"Scottish romance at its very best! Deliciously romantic and sensual, Paula Quinn captures the heart of the Highlands in a tender, passionate romance that you won't be able to put down." --MONICA McCARTY, New York Times bestselling author on Seduced by a Highlander
New York Times bestselling author Paula Quinn continues her Highland Heirs series in this not-to-be missed novella.
SHE WOULD NOT BE CONQUERED . . .
Janet Buchanan is no man's property. She refuses to marry her family's sworn enemy-consequences be damned. She'd rather take a dagger to the brute herself. Yet when a tantalizing-and infuriating-man from her past comes to her rescue, Janet finds herself undeniably tempted by his hot, hungry kiss.
HE COULD NOT BE TAMED . . .
Notorious for his prowess as a lover and a fighter, Darach Grant has only one goal in mind: to defend his kin's land from the impending siege of a hostile clan. The last thing he needs is the delicious distraction of Janet Buchanan-the only woman who can stir his ire as deeply as she warms his blood. But Janet's intended will stop at nothing to claim her, forcing Darach to choose between surrendering his honor . . . or his heart.
(25,000 words)
Release date:
October 7, 2014
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
100
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Darach Grant lifted up his cup of ale and curled his lips into a smile corrupted by too much ale and an entire assortment of wicked intentions. The most wicked of which he wanted to perform on Catherine MacDonald. He watched with hooded eyes while she made her way around her brother Shamus’s tavern.
Darach knew the dangers of being on MacDonald land, especially after he and Patrick MacGregor got caught in recent indiscretions involving a few bonny lasses. Danger never stopped Darach. In fact, he preferred recklessness over caution. Besides, was he to blame because MacDonald lasses found him appealing? It wasn’t like he had bedded anyone’s wife. He wasn’t that bad. He didn’t remember Catherine though. Aye, he would have recalled the flare of her arse and the sway of her hips when she came to him as the rest had. He saw a few of them here at the tavern. They averted their eyes but he caught more than a few covertly watching him.
“Greetings, Darach, I didna’ think to see ye here again.”
Darach smiled at Murron MacDonald slipping into the seat next to him at the small table. Like a flash, he remembered Murron and her sun-red locks licking his flesh like flames before he enjoyed her in a haystack last month.
“Ye told me ye didna’ return to the same bed twice.” She pulled off her shoe and lifted her foot to the place between his thighs. “I dinna’ know what ye’re doin’ here but mayhap I can tempt ye into breakin’ yer own rule?”
When she began to rub her foot over his cock he closed his eyes. Murron knew how to please a man, but she was correct. He didn’t return to the same bed twice. He liked his heart where it was… in his own hands, stout and strong.
That didn’t mean he would be cruel in his rejection or that he couldn’t enjoy himself a little or ensure that she did the same. With a flick of his hand he dragged her chair closer. Close enough to slip his hand beneath her kirtle and run his fingertips over her knee.
“I must decline, fair Murron.” He traced the curve of her thigh upward until she closed her eyes and licked her lips. “Fer if I but have a taste of this body again, I willna’ be able to leave this time, and that could likely start a war.”
He moved her foot off him, shared more words with her, and then watched her reluctant departure. His gaze found Catherine again in the crowd. He smiled at her. It wasn’t that he was particularly fond of her. He didn’t know her. That was the attraction. He didn’t know her and he didn’t want to. He’d gotten to know a lass last spring and leaving her felt like someone had stabbed him in the guts and taken a hammer to his chest. Never would he let that happen again.
“I havena’ seen ye here before, sir,” Catherine said when she reached him.
He looked up at her and thought about her in his lap. Humor spread across his mouth. Most likely she thought him highborn because of the finery of his plaid and cape. The women of Camlochlin were masters of the thread. Beyond that there was nothing noble about him. “I am no’ a gentleman, lass.” It sounded more like a warning than a mere statement and that was exactly how he meant it. He watched her smile deepen. He would kiss that mouth before the night was over.
“And now that we’ve gotten that oot of the way”—he swept his hand across the tops of his thighs—“can I offer ye a seat?”
She obliged with a giggle and he moved in closer to smell the honeyed fragrance of her dark hair. She was going to be easier than he thought. Most of them were.
He liked it that way; he smiled and dipped his lips to her ear.
