The Reiver

by  Jackie Barbosa

Cover Art by Kimberley Killion, Hot Damn Designs

Kindle Edition

© Jackie Barbosa

ISBN 13: 978-0-9849650-2-1

Publisher's Notes

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This ebook is intended to be distributed without DRM. You have the publisher’s permission to strip any DRM should it have been added by the retailer. In addition, please feel free to share this ebook with anyone you think may enjoy it and consider reviewing it on the retailer site from which you downloaded it.

This story was originally published in the Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance.

Contact: jackie@jackiebarbosa.com.

The Reiver

Lochmorton Castle, West March, 1595

Duncan Maxwell grabbed one of the pitch torches from its sconce on the dungeon wall and ducked to avoid hitting his head on the lintel as he entered the small, dark cell. The reiver his men had captured in the wee hours of the morning huddled in the far corner. The figure neither looked up to see who had entered nor flinched at the sound of the heavy wooden door thudding shut. Duncan knew that his presence had been registered, however, for the boy’s spine stiffened and his respiration increased.

“Well, reiver, what have you to say for yourself?”

The boy didn’t move.

Duncan sighed. So that was the way it was going to be. He didn’t relish the notion of threatening a child, but he would do what he must to find out who was responsible for the recent raids on his territory resulting in the loss of a dozen cattle and twice that many sheep. His men were getting restless and angry and would soon begin to take out their frustrations in raids of their own.

He strode over to the lad and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him up with one hand until the boy’s feet dangled several inches from the floor. It was far easier than it ought to have been, even for a man of Duncan’s unusual height and strength. He grimaced, wondering when the child had last eaten, for he weighed little more than a wet cat.

Notwithstanding his sympathy for the boy’s plight, Duncan gave him a none-too-gentle shake. “Answer me, lad, or you ken I’ll have no choice but to hang you on the morrow.”

Still, the boy ignored him. Duncan had to give him credit—he was brave and loyal, if not bright.

“Come on, boy, you can’t be more than fourteen. Do you want to die before you’ve even swived your first wench?”

That brought the boy’s head up. In the light of the torch, his eyes glittered black with malice. He drew back his head and spat in Duncan’s face.

Under any other circumstances, such an action would have brought a swift and violent reaction. But, at the precise moment the spittle hit his chin, Duncan realized his mistake. His gaunt-faced, dirty-cheeked prisoner was no lad, but a lady.

He was so startled by the revelation that he nearly dropped her. Christ in heaven, what manner of raiding party would permit a woman to ride with them? Bad enough to think they’d impress a child, but a female? The very idea bespoke an unthinkable brand of madness and desperation.

Filled with remorse at having treated her so roughly, he set her gently on her feet, half-fearing she’d crumple back to the floor in a heap. To his relief, she held her ground, staring up at him defiantly with wide, thick-lashed eyes that might be either dark brown or deep blue. Although her cheek and jaw bones were far too prominent, no doubt a consequence of poor nutrition, her heart-shaped face and bowed lips were unmistakably feminine. His men must have been blind to mistake her for a boy.

But then, to be fair, they had come upon the raiders at night and had brought her directly back to the dungeon, which was hardly well-lit. The possibility that their captive might be female would never have crossed their minds, as it hadn’t his until he’d gotten a good look at her face. If she had kept her head down, he might not have recognized the truth, either. Christ, he might have kept her in the dungeon for weeks on end without ever realizing what a treasure he had been handed.

For however mad and desperate her clan must be to bring her along on a raid, they would be ever madder and more desperate to ransom her back. And he would gladly stretch the necks of the men responsible for reiving his livestock in payment for her safe return.

“Let’s begin again, shall we? I am Duncan Maxwell, laird of Lochmorton Castle, and you are…?”

Silence.

He tried another tack. “I’m sure your family is very concerned for your safety. Would you not like to get word to them that you’re well and in no danger?”

More silence. She had the fortitude of a stone, he had to give her that.

But then something happened which betrayed her. A long, low gurgle issued from the region of her belly.

“Your first name, then, in exchange for your breakfast.”

At that, he could almost see her salivate. She was terribly hungry, almost starved. Duncan wished he didn’t have to use her privation against her, but this was no time for an attack of conscience. Especially when she was the thief, and he was not responsible for her condition.

She raised her head and said through clenched teeth, “You already have my name, Duncan Maxwell, laird of Lochmorton Castle.”

His brow furrowed. He most surely did not know her name.

“You said it when you first came in,” she clarified.

Duncan thought back. What had he said when he’d entered the cell? Well, reiver, what have you to say for yourself? Cheeky, that’s what she was.

“Reiver is not your name, and we both know it.”

“Aye, well, it’s the only one you’re going to get,” she said with a shrug. The gesture drew attention to the thin, pitiful shoulders beneath the oversized linen shirt she wore. He found his gaze drawn lower, involuntarily seeking the outline of her breasts. She must have bound them, he decided. Either that or she was exceptionally small-bosomed.

For some peculiar reason, the image of breasts so tiny he could encompass their entirety in his mouth flashed through his brain, bringing with it an immediate flare of lust.

Duncan shook himself, puzzled by his response. Small breasts did not appeal to him. He preferred his women full and curvaceous…not to mention welcoming. Odd that his body didn’t seem to agree with this assessment. Even filthy and scrawny as she was, he couldn’t dismiss his awareness that she was young and female and utterly in his power.

If he chose to take her to his bed, no one would say him nay. No one but her, and her only defenses—an excess of bravado and a sharp tongue—would be easy enough to overcome. Duncan wasn’t a vain man, but he was well aware of his effect on females of the species, and he doubted this slip of a woman would be any exception. And once she’d sweetened up under his assault, she’d likely tell him not only her name, but anything and everything else he wanted to know.

The scheme built itself before he was even fully aware he had conceived it. She was cold, hungry, and alone. Her clansmen had turned tail and deserted her, undoubtedly believing she would swing by morning for their collective crime. Any person subjected to the kind of privation she’d obviously suffered would likely be more easily seduced by kindness than by cruelty. You caught more fish by baiting hooks than throwing rocks, after all.

