . . "Filled with magic and a love so deep it takes my breath away." -- Romance Reader at Heart on Once Upon a Knight "Sizzling sexual tension and great repartee." -- Romantic Times

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 351

Sample

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“Run!”

The shout came through the ground-swell of mist, became a blurred man, and then more of them. They were running . . . directly at her.

“Hide!”

Juliana dropped her apron, scattering berries at her feet.

The thumping of horses’ hooves penetrated the remnants of fog next. And then the first indistinct outline of a mounted man appeared. Armed and charging . . . with drawn sword.

The first runner reached her, swooped, and without even breaking stride, tossed her up and over his shoulder, as if she weren’t the size and heft of a grown woman paralyzed in place. Not much on her moved. He had her legs locked with an arm, her belly atop his shoulder, her arms dangling uselessly, and everything else on her upper body slamming against his back.

A backward glance showed her man to be one of the strongest or most agile, since he was outdistancing the others, and then losing them in the fog.

Juliana dropped her head and wrapped her arms about his lower back. The man carrying sensed her new position, for he increased his pace, making the upside-down view of forest meld into a blur, while her arms expanded and contracted with the filling and emptying of air from his chest.

There was nothing else she could do. Agonized cries and shrieks filled the opacity all about them, mingling with thudding noises and crashing sounds of what might be branches, but could be bodies just as easily. And through all the sounds of pounding hooves, ringing steel, and bloodcurdling cries was the heart-pounding overhang of fear.

Juliana swallowed and her ears popped. Fear was always about and risked, especially in a predawn forest. The villagers believed the devil haunted these woods, spawning gremlins and goblins and banshees. The man carrying her could be one of the devil’s demons. He could also be a clansman from a Northern clan: barbaric, primitive, illiterate, and unclean. It was possible. His sett was an unfamiliar plaid . . . black and red with a gray-cast smaller stripe.

It didn’t truly matter to Juliana. She’d have clung anyway. There was something these Scots feared more: the Sassenach scourge that was King Edward II and his soldiers. King Edward had already defeated and quashed the Welsh clans back when she was a child. Now he wanted the same of Scotland. Juliana hadn’t known how King Edward warred and hadn’t cared.

Until now.

She’d just begun to grasp her luck when her man jumped a fallen log, bouncing her viciously with the motion, and then he leapt over another one. Sounds of pursuit were everywhere . . . getting close, fading. Louder. Farther. A shout came from the spot to their left. Leaves and branches reached out, slapping them with dew. The man ran on, dodging things that rarely slowed his stride, feinting to one side as she swayed the exact span over the other.

Then, without warning, he launched forward, going airborne more than a body length before reaching and rolling over a fallen log, pulling her up and over his shoulder with the roll, and bringing the back of his feile breacan with her, since that was what she grabbed. He had her smashed against him with the tumble and then he had her slammed onto her back. The impact took all her air, before it worsened with his body weight landing atop her, locking her arms and legs in place.

Black and red plaid settled over them, covering everything. But when that didn’t prove sufficient to him, Juliana got hammered with the hard humps of his chest muscles as he burrowed with both hands, digging them into the rotting leaves and tree mash beneath the log. The back of her thigh met a rock, her knee a root, her buttocks settled onto what was probably damp ground, her shoulder hit another rock, and all the while she was getting flattened with his weight.

Then he stilled completely, halting even his breath, although the heavy pounding of his heart made up the difference. Juliana tried sucking for air. She tried moving her arms to lift him. She was going to suffocate, held beneath a Highland devil and not one person would ever know of it.

Heave off!

She tipped her chin and mouthed the words at him since he wouldn’t move, and then everything went ice-cold with shock and fear. A sword tip spliced through the area directly between their noses, glinting wickedly as it nicked the log beside her cheek before being pulled back out.

Eyes as wide as hers bored into her, and for a moment she didn’t think her heart would continue beating. He seemed to have the same issue, as not one pulse beat sounded anywhere from either one of them. And then it got harder to bear as every bit of him that was pressed to her went rigid and tense, making him even thicker and heavier. She knew why. He was preparing for the next jab of the sword . . . and what it might hit.