A few minutes later Darach opened his eyes and looked through the blades of grass at the vast mountain range turned over on its side. He couldn’t remember where he was or why there were wee glimmering lights swirling around his head. His jaw hurt like hell. He tried to move it and closed his eyes again. It felt like he’d been hit with—
A pair of big hands grasped him by the shirt beneath his plaid and hauled him up to his feet. Darach would have thanked the man for his aid, since he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to get up on his own, but when he looked at the thoughtful stranger, he recognized Shamus MacDonald and his memory came flooding back to him. Sadly, it returned at the same time Shamus’s mighty fist cracked into his jaw for the third time.
Darach felt his lip tear and he was quite sure that was his back tooth sitting on his tongue. The lights changed color and things went almost entirely black. This time though, he held his legs firm beneath him and by sheer force of will, refused to be knocked out again. He spit his tooth into the dirt and smashed his fist into Shamus’s eye. He was a Grant, and Grants didn’t stay down. When the towering Highlander reeled back, holding his face, Darach didn’t hesitate and drove a left upper cut into Shamus’s jaw, then hit him with a tight punch to the kidney. He took a moment to wipe his bloody mouth and stop his legs from bending beneath him. He heard a few shouts in his favor, but he was on MacDonald land and most cheered for his opponent. Urged on, Shamus swung at him. Darach ducked and missed the blow. He came back up swinging with a series of body shots that brought the burly Highlander down to his knees.
It was about damned time.
A hard knee to Shamus’s face ended the fight quickly. Doubled over, on his knees, and pulling in deep gasps of air, Darach looked at his fallen opponent and thanked God for all the beatings, playful or otherwise, he’d received over the years from his cousins. They had fashioned him into a good brawler and strengthened his chin. Despite the pain from his jaw, his lip, and his ribs, he felt good, exhilarated. He liked a good fight. He liked winning even better.
He looked around for his prize as he stood to his feet. He found her standing in the crowd of bystanders, watching, horrified and a bit anxious, judging by the heavy rise and fall of her glorious cleavage.
Bonny Catherine.
Darach was always ready for a good fight, but he preferred sinking his body into a warm, willing lass over having the shyt beat out of him.
When he reached Catherine now, he slipped his index finger beneath her chin and lifted her mouth to his for a quick victor’s kiss. He didn’t want to cover her in blood and his lip stung like hell, not to mention he’d just trounced her brother into the dirt. He doubted she would appreciate his appetite. He simply wanted recompense, a wee kiss, nothing more. He was surprised when she didn’t reel back and slap him.
He looked at her and tilted his head, a bit disappointed yet again that not all lasses possessed the same fire as a certain saucy wench who lived in Perth. But he’d put that one out of his mind.
He needed a bed, and a strong drink. He was thankful that he’d thought to purchase his room before he grew too drunk to do it.
He stepped past Catherine and through the crowd and returned to the tavern. Inside, he paid for a bottle of whisky and a wench to see to his wounds. Climbing the stairs wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be if he carried his weight on his left side. He found his room without incident and fell with a gusty sigh onto the bed.
“Let me see to yer wounds, Mr. Grant.”
Darach opened his eyes. Did he want Catherine tending to him now? If his passion raged it would likely hurt like hell. He pushed himself up on one elbow and smiled out of the unwounded side of his mouth at the lass standing at the entrance. “I would appreciate such kindness, Miss MacDonald.” Especially after what he did to her brother.
She closed the door behind her and hurried to the basin of water on the small dresser beside his bed. He watched her retrieve a washing rag from a hook on the wall and dip it into the basin. She was a bonny lass, with long, dark braids, wide amber eyes, and round, delectable hips. Hips he could hold on to while she gave him a good, hard ride.
He felt himself grow harder and fought to control his desires. “Though I think yer brother might shoot me in the back if he discovers ye in m’ room?”
She shook her head and came to him on the bed. “I locked the door.”
Darach didn’t think pointing out to her that her beast of a brother could kick down the locked door would make any difference. He didn’t want to think about Shamus anymore anyway when she began wiping the blood from his mouth with tender strokes. When she promised to be gentle stitching up his lip, he recalled the last time he’d been in such poor condition. Last spring, after being attacked on the road by a band of bastard Buchanans in Perth, they had held him prisoner in the clan chief’s barn. The lass who had tended to his wounds at the time was quite different than Catherine. Janet Buchanan had stitched up his brow with a dull needle and a so. . .
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