He smiled, benign and beneficent in his newfound, if devious, magnanimity. “Very well, Reiver, you’ve admitted what you are if not whom. For now, I think that’s sufficient for breakfast and an improvement in your accommodations.”

* * *

True to her brothers’ descriptions, the Maxwell of Lochmorton was huge and forbidding, a veritable beast in a tartan. Although for a beast, she had to admit he had remarkably comely features, despite the telltale scar—the Lockerbie lick—that slashed across one cheek. The warm glow of the torch flickered across the rugged terrain of his face, dominated by a prominent brow ridge and a long, hawkish nose that had obviously been broken more than once. But when he smiled…it was as if the clouds had parted to admit the sun, flooding the hard landscape in bright, beautiful light.

Surely it was only hunger that made her sway precariously toward him. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal in three days.

He probably thought she was weak because she was female. That if he plied her with food and drink and a warm, soft bed, she would betray her family. He could not be more wrong.

Even so, she would bide her time and play his game, pretending to be the noble hostage. But there would be no ransom. A rescue was equally out of the question. Eventually, he would realize the truth and hang her for a thief. No Scottish border laird could afford to allow a reiver to go unpunished, even a female one.

In the meantime, however, it would be good to be well-fed, dry, and comfortable, especially at the laird of Lochmorton’s expense.

But she would give him nothing. He was a Maxwell. Her mortal enemy. And that she would never forget. Or forgive.

* * *

Duncan always knew when Reva—as he had taken to calling her—entered the room he was in. In the two months since she’d become his “honored guest,” he had come no closer to determining her real first name or her identity, but his nerves had become intimately acquainted with every nuance of her bearing. He recognized instantly the weight and rhythm of her footfalls, the cadence of her breath, the citrusy scent that was uniquely hers.

Despite the low, buzzing din in the castle’s main hall, each and every harbinger of her arrival registered on him in ripples of awareness, like pebbles cast into a still, blue lake. It came as no surprise to him at all, therefore, when she set her trencher of blood sausage and bread in the center of the long table and sat down to eat. As always, she studiously ignored his presence, bending her head over her food so that her auburn curls partially shielded her face from his view. Fortunately, her hair, which had been cropped in deference to her masquerade as a boy, was still too short to hide much, and so Duncan could still make out the elegant slope of her nose and the stubborn point of her chin.

As he watched her tear off a hunk of the bread and wrap it around the sausage, he pondered what name to give her today.

It was a game he had devised since her second day at Lochmorton. At each meal, he greeted her with a different name, hoping she might betray by some small reaction her true first name. She had, of course, never so much as flinched as he worked his way through all of the more common women’s names, both Scottish and English, and a few much more uncommon ones as well. At this point, he was fairly well out of likely options, but he wasn’t about to give up the game.

When she opened her small, bow-shaped mouth wide to encompass the makeshift sausage roll, which bore an undeniable resemblance to a phallus, Duncan went soft and hard all in the same moment. Of course, she immediately spoiled the effect by sinking her teeth into the sausage and tearing a large bite from it, but the sheer bliss that suffused her features as she chewed was equally, if not more, erotic. Christ, he wanted to see that look on her face when she was naked and spread out beneath him. He wanted that look to be for him.

His body’s response was an absolute puzzle to him. In any other circumstance, he would likely not have given her a second glance. Although six weeks of proper meals had eliminated the emaciated, hunted look she’d had that first night and filled out some of her curves, she had not been binding her breasts as he had suspected. The dark green gown she wore—a cast-off from his sister, Alys—fit well enough from top to bottom and across the shoulders, but gaped at the chest despite obvious attempts at alteration.

Duncan found himself trying to catch a peek down the bodice as she bent over her trencher. He cursed himself. Even when he couldn’t think of a single reason to be attracted to her, he couldn’t stop thinking about bedding her. It was perverse. She was nothing he thought he wanted in a woman…and everything he desired.

And that gave him this morning’s name.

“Good morrow, Venus.”

He expected the same response he always got, which was, of course, none. So he was surprised when she raised her chin with a jerk and fixed him with a blistering stare. A casual observer might have called her eyes brown or perhaps hazel, but to Duncan, her eyes were the color of the moors—a dark, mossy green flecked with rich brown and bright gold—and like the moors, they could appear at one moment soft and inviting, at another fierce and forbidding.

At the moment, their mood was definitely the latter. “It is one thing to attempt to make me betray myself, but quite another to openly mock me, sir.”

Duncan’s eyebrows went up. “Whatever makes you think I’m mocking you?”

“I have looked in a mirror on more than one occasion,” she said with a snort, “and I am well aware I am no man’s ideal of feminine beauty.”

“Perhaps you have spent your life in the company of the wrong men.”

“And if you think you will trick me into revealing who those men are with such a transparent attempt at flattery, you are bound for disappointment.”

Duncan blinked. Of course, he hadn’t been thinking that at all, but he should have been. After two months of good food and a warm bed, she ought to be softening by now. Any other woman would have cracked, he was sure. Yet if anything, his reiver seemed to be digging her heels in even more. It was almost as if she wanted him to execute her.

Christ, what sort of a monster did she take him for?

The sort who plans to execute her loved ones if she reveals their identity, his conscience pointed out.

But that was the way of the border. Reivers must be brought to account. She knew it as well as he did, which was no doubt why she guarded her secrets the way a vestal virgin guarded her virtue.

She didn’t trust him, and she shouldn’t. But he wished, with a heavy ache in his chest, that it were otherwise.

* * *

There was no denying it: Lochmorton Castle was a happy place. Everyone had enough to eat, warm clothes, and a solid roof over their heads. Children frolicked in the courtyard when the weather was good and in the hall when it was not. The clansfolk went about their daily tasks with great cheer, unconcerned about what the morrow would bring.

And it was all because of him. The Maxwell.

They could do nothing but sing his praises. Since he had become chieftain two years ago upon his father’s untimely death at Dryfe Sands, the clan’s fortunes had been utterly transformed. The livestock were plentiful, the crops meticulously tended, the larders well-stocked. They felt safe and secure. No one dared to threaten Duncan Maxwell openly, and though the occasional raid could not be prevented—begging your pardon for mentioning it, miss—they had never in memory been so prosperous or content.