A thump of the wood echoed through her forehead, showing the soldier had moved farther up the log. Then there was another thump, even farther away and more dull-sounding. And then . . . nothing.

The sound of her man’s renewed heartbeat was loud through where her cheek was pressed against his neck. Relief washed through her, sending such bliss it made her giddy. Or maybe it was the odd grouping of dots dancing through the air between them. Juliana watched as the dots combined to a gray shade that meshed with the dark material about them, before it grew larger, sucking at her . . . taking her down to oblivion with it.

The man shifted, pushing his legs and groin into hers. Juliana barely felt it. Then his upper arms hardened against her head. She didn’t realize it was to pull up from her until he did it, granting her air with the gap.

Nothing had ever felt so sweet!

He shushed her with a huff of breath that barely trembled with sound. Juliana didn’t comply. She couldn’t help it. He didn’t give much space and she filled it with gasps that pushed her chest and belly into his over and over, making a harsh sigh of sound in their enclosure.

He did the hush sound again, and this time tightened the arms beside her head more.

If it killed her, she wouldn’t give them up! Juliana swallowed and held each small breath before easing it out, until they were calm and silent. Her reward was a slight lift of his mouth at one side, drawing her eye.

It wasn’t a far move to look from his mouth at the rest of him, and that was when everything changed. Shifted. Warped. Spun. She’d been taught to fear the Highland clans. Fear them and run from them. They meant trouble. Spawned by the Norsemen and weaned at a witch’s teat, everyone knew to avoid them. But nobody had warned her of locking gazes with one of them. Juliana’s bottom lip dropped open. She couldn’t stop it.

This Highlander had to be the handsomest man birthed, or the lack of air had altered her vision. Handsomeness like his wasn’t possible. It also wasn’t fair. Or just. Or right. And she had no preparation! Thick dark hair fell forward all about him since he hadn’t tied it back, or he’d lost his tie in the chase. He had dark eyes of an indecipherable shade, thick lashes, and all of that was graced by a face that lasses had probably sighed over long before she did.

Right then. And without one bit of forewarning.

Juliana’s heart decided to curse her as well when it stumbled, restarting with a thud that sent heat to each cheek, and there was nothing to temper or hide it. She didn’t know where her wits had gone. Each ragged beat of her heart accompanied a jolt of movement from her own body. Right against him. It was instinctive and involuntary. And horrible. All of it was being observed, noted, and evaluated. She could tell. One dark brow lifted, the smile moved to encompass his entire mouth, and then it got worse, as the heavy bulk of his loins tickled into volume and heft against her.

Juliana’s eyes got even wider. Soldiers had to be still about hunting them, clansmen were probably being captured or worse, and this man was showing every sign that he desired that? Now?

Juliana sent the command to her eyes to narrow, to show him the disdain and disgust she felt. It didn’t work. Nothing seemed to. Every bit of her body was tingling and alert where it pressed against him. Her stance was vile and did worse things to him. Juliana felt him enlarge and harden further, going to a size that forced her legs apart before settling between her skirtcovered thighs.

Nothing on her worked as it should. Nothing. She didn’t know a near-death experience heightened things to such an extent it took one’s will away at the same time. She’d never felt so vibrant, aware, and ready and primed.

Primed . . .

The exact description flit through her mind. She did feel primed . . . and with that came willing, pliant, desirous . . . and lax. And wicked. She was alive with them. Each breath was pushing them together, especially since his breathing tempo had quickened to match hers. There wasn’t any way to avoid him. Or move from him. Or do anything other than experience what he was doing to her.

There couldn’t be much worse.