The worst part of it was that their contentment was contagious. She had expected to be treated with disdain, or even contempt. Instead, she had received nothing but kindness. When the women had discovered that she could not sew, and so could not alter the gowns they thoughtfully provided her, they did not deride her, but rather offered to do the task themselves or to teach her if she was willing to learn.

After a lifetime of being told that the Maxwells were the root of all evil, it was disorienting, and she had slowly found herself admiring Duncan Maxwell in spite of herself. He was everything a clan chieftain should be—wise, strong, dependable, and honest.

In short, everything her uncle was not.

As her hatred had seeped out of her over the course of the past few weeks, it was replaced with something even more difficult to bear: the hopeless, soul-deep longing that he could be hers.

Which was why, when he had called her Venus this morning at breakfast, she had reacted so sharply and uncharacteristically. She wanted more than anything for him to find her beautiful and desirable, but she knew such a wish was as foolish as it was impossible. Yet, when he’d looked at her with his sharp blue eyes and told her she must have spent her life in the company of the wrong men, her throat had thickened with the realization that it was true. Her family was nothing but wrong men, although perhaps not in precisely the way Duncan Maxwell implied.

Still, she could not betray them. Despite their many shortcomings, they were her flesh and blood.

One thing was clear, however. If she stayed here at Lochmorton much longer, the Maxwell clan would become more of a family to her than her flesh and blood had ever been and pleasing Duncan Maxwell more important to her than a lifetime of loyalties.

She had to do something drastic. And soon.

* * *

When Reva didn’t appear at mealtime for the third morning in a row, Duncan went looking for her. Although she’d lost her gaunt, emaciated appearance, she was still too thin to stop eating. If she was fasting in the hopes he’d feel guilty and release her, she needed to be disabused of that notion immediately. And if she was ill—God forbid—he would see to her care.

He did not find her in her chamber, which came as something of a relief, for if she could exercise her freedom to roam the castle at will, she could not be sick—or at least not terribly so. After fruitless searches of several common rooms, he located her at last on the upper floor of the tower.

She stood in front of a tall, narrow window to the left of the stairs, her forehead pressed against the glass as she surveyed the harsh landscape that spread out below. The sky was overcast, and so the light filtering in through the wavy glass illuminated her profile in a cool, silvery glow.

“I do hope you are not planning to jump,” he said, hoping to inject a bit of levity.

At the sound of his voice, she turned to look at him. Her expression was so bleak, Duncan’s heart wrenched as if it were trying to twist its way out of his chest. For a few seconds, he was terrified that she really would go so far as to throw herself to her death just to escape him. Was he really that horrible a beast for doing what any other sensible landowner would do in his position?

A wry smile flitted across her lips. “I suppose if I did, it would rather severely damage my value as a hostage.”

Her words cut him to the quick.

“Do you really believe that is the only reason your death would pain me?”

She shrugged. “What other reason could there be?”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. He shouldn’t have been insulted. But he was. Umbrage collided with pent-up lust and frustration. With three strides, he devoured the broad expanse of floor separating them, grabbed her upper arms, and yanked her against his chest.

“What other reason? How about this?” he growled before crushing his mouth to hers in a fierce, hungry kiss.

To his surprise, she didn't try to pull away or resist, but instead parted her lips to accept the demanding thrust of his tongue. And then she went further, answering his strokes with small feints and parries of her own. He groaned and framed her face with his hands, angling her head to ensure the best possible access to the butter-sweet territory of her mouth. She wound her arms around his neck in response, answering him measure for measure, and he found himself grinding his rising erection against the slight swell of her belly.

She nestled against him like a tiny, delicate bird. The difference in their size and strength should have alarmed him. He had the power to crush her without even trying, and yet, he didn't for a second fear the possibility, for like the heather she might appear small and lovely and fragile, but she was strong and enduring and utterly suited to this world, a product of its harsh, unforgiving landscape.

And this kiss—this dark, needful, ardent kiss—felt like the first truly honest interaction they'd ever had. For once, she wasn't ignoring or evading or resisting his questions, but telling him with her lips and her tongue and her ragged breathing exactly what she was thinking and feeling. Things like please and don’t stop and most of all—more. And damned if he wasn’t thinking and feeling the same things. He might well have borne her to the cold, hard stone floor and taken her right then and there had not the flavor of salt interrupted his enjoyment of the moment.

He paused. It tasted like...tears.

She was weeping. Silently, even as she continued to kiss him without reservation, tears streamed from her eyes and mingled with the sweet, tangy taste of her mouth.

He broke the kiss and raised his head. Her eyes were glazed—both with passion and with misery. Christ, what was he doing to her? Perhaps he was capable of crushing her, after all. "Please do not cry. I do not want to hurt you."

"Then let me go," she whispered.

"You know I cannot do that." Although now he wasn't sure why he couldn't. Was it because he had to punish the raiders for challenging his authority and stealing his clan's property? Or just because he wanted to keep her for his own selfish and impure reasons? He wasn't even sure which notion he hated the least. But he knew one thing for certain: releasing her was not an option.

She turned her head and gazed out the window again. "Perhaps I should have jumped."

Panic gripped his chest. "Do not say that. You would not."

"Nay, you're right. I would not. I'm far too great a coward." She swiped at her eyes and gave him a watery smile. "And perhaps a wee bit melodramatic. I’m not accustomed to being cooped up indoors for such long periods of time, you see."

"You’ve spent a great deal of time outside, then?" he asked, hoping not to sound as if he was prying, although of course he was. The more he knew about her, the greater the likelihood he could find out who she really was. His men had canvassed the countryside in search of anyone who might know of a young woman who'd gone missing, but so far, they'd had no luck. Perhaps they’d just been looking in the wrong places.

And if they look in the right places and find her family, what will you do then? Are you sure you want to know?

He shook off the unpleasant questions.

"Oh, nearly all of my life,” she was saying, her face animating with pleasant memories. “We didn't have much of a place to be inside, you ken. Certainly nothing so grand as this."

So, they'd been poor, living, most likely, in a small, sod-roofed cottage on some godforsaken corner of some wealthy laird’s estate. They’d had the resources for good, strong horses and decent firearms, of course, but those were the tools of the trade, every bit as much a necessity for a reiver as a plough and seed for a farmer.

And if they'd had horses...

"Would you like to go for a ride?"

She gave him a shocked look, and he thought perhaps she'd recognized the double entendre, which was perfectly understandable given that he'd been on the verge of riding her good and hard just moments ago. He jerked his head in the direction of the window. "Out there," he clarified. "On horseback."

Her eyes widened and there was no mistaking the joy that sparkled in their moor-colored depths. "Really? You would give me a horse and allow me to ride? Aren't you afraid I will try to escape?"

"Aye, that is a problem," he admitted, as much to himself as to her. But if she did try to escape, she wouldn't get far. He would determine which of his horses she rode, and he would choose the sorriest, slowest nag in his stable to ensure she’d not outrun him. Not that he had any horse that could outrun his Curaidh. But still, he would prefer she made him a promise. "Will you give me your word that you will not try to escape? In exchange for a few hours outside these walls."

Her teeth worried her lower lip for a minute, but then she nodded. "Aye, I give you my word I will not try to escape."

"Then I am not worried. Be ready tomorrow an hour after breakfast." He started for the stairwell, then checked his step and looked over his shoulder at her. She looked soft and thoroughly kissed and he ached to return and finish what he'd started, but now that he had a plan for ferreting out the truth, he must execute it. "And Reva?"

"Aye?"

"You will come down to breakfast tomorrow morning. If you do not eat, I cannot in good conscience allow you to ride."

She bowed her head, the very picture of meek subservience. "Aye, sir."

He should have known right then that he was in trouble.

* * *

Duncan had never seen a man, let alone a woman, who appeared more at home on a horse than Reva.

True to his plan, he had instructed his stablehand to saddle the oldest, tiredest nag in his stable. This didn't mean the roan mare was a poor or useless mount, of course; no one in the West March could afford to keep horses that weren't up to the demands of border life. Still, Ruadh was a bit past her prime and, having foaled several months ago, should have been nowhere near capable of matching Curaidh for speed or stamina.

And yet, with Reva on her back, Ruadh showed no signs of flagging spirits or energy. If anything, the horse seemed as enthusiastic and joyful at the opportunity to be out on the moors as her rider. Together, they moved effortlessly over the rough, uneven terrain, horse and rider flowing together as one.

"Race you to that outcropping," Reva challenged, pointing to a rock formation several hundred yards distant.

Her face was so full of life, so different from the bleak, hopeless expression of yesterday, that Duncan couldn't resist. What harm could come of it? If it made her happy, if it endeared him to her even a little, it could only help his cause. Perhaps he'd even let her win.

He grinned at her. "You're on!"

Reva, being Reva, didn't wait for a starter's mark. She kneed Ruadh's flanks and leaned over the mare's neck. The animal surged forward without so much as a half-second's hesitation. By the time Duncan spurred Curaidh into action, Reva held a lead of almost a hundred yards.

There would be no question of letting her win now. He would be fortunate if she didn’t beat him outright, at least over this short distance.

He bent low and murmured Gaelic encouragements in his mount’s ear. The musket he’d slung over his shoulder in the event of an attack slapped hard against his back with each thundering beat of Curaidh’s hooves.

They were making up ground, but not quickly enough to overtake her before the finish line. She reached the outcropping just strides before he did, her laughter ringing out like chimes as she pulled the mare to a halt.

“I win,” she said, her features glowing with triumph.

“You cheated,” he pointed out, referring to the head start she’d taken. Curaidh’s flanks heaved beneath him. By contrast, her horse barely looked winded.

“Aye, but you kenned I don’t play fair already.”

"Fair enough." He shook his head as he gave his horse a soothing pat. "How on earth did my men catch you when you can ride like that? I'm sure the horse you had that night was in much better condition than Ruadh here."

She shrugged. "They were supposed to catch me," she said.

"What do you mean, they were supposed to catch you?” His mind raced with possibilities. Was she a spy? An assassin? Neither seemed remotely likely, and yet…

"If we were ever interrupted during a raid, it was my job to create a distraction and allow the rest to escape, even if it meant my capture. The assumption was that since I was female, no one would actually execute me for the raid and I'd soon be set free." She smiled winningly at him, as if to give him the opportunity to remedy his failure to behave according to expectation.

"You mean you'd done this before?" He was horrified. Damn it, she could have been killed any number of times before she'd crossed his path. He might even have hanged her himself without realizing... His stomach turned.

"Ride with my family on raids? Oh aye, all the time."

"Christ, Reva..." He closed his eyes. "But then...why didn't you tell me straightaway that night that you were a woman?"

Her mouth drew into a straight, tight line. "I wanted you to execute me."

"What! In the name of God, why?"

"You're a Maxwell. I knew you wouldn't let me go. I knew you'd try to get me to betray my family. I thought death would be easier to bear than that." She drew a ragged breath. "Than this."

"Than what?"

She looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears. "Falling in love with you."

He couldn't think of a single thing she could have said in that moment that would have surprised—or thrilled—him more. His heart threatened to burst through his rib cage.

She loved him. As God was his witness, nothing mattered but that. He didn't care who she was, where she had come from, or what she had done. As long as she loved him, everything could be made right.

"Loving me is not so terrible as all that, is it?"

She shook her head. "Perhaps not. But I did not want to. And now that I do...I do not know what to do."

Duncan smiled gently. "Then you’ve no choice but to follow my lead."

She nodded, her smile watery in return. "Aye."

"Come with me," he said, turning Curaidh away from the outcropping. “I know exactly what to do.”

He led her to one of the many small cottages that dotted Lochmorton's landscape. Most would be occupied come planting time, but now it was after the harvest and most of his people had moved inside the castle walls in preparation for winter.

After helping her dismount, he brought her inside. She looked uncertainly around the small, sparsely furnished room. There was a fireplace, a few wooden chairs, and a bed.

"Why did you bring me here?"

Duncan caressed her cheek with one thumb. "To make you my wife."

"Surely you cannot mean to marry me," she gasped.