Then, she knew exactly what was worse as his slight smile faded, replaced by a pout of kissable shape, while the wealth of eyelashes dipped, covering his eyes. He tipped his head. Juliana had a bare instant of time before receiving his lips against hers. She used her moment to turn her head, barely avoiding this kind of trouble. It was instinct, self-preservation, and fear. And it was massive. Shaking was overtaking her as he nuzzled what had to be his lips against her cheek and then along her jaw. Rivulets of goose bumps went everywhere, leaving his touch to trill along her shoulders, creep over her scalp and to her toes, before flowing back and finding a center at each breast tip. Those offending bits pushed right into his chest, making things even more unfair. She already knew how sturdy he felt . . . especially shirtless, and without most of his sett since it was atop them. Every caress gave her more to experience of the sweat-dampened, overheated, and thick feel of him, and it combined with a sensation that slithered right from where her nipples were squashed against him down to the bottom of her belly . . . and then even lower than that. Unbidden wantonness joined the feeling of liquid heat that slid together all the way to where her loins were jammed against the rock-hard flesh of his lower belly.

She almost wished she’d fainted.

Then her body gave a nearly imperceptible upward movement, thrusting her pelvic area against him. It was completely against her volition. And will. And experience. Nothing was fair. She didn’t even know where her cloak had gone to, and the linen of her shift left little to mute any of it. The touch of what had to be a tongue grazed her chin next, earning him a quick thrust with that against his mouth. And that brought her right back into eye contact with him.

He looked as surprised by her movement as she was, but for differing reasons. She was amazed something on her body had actually obeyed while his was probably due to any lass declining his favors. She still couldn’t tell his eye shade. That was all well and good. She didn’t want to know anything more about him. And she definitely didn’t need further description of him. Or further demonstration of what he could do to her. And with her.

Juliana managed to hold his gaze for more than eight heartbeats, each one gaining in volume as she counted. Then she dropped her eyes to his chin. He had a perfectly sculpted jaw that matched the rest of him. If he’d grown a beard like every other Scot, she wouldn’t have to be looking at every facet of a lower face and lush full lips that were still pursed slightly. Nor would she be suffering the reaction of it. Her body gave the horrid pulsing motion again, shoving all of her against all of him. Involuntarily. Horribly.

“Jesu’.” He breathed it, although she was saying a curse word very like it in her mind in tandem with him. He’d also lifted his head, denting the tent of plaid atop them and making their enclosure lighten the moment he did.

“Heave—” Juliana whispered back.

“Hush!” he interrupted her with a hiss of sound. Everything on him went taut and rigid and heavy again as he held himself immobile.

“Why?”

His downward glance didn’t have anything but fear in it, regardless of how dark his eyes still appeared. And then he scrunched them closed and started praying. Whispering the words. She knew then why. Their hiding spot was lighter because the foliage atop them had slid away when he’d moved. He’d given away their position.

Juliana was watching when he finished. Something was different when he opened his eyes and she couldn’t quite figure it. His body was also relaxing, getting heavier as it did. She locked gazes with him again, pulsed against him, and hoped she didn’t die of the embarrassment rather than a Sassenach sword.

“Aidan.” He whispered it.

“What?”

He dipped his head slightly and repeated it. Slower. Drawing her eye to his lips with the way he split it into two words.

“Ai . . . dan.”

“Aidan,” Juliana repeated.

“Aye.”

He smiled, stealing her voice while her throat closed off, and if she didn’t look elsewhere, she was going to be back in the same trouble she’d just avoided. She settled on moving to the fabric beyond his head.

“What?” she asked.

“Aidan MacKetryck. Aidan Niall MacKetryck. ’Tis my name.”

“Oh,” Juliana replied. She’d been right. He was a Highlander from Clan MacKetryck. She played the name through her mind. She’d heard of them, but didn’t know much more than that.

He blew a sigh over her, gaining her attention back. She didn’t need to know how that felt either!

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Aye,” she answered.

He must have finished maneuvering himself back into place atop her, because she was supporting a massive amount of his brawn and volume, and other things she wasn’t going to acknowledge. She watched the plaid material fan back out with his movement.

“What if I want to hear . . . more?” He’d added a slight bit of voice to his whisper, making the last word a deep throb of sound.

“The soldiers . . .” She didn’t know what the rest of her sentence would be as it just trailed off, taking her wits with it.

He huffed what was probably amusement. “They’ve gone.”