"I can and I do. I love you in return, Reva, and I shall settle for nothing less than making an honest woman of you.”

“’Tis a little late now,” she teased. She eyed the room even more dubiously than before. "But surely you should have brought me to a priest if that was your intent."

He chuckled. "And so I shall...but I have been more priestly myself than I would like these past months. With your permission, I would like to remedy that now."

"You mean…?" She glanced to the bed and back to him.

"Aye," he said, drawing her into his embrace, "I wish to make love to you. If you will permit me, of course." His voice was rougher—and more pleading—than he would have liked.

"That doesna sound like the proper way to make either an honest woman or a wife of me," she observed, but the barest hint of a smile teased the corners of her lips as she said it.

He pressed his lips against her forehead. "No, but it is the only way to make a sane man of me. Knowing you love me, I cannot bear another minute of this torture."

"Torture?"

"Aye, lass, you've had me tied in knots since that moment in my dungeon that I realized you were no lad. If you will not have me now, I do not know if I will make it whole to the wedding." He moved his mouth to her temple and was pleased by her shiver of response.

She pulled away slightly and tilted her head to one side, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "My brothers always told me not to listen to a man when he claimed he'd sustain an injury if he did not have me in his bed. They say 'twas a ploy, that no harm ever came of waiting."

He laughed and slid his hands from where they rested at the small of her back to cup her buttocks. She had worn breeches for their ride, and being treated to the sight of the rounded curve of her backside had been tempting him all day. "I never said my harm would be physical. 'Twill be entirely mental."

She made thoughtful, scrunched-up faces as though considering this claim while he kneaded the firm muscles with his hands. Perhaps he wasn't as fond of large breasts as he'd once believed. A generous set of hindquarters more than made up for any lack.

"Ah, well,” she sighed at last, “I suppose a mad Maxwell will do me no good as a husband. Very well, Duncan Maxwell of Lochmorton. You may make love to me."

With a groan of relief, he lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. It was unmade and a bit lumpy, but he hoped she wouldn't notice either discomfort. He knew he wouldn’t.

He first removed his plaid, which he had worn over shirt and breeches in deference to the autumn chill, and spread it out atop the bare mattress. When he was finished, he set about undressing her. She blushed when he removed her shirt and covered her breasts with her hands, but he pushed them away with a gentle shake of his head.

“Do not be ashamed, runag. They are just as I imagined. Small and firm and the perfect size to fit in my mouth.”

“In your mouth?” she asked, her eyes wide with puzzlement.

Her innocence was adorable. After such a difficult life, that she should come to him so obviously untouched seemed something of a miracle. That she had come to him at all was miracle enough.

He bent his head and encompassed the entire, lovely rosebud of one breast in his mouth. The salty tang of her skin was in perfect harmony with the lemony scent that clung to her.

“Oh,” she sighed in wonderment as he flicked his tongue across the hardening nipple.

“You see. Perfect, just as I said.”

The remainder of her garb came off with greater ease and less resistance. As each inch of her was revealed, he found more beauty to explore with his hands and mouth—the velvet-skinned expanse of her belly, the swirl of dark red-tinged curls at the apex of her thighs, the unexpected length of her slender yet muscular thighs and calves.

His own clothes he removed with even greater alacrity, nearly frantic in his need to lie with her, naked skin to naked skin. When he knelt between her thighs and eased his way inside her, he shook with the effort to maintain his control, fearful both of hurting her and of reaching his pleasure before he found hers.

He needn’t have worried. She wrapped her arms and legs around him the way she’d wrapped herself around his heart and urged him on. They rocked together as though they had made love like this hundreds of times before, each attuned to the other’s rhythms and sensations as both climbed toward the precipice and then tipped over it, in unison, into rapture.

The only thing that marred his pleasure was that, when she cried out his name, he could not call out hers in return.

* * *

“You shall have to give your name for the wedding ceremony, you know,” he observed some time later.

She lifted her head from its cradle in his shoulder and looked down at him, her expression guarded and a little sad. “You know I cannot,” she whispered.

“What if I promised not to seek revenge upon your family for the raid?”

Her eyebrows flew up her forehead. “You would do that? For me?”

He stroked her hair. “Aye, lass, I would. In fact, perhaps I should be thanking them.”

“Why?”

“Because if they had not tried to reive my cattle that night, I would never have met you.”

He pulled her head down toward his and gave her what he meant to be a sweet and reassuring kiss, but the instant their mouths touched, his intent was entirely forgotten. Her lips parted, ardent and inviting, and her tongue darted daringly into his mouth. He groaned as a fresh wave of desire spiraled downward through his loins. With no small effort, he broke the kiss and forced his raging need back under control. While he could make love to her a half dozen more times without consequence, the same could not be said for her. She’d be sore enough on the ride back to Lochmorton Castle as it was.

As he drew away, she reached up and traced her thumb across the scar that marred his left cheek. “Did it hurt terribly?” she asked.

He recognized that she was changing the subject, but decided to go along with it. “Aye. Like fire.”

The memory of that day was as crisp as if it had happened yesterday, and yet as confused and chaotic as the events themselves. His father had insisted that they join their cousin, John, Lord Maxwell, in his campaign against Sir James Johnstone. With decades of enmity between the Maxwells and the Johnstones, there’d been no doubt that the battle would be bloody and ugly.

What both his father and Lord Maxwell had failed to anticipate was the formidable advantage the Johnstones’ familiarity with the terrain of Dryfe Sands would give them despite their smaller numbers. Lord John had died in the ambush mere seconds after crossing the river. Duncan’s father, along with a sizable portion of the Maxwell, Armstrong, and Douglas clan had followed him to the grave minutes later. Duncan himself had managed to escape with the routed army, but not before receiving the sharp tip of a Johnstone sword to the cheek.

He had sworn on that day never again to enter a battle on territory he didn’t know as well as his own newly-altered face. And never to forgive the Johnstones for their perfidy.

But he did not want the hostility those old memories inspired to interrupt the peaceful contentment of the moment, and so he placed his hand over hers and held it against his cheek. “But at least I know now never to trust a Johnstone.”

“Aye, that you do,” she said softly, resting her head back on the curve of his shoulder. For the time being, he decided to let the issue of her name rest. After a few moments of silence, she stirred in his arms.

“What is the trouble now, runag?”

“I need to…that is…” she stuttered, her cheeks pinkening. “I must go outside and relieve myself,” she finished in an embarrassed rush.

Being a gentleman, of course he allowed her to get up and put on her shirt and breeches before heading out into the windy chill of the afternoon. And after what had just passed between them, it didn’t occur to him to follow her outside to keep an eye on her. After all, he trusted her.

It was only when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves that he realized the truth.

She hadn’t needed to relieve herself at all. All along, she had planned to escape.

* * *

The border between Maxwell and Johnstone land was in sight. Jamie Johnstone, great-niece of Sir James Johnstone and one of his many namesakes—albeit, as far as she knew, the only female one—was nearly home.

Duncan Maxwell’s big black stallion bore her over the rough, rocky terrain with breathtaking speed and ease. Saddled now with the roan mare he’d given her to ride, the laird of Lochmorton would never overtake them before she reached safety. Likely, he would not even try.

Free. She was almost free.

Why, then, did she feel as though her heart was being torn to shreds and pounded into the ground with every beat of the horse’s hooves? Her throat was raw and her eyes burned, but still she rode toward the border.

This was for the best. If Duncan discovered the truth of who she was, he would hate her. He had said himself he had learned never to trust a Johnstone. Until that moment, she had held out the smallest sliver of hope that they could be happy, that perhaps he did not share in his family’s ingrained hatred toward hers. But that had always been a slim and dangerous hope, for she had known from the beginning that he had been at Dryfe Sands, that he had lost his father there. The Lockerbie lick on his cheek told the tale of his participation in the battle, even his tongue did not. And how could a man fail to despise the people who had killed his own father?

Her people.

She slowed the horse to a walk after the crossing the border. There was no indication that she was being followed, and although the animal showed no signs of tiring, even a horse as magnificent as Curaidh could not maintain such a breakneck pace indefinitely. It would be difficult to convince her brothers to return a horse as fine as he to the Maxwell stable, but she could not in good conscience keep him.

That alone told her a great deal had changed. Once upon a time, she’d had no conscience at all.

Jamie Johnstone’s days as a reiver were over.

* * *

Squinting in the darkness, Jamie closed the stall door behind Curaidh, wincing at the loud creak of the hinges. She paused for a moment, listening for any hint of a human presence, but heard only the annoyed snorts and curious whickers of horses whose nightly rest had been disturbed.

She took a deep, cleansing breath. It was ridiculous for her to be so on edge. No one would anticipate a reiver breaking into his stables to return a horse. A smile tickled her lips as she thought about Duncan’s reaction on the morrow, when he discovered his prized steed had been returned—though her brothers, ever the opportunists, had seen to it that the stallion had left a few “deposits” with several of the Johnstone mares in the months before they’d brought him back.

Of course, James and Robbie still thought this entire plan was mad and dangerous. And yet, perhaps because they felt some latent sense of guilt for her months of imprisonment in Maxwell territory—a fate they considered several orders of magnitude worse than death—they had acquiesced to her decision. And now, she was but a few steps from meeting them outside.

Not so mad or dangerous , this…

“Oof!” Just feet from the door, she came to an abrupt halt against an immovable object that felt remarkably warm and strangely malleable. Rather like a human chest. And a damnably familiar one at that.

Damn and blast!

“So, reiver, we meet again.” Duncan’s voice was low and gravelly and terribly arousing. He grabbed her wrists and yanked her flush against his body. Her eyes widened. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who was aroused. “What did you come to steal this time?”

“You know as well as I that I have not stolen anything from you,” she retorted. Please, let James and Robert have gotten away. As long as they were safe, she could bear any indignity at Duncan Maxwell’s hands. She reckoned she deserved every one he could dish out after what she’d done.

“On the contrary,” he murmured against the top her head, “you’ve stolen my heart. I was hoping you came to return it.”

The raw, unconcealed pain in his voice took her aback.

“I—I—” she stammered. Her heart hammered like a blacksmith’s mallet against her breastbone. “I came to return Curaidh.”

“I know,” he said softly, grazing her ear with his lips as he spoke.

Gooseflesh rose on her skin, racing down her arm. She didn’t know what to make of this strange situation. It seemed rather more like seduction than detention.

“What do you want?”

“I should think that would be obvious. I want you, Jamie Johnstone.”

She gasped, incredulous. “You know my name!”

“Aye, lass.”

“But—but how?”

“You did not think I just let you escape, did you?”

She stared up at him blankly, a rather fruitless enterprise in light of the darkness. “What choice did you have? You had a slow horse and no clothes on.”

“True, and I could not have prevented you from getting away…not without shooting you, and though I’ll admit I was sorely tempted, I might have missed and shot Curaidh instead.”

She burned with instant indignation at the insinuation, but then she caught the twinkle in his eyes.

“But in any event, ‘twas simple enough to track where you’d gone, runag. And once I realized you were a Johnstone, it was only a matter of making inquiries of the right people to discover the rest.”

Jamie’s mind whirled. All these months, he had known who she was, who her family was, and yet he’d made no effort to exact justice for the raid. He could have petitioned the Warden for redress, or even the king, but obviously he had not.

“Since then, I’ve been waiting for you,” he added, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Not entirely patiently.”

“What? But—what on earth could have made you believe I would come back?”

He shrugged. “I know you, and I knew you would not steal from me. Not after what we shared.”

“But I ran away—“

He pressed his finger to her lips to shush her. “I did not give you much choice, did I? Telling you I’d never trust a Johnstone. That was why you asked about the scar, wasn’t it?”

“Aye,” she admitted. “I wanted to know if you still hated my family for what happened at Dryfe Sands.”

“And I did. Then, and for some time afterward. And I was furious with you for breaking your promise.”

“I didn’t promise I would not escape. I promised not to try to,” she pointed out.

He chuckled. “Aye, I recall now you were very specific when you made the promise. Notwithstanding, I was very angry—and hurt. I considered coming after you, going to the Warden, demanding satisfaction from the king. But in the end, I realized this is the only thing that would ever bring me true satisfaction.” His mouth swooped down and captured hers.