Juliana narrowed her eyes and moved her glance back to him, settling on the spot between his eyebrows. It was safer. “How do you know?”

He adjusted a shoulder up and then back against her, moving her shift with it. “I gave our position away. I still have my head. Simple.”

“Then, heave off.”

He wasn’t just smiling this time. It had to be a grin if the way his eyebrows lifted was an indication. She didn’t dare check. With his visage and what happened to her every time she looked, it was safer this way.

“Na’ yet.”

She flitted her eyes to his, cursed the impulse in the same instant, and did her best to ignore how her heart stumbled. “Why not?” she tried to command, but it sounded more like a plea. She decided the roof of plaid atop his head was safer and moved her eyes there again.

“I deserve a reward,” he said finally.

“Reward? You near got me killed,” Juliana replied.

“Oh nae. I just rescued you,” he countered.

“Near got me killed. Along with you,” she replied.

He shook his head, dragging locks of hair along her face. Juliana had to close her eyes for a moment while she forced the horrid tingling sensation down.

“I saved you. Along with me.”

He was waiting until she opened her eyes and looked at him again. It was getting slightly easier to ignore the reaction to him, including the way his belly shoved against her with every breath, the length of him weighing her down, as well as how all of her tingled with the prolonged contact. His argumentative nature made it a bit easier, but not by much.

“Do you always argue?” she asked.

His lips twisted as if considering it. Then he shook his head. And then he grinned. She’d been right. It was devastating. Her vision flew back to the plaid.

“Nae need, lass. I always win.”

The words were said close to skin if his breath was any indication. And then she knew how close he was as a quick jerk of her head had his lips hovering above her nose rather than her mouth, where he’d aimed.

“Not this again.” She sighed, and if she could get her hands freed from where he’d pinioned them at her side, she’d be putting up more of a struggle than simply moving her head side to side in denial.

“Why na’?” He’d lifted from her enough to ask it and watch her while she answered at the same time. It was too much of an impact and she was exactly certain that he knew it.

“You haven’t . . . asked.” The words limped out. Juliana was breathless. She hoped it wasn’t apparent in her voice, although it was probably visual everywhere else. This Aidan fellow knew very well the effect he had on her. He probably had it on every lass. He was used to wielding it. All of which was clear and apparent, and making her squirm with what she hoped was embarrassment.

“Verra well. I’m asking.” His voice dropped, as did his head. Juliana managed a gasp before he had his nose lined up against hers and was running it up and down, and tickling the tip of her lip with the slight growth of whiskers on his upper lip each time.

“No.” The word didn’t make much sound as she opened her lips slightly for air and received just a bit of space dividing his mouth from hers. She was still wondering how she managed to say something that was so patently different from everywhere else as his neck flexed, lowering his mouth to hers. Everything about her reacted, and not just where his kiss touched, sparked, flashed, and sent a burst of effervescent prickling roving about her that nobody had warned her of. Everywhere.

“Aidan! MacKetryck!”

He lifted his head at the dim shout, pulling her lips awry at the move. Juliana hadn’t time to gasp before he’d gone to a full-length push-up, and then shoved from it to his feet. If she hadn’t just seen him move that quickly, she’d have had trouble believing it.

The morn had lengthened as they’d lain hidden, although she had no concept of how. Or how long. Or anything. Juliana blinked up at the image of this MacKetryck fellow, flipping his kilt band over his shoulder as he adjusted his feile breacan back into place. Then he was rolling his head about on his shoulders and doing twists of motion that had cracking sounds happening throughout his body. Then he stopped and stretched. His entire frame was encased in morning sunlight that dappled every nuance of him into masculine strength and prowess, showing that God had been heavy-handed with those blessings as well. This Aidan was beautifully formed . . . and brawny. All of it was displayed perfectly in the sun, before getting shadowed. Dark fingers blocked the sun. The fog was gone. And then the smell reached her.

“Something . . . burns? What?”

Aidan ignored her question just as he did her move to sit up. He didn’t bother to assist her. Juliana set her lips and swallowed the scorn away. He was a MacKetryck and a Highlander. A barbarian. They probably didn’t know of chivalry and honor and valor. It didn’t truly matter. The battle for the Scot throne had taken it all away anyway.

It took some time to feel her lower legs and feet since they were just coming alive from where he’d lain atop her. That hurt, and made getting to her knees difficult. Her cloak was on the ground beneath her, while the ribbon tie of her hair covering was askew. Her skirts looked like she’d taken a tumble into a loch and just let them dry wrinkled, except they weren’t faded nor were they clean. There were spots of mud and mulch and more than one rotten leaf attached to her attire. She picked at them as she surreptitiously watched him. He didn’t look at her again nor did he help her reach her feet and stand beside him, waiting.

The man was just as immense as he’d felt while atop her. Juliana stood at midchest height to him. She stood a bit taller. Maybe she reached his brooch clip.

She’d just decided it when he lifted his jaw and sniffed.

“Aidan! There you are. Thank the saints! Unharmed? And safe.”

Two large-sized, redheaded men shoved through forest greenery and took giant-sized steps to reach them. Only one of them was speaking.

“Will you look there, Kerr MacGorrick. The laird’s safe, unharmed . . . and he’s found a bonny lass to attend. And here we thought him in danger.”

Juliana looked to the ground, bit her tongue, and longed for deafness.

“How he manages such, I canna’ fathom. Nor do I wish to try. Aidan.”

The men were slapping shoulders in turn and ignoring her. Shortly, Juliana, she counseled herself. Soon now, these two brawny Highlanders and this Aidan fellow would leave her life exactly as they’d entered—without warning. After that, she’d make her way back to the croft. Then she was going to put him where he belonged . . . in her memory.

“It’s na’ how it looks,” Aidan told them, sounding slightly sheepish.

Juliana slanted a glance up at him and then colored when she caught his wink.

“Well, it looks plenty. But we’ve nae time to hear it. We canna’ stand about, waiting for our own cleaving.”

The one who’d spoken turned away. The other man followed suit. Juliana wasn’t given the choice as the MacKetryck grabbed her arm and started pulling her along with him.

“I’m not going with you.” She hissed it, but it didn’t seem to do much.

“You are,” he countered.

Fallen, marshy ground muck was getting dragged before her boots since she wasn’t walking and he didn’t seem to care.

“Am not.” She tried again.

“You’re na’ safe here!”

“I live here,” Juliana informed him.

“See that?” He gestured to the black cloud moving in chunks of shadow into the sky. “That’s the village. There’s naught left. You ken?”

“No.” Juliana shook her head. He was wrong.

“Ewan!” MacKetryck turned from her and said it to the farther redhead, the one who’d been talking.

“Aye?”

“Where’s Beathan?”

“With his maker,” the man announced grimly.

“Gavin?”

“Dead.”

“Iain?”

“Dead.”

Juliana’s eyes got wider, her belly got heavier, and the listing just kept going.

“Rory?”

“Aye. Rory, too. And looks to be Filib and Duff as well. Dead. Unburied. We only found parts of them.”

The green all about them was melting, turning into a wash with black and red at the center. There was the loudest, most prolonged humming note in her ears as well, throbbing into a cacophony of sound that should have muffled the men’s words. She put her attention to stopping it and swayed a bit while she pondered the green mash of ground at their feet. She might have fallen without the grip on her arm. The gray was back in her vision, but with it came a strange numb sensation about her nose. Juliana fought it. She’d never fainted. She refused to faint now. Not in the grip of a MacKetryck and with two more Highlanders between her and safety.

“How many are left?” The man holding her asked it.

“Counting us?” Both redheads stopped and turned to face him.

“Aye.” There wasn’t a bit of joviality anywhere about any of them.

“Three. If we tarry more, they’ll be adding us to the dirt as well. Now come. Bring the wench if you must, but come.”

The branches slapped back into place as they turned and disappeared into them. Juliana quit fighting it and welcomed the bite of tension in Aidan’s fingers about her arm. She kept blinking, and breathing, and walking as she followed him. She didn’t faint.