Aye, aye, he was right. This was the only thing she wanted, the only thing that truly mattered. She would never want anything else in life if only she could have this—the pepper-sweet taste of his mouth, the warm, solid breadth of his body, and the truths they could only seem to communicate this way.

He lifted his head. “I am ready to declare an end to this branch of the Maxwell-Johnstone feud. What do you say we start a new alliance in its place?”

“I would love that, but what about my brothers? I am not so sure they’ll go along.”

“My brother, Ewan, is out there right now, negotiating a bride price for you. I think ‘tis safe to say they’ll find the terms favorable.” His voice dropped an octave. “I’d even give them Curaidh in exchange for you.”

Joy blazed in her heart. “I love you, Duncan Maxwell.”

“As I love you, Reiver of my heart.”

The End

Author’s Note

This story is loosely based on actual events. In the late 1500s, a feud erupted between the two most powerful Scottish border families, the Maxwells and the Johnstones. The animosity between the families resulted in the Battle of Dryfe Sands, where the Johnstones solidly defeated the Maxwells, leaving many of the surviving combatants with facial scars known as “Lockerbie licks.” Duncan Maxwell and Jamie Johnstone are both products of my imagination, branches of the two families that never actually existed. The conflict that stands between them and their happy ending. however, is very much a product of history.

Author Bio

When Jackie isn’t trying to be a writer—and even when she is—she’s a happily married mother of three who makes her living writing technical training materials for the software industry. She lives with her husband and children in Southern California, where she was born and raised. She holds a BA in Classical Studies from the University of California at Santa Cruz, and an MA in Classics from the University of Chicago.

You can visit her online and learn more about her current and upcoming titles at http://www.jackiebarbosa.com.

An Excerpt from

The Lesson Plan

by Jackie Barbosa

Available now

Sometimes, love is the hardest lesson of all...

Despite her imminent debut, Miss Winifred Langston has no interest in trying on expensive ball gowns, learning intricate dance steps, or perfecting the one piece she can play on the pianoforte. Freddie would rather don a pair of breeches and go target shooting, fishing, or horseback riding—astride—than be anywhere near a ballroom or high tea. Rather than waste the last few days of her freedom on such pursuits, she invites her two closest friends to join her in one final caper.

When Conrad Pearce learns of Freddie’s plans, he decides it’s past time to teach his younger brother’s partner-in-crime a well-deserved lesson. But when he intercepts her, disguised as a highwayman, to demonstrate how dangerous and ill-advised her stunts are, he can’t resist the sensual beauty hidden beneath the maddening tomboy’s exterior. What began as one sort of lesson becomes quite another, as Conrad embarks on a comprehensive erotic tutorial of his surprisingly enthusiastic and adept student.

Now, he only has to convince the irrepressible Freddie to trade her breeches and madcap ways for the gowns and domesticity she despises.

Chapter One

Lancashire, September 1794

The Honorable Miss Winifred Langston had achieved, through a combination of blind luck and careful contrivance, the prodigious age of twenty-one without ever having suffered the indignity of a London Season. Her luck came in the form of a doting, distractible father who seemed not to notice that his only daughter had long since reached an age past which gallivanting about the countryside dressed as a boy could be considered an excusable, childish prank. The contrivance came in convincing her brothers that, should she have her debut, it would be their duty to chaperon her to endless Society events at which they would be every bit as much “on the market” as she. As every one of them still possessed a good many wild oats yet to be sown, they were more than happy to help persuade her father that Freddie’s debut could surely wait until next Season.

And the next. And the next.

But now, neither providence nor machination could forestall the inevitable. In a mere two weeks’ time, the Langstons would complete their prescribed year of mourning for that doting, distractible father, and the new viscount, Freddie’s brother Nash, had come to the stark realization that if he did not marry off his little sister, he would be stuck with her for the rest of his born days.

There was nothing to be done for it, of course. Nash had always been the most imperious of her three brothers, no doubt the result of being the heir, and Freddie knew he would not yield now that his decision was made. That did not mean, however, that she had any intention of being happy about it.

Dressed as usual in her twin brother’s outgrown breeches, shirt, and waistcoat, Freddie sat cross-legged beside the river that separated the Langston estate from the neighboring, much larger property belonging to the Earl of Ormondy, dangling her fishing line in the icy water as she bemoaned her predicament.

“I shall have to wear gowns all the time and dance and take tea. And be ladylike.” The last word came out on a groan.

Thomas Pearce, who happened to be not only Ormondy’s spare but Freddie’s friend since both were in leading strings, sat on her left. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “If it would help, I’d marry you, Fred old girl. We could just carry on like always, then.”

Freddie’s twin and perpetual partner-in-crime, Walter, emitted a peal of laughter from her right. “Are you mad, Tommy? You’re not even three-and-twenty. You can’t get married yet. Puts too much pressure on the rest of us chaps. Besides, you and Freddie as man and wife…?” He shuddered indelicately. “I’d rather contemplate the vicar and Miss Stanley engaging in intimacies than that.”

Thomas’s cheeks turned a hot shade of red, though whether at the thought of the elderly vicar and the stern headmistress of the girls’ school in a torrid embrace or of himself and Freddie as a married couple, she couldn’t be sure. Either one was rather alarming to contemplate.

“Well,” he said staunchly, “if that’s what it takes to keep your brother from forcing Freddie to marry some withered-up husk, I’m willing to make the sacrifice. Least you could do is support me.”

So, marrying her would be a sacrifice for him, would it? That was certainly flattering. Although strictly speaking, she felt much the same. If she were to imagine marrying a Pearce, it would most certainly not be Thomas.

No, it was Conrad Pearce, seven years Thomas’s senior and heir to their father’s earldom, who moved Freddie’s otherwise romantically disinclined heart, not to mention other considerably more unmentionable parts of her anatomy. Other young ladies might have waxed eloquent upon any number of his attributes. handsomeness—exceptional; his height—prodigious; the breadth of his shoulders—impressive; or the remarkable color of his thick-lashed eyes—silver and just as opaque as the real thing. But, though Freddie appreciated these qualities as much as any other female, these attributes were not the primary source of his appeal.