Aidan Niall MacKetryck was rash and reckless. Always. He’d been cursed with it at birth by the clan seer, Lileth Fallaine-Dumphat. Despite the teachings and warnings and years spent practicing at patience, he’d done nothing to alter it. He wasn’t just rash, he was also thoughtless, just as the seer had predicted before the laird MacKetryck had her silenced with a stay in his dungeon.

His father hadn’t done it soon enough, Aidan decided, shoving his way through a last thicket and receiving more scratches for his trouble. They’d finally reached a meadow, making the walk easier. It was about time. Aidan sneered at the waist-high grasses, tipping to one side with wind that didn’t cease. If he wasn’t mistaken, the breeze coming toward them had a bite to it, too. It wasn’t raining, but it probably would soon enough. To punish him even more.

Aidan sucked in a breath and let it out, doing his best to ignore the ache that had started with the slaughter this morn and just kept growing. It made his chest heavy and tight and that made his frown deepen. Anyone looking at him would probably dub him the “Black MacKetryck,” although that title belonged to his uncle, Dugald. Seer Lileth Fallaine-Dumphat hadn’t cursed the laird’s firstborn with foul moods and a sour disposition. Those were an aftereffect of rash actions he continually suffered.

Dead clansmen and a morn of walking did nothing to change anything, including his mood. The sidelong glances the lass gave him occasionally didn’t help either. Aidan consciously avoided meeting any of her looks. He practiced at ignoring her, except to guarantee she stayed between him and Ewan Blaine’s back.

Saving the lass had been another impulsive act. Attempting ravishment of her during the rescue was another. For the life of him, he didn’t know why either. She may be bonny and have a lush woman-shape that she’d swaddled in a dark cloak, but she was also an encumbrance. A responsibility. And from the looks of her, he probably wouldn’t gain any ransom—if there was anyone left to send the demand to. He didn’t know her name, her clan, or even her station in life. She could be a serf with the manners of a swineherd for all he knew.

Aidan sighed, ignored how she looked over at him, since he’d nearly overtaken her with his strides. He’d rather look at the backside of Kerr MacGorrick, who’d assumed the lead.

Aidan didn’t dare look to her. It invited thoughts and actions and impulses that no MacKetryck laird in the midst of battle ought to have to deal with. He pulled in another deep breath and barely escaped it being labeled a sigh. The lass had bottomless, clear bluish-green eyes, the color of Loch Buchyn in sunlight. Meeting her gaze had stunned him. It probably still would . . . if he allowed himself to look.

“You should na’ have camped so far away . . . nor left the horses.”

It was Kerr MacGorrick, turning and walking backward across the meadow as he announced it over Ewan’s head.

Aidan ignored him. Ewan wasn’t as smart.

“He already kens it,” the other redhead answered.

MacGorrick grunted. “It dinna’ do what it was set to.”

“He kens that as well.”

Ewan was still answering for him. It was just as well. Aidan was practicing at keeping his words in check. MacGorrick’s taunts meant little. Any fool was granted perfect hindsight about what should have been done.

“Does he now?” MacGorrick mused. He was directing his words to Ewan, but his attention was fully on Aidan.

“Reaving requires sneaking about. You canna’ go reaving with horses. They’ll give it away.”

“Well, we should have hobbled them closer, then. Horses would have helped with the odds. Barring that, they’d have helped with this walk.”

“How was the laird to ken Sassenach murderers were about?”

MacGorrick swore. They were still heading into a breeze heralding an oncoming storm. Aidan started hoping for it. Rainfall might muffle their words.

“Any man knows better than to take on English soldiers without assist . . . especially when they’re mounted on horseback and fully armed. Laird MacKetryck knew it. Everyone does.”

“They were doing the devil’s work! You saw it! You heard the screams.”

“I saw and heard MacKetryck clan getting killed. That’s what I witnessed!”

“You heard the screams. You know why he did it.”

“Aye, I ken. Aidan MacKetryck decided to take on more mounted Englishmen than any man should. And for what? To stop them from their devil work and save those villagers? Fool’s bane. No one can stop a Sassenach horde bent on destruction.”

“You only say . . .