Quite simply, Conrad fascinated her by virtue of being everything she wasn’t—levelheaded, self-contained, urbane, reserved—and that air of perfect, impenetrable composure seemed both a careful façade and a deliberate challenge. Unsettle me, it dared her. Muss my never-out-of-place hair, put my impeccably knotted cravat askew, overset me with passion and recklessness. She found it impossible to believe he was as imperturbable, as detached, as he appeared. Beneath that cool, polished exterior, she believed there lurked a kindred soul, and she ached to set him free from his prison of decorous self-restraint.

Unfortunately, despite years of trying, she had absolutely no hard evidence to support her suspicion. Conrad was about as likely to part with his good sense and marry her as he was to fly to the moon and back. He knew her far too well for that.

In point of fact, everyone in Winmarleigh knew Winifred Langston was not marriage material, which was undoubtedly the reason Nash wanted to remove her to London. There he could foist her off upon unsuspecting gentlemen who might be kept from knowing, until too late, that the object of their affections could shoot the cherry off a cheroot at thirty paces whilst merrily puffing on one herself.

But certainly not if Freddie could prevent it.

She returned her attention to Thomas. “That’s quite all right,” she assured him, giving his arm a sympathetic pat. “No-one needs to make any sacrifices on my behalf. Nash can make me go to London, but he can’t make me marry anyone, and he certainly can’t make anyone want to marry me.”

Far from appearing relieved, however, Thomas looked even more morose. “If the men in London have eyes, you’ll have suitors by the dozen. Once you go, you won’t be back. You’ll see.”

Freddie stared at him. Was he suggesting she was…pretty? Because, truly, nothing could be more ludicrous. Not that she was ugly, of course; she didn’t think that. But she was boyish, sturdy, solid. Certainly nothing so frilly or feminine as pretty.

But now she couldn’t help seeing Thomas through slightly different eyes. Did he see something about her that she herself did not? Did he perhaps actually want to marry her? That was a considerably more unthinkable possibility than that he would consider doing so a sacrifice.

“Oh, don’t be maudlin,” Walter interjected. “She’ll be back come the end of the Season, right as rain, and we’ll all just pick up where we left off.”

Ah, that was more like it. Leave it to her sunny, never-malcontent brother to keep things in perspective. Of course, he would think that nothing would change, because as far as Walter was concerned, the world and everyone in it existed entirely to suit him, because, quite simply, most of the time, they did. He’d gone away to Eton and then Oxford and returned to find everyone and everything at Barrowcreek Park utterly unchanged, including himself. No doubt, he expected the same outcome from Freddie’s impending excursion to London.

But what if, against all odds, London did change her? What if, inconceivable as it sounded, she discovered she actually liked wearing gowns and dancing and taking tea? What if she wanted to marry and behave like a lady?

Most of all, what if this was her last chance to be the outrageous and irrepressible Freddie Langston? What if, a tiny, traitorous voice whispered, this was her last opportunity to get Conrad to notice her—really notice her—before she lost him for good?

She pulled her line abruptly from the water and got to her feet. “Well, if we’re going to pick up where we left off when I return, we ought to be doing something more interesting with these last few weeks than fishing.”

Walter gave her a sly glance. “What did you have in mind?”

Freddie grinned back at him. “A plan only a brother could love…”

Thomas was twitchy all throughout dinner. Oblivious as always, neither the earl nor countess seemed to notice their younger son’s disturbance, but Conrad found it impossible not to notice.

Thomas had dropped his fork. Twice. He spilt wine on his cravat and choked on a bite of pheasant. Most of all, he looked miserable, his eyes sunken, his color ashen. And as always, it fell to Conrad to sort out whatever scrape his brother had got—or was about to get—himself into. No one else would do it, least of all Thomas himself.

So, after the earl excused himself from the men’s after-dinner port to sneak off to visit the mistress he kept in a tidy cottage in the village he thought no one knew of, least of all his wife and sons, Conrad seized the opportunity to ferret out the cause of his brother’s distress. “So, what are Walter and Winifred up to now?”

“Freddie,” Thomas correct reflexively, but not before a guilty expression crossed his face. “You know she hates to be called Winifred.”

“So they are up to something, then.”

But really, when were they not? The residents of Winmarleigh referred to the Langston twins not as Walter and Winifred, but as Salt and Pepper, for they seemed to have taken it upon themselves to provide all the spice to village life. Thomas, alas, was usually relegated to the role of butter, there to smooth things over after they’d gone badly wrong.

“I didn’t say that,” Thomas ground out irritably.

“You didn’t have to. So, what is it this time? Dressing up in sheets to haunt the girls’ school? Putting frogs in the baptismal font? Releasing a plague of locusts?” He was only half-kidding about the latter two.

Although if he were honest, Conrad would be forced to admit that Winifred Langston didn’t have to release either frogs or locusts to plague him. All she had to do was saunter by in a close-fitting pair of breeches, her heavy raven tresses escaping from beneath the cap she jammed on her head in a completely useless effort to camouflage her gender. As if any male with operational vision could mistake the owner of that slender waist and gloriously rounded arse for a boy. He certainly hadn’t been able to since the summer he’d returned from Cambridge to discover that the tomboyish urchin who’d played with his younger brother was no longer a leggy, boisterous child, but a leggy, boisterous young woman with a figure that would have been right at home in Miss May’s Pleasure Parlor.

Conrad shifted uncomfortably. If he was going to gather wool, he would prefer not to have it binding him in anatomically delicate locations.

His brother only proceeded to look more vexed. “This isn’t funny at all, Con.” He let out a slow, anguished sigh. “He’s taking her away. To London.”

Conrad raised an eyebrow. “Not much of a prank, that. I’d have thought Walter more cunning.”

“Not Walter, Nash—er, the viscount. He insists it’s time for Freddie to have her debut and…you know, get married.”

“About time,” Conrad muttered, ignoring the corkscrew of pain burrowing into his chest. It was only a surprise that Nash was finally taking the girl in hand. “The sooner she’s married off, the sooner Winmarleigh will be safe from her antics.” Albeit considerably less entertaining.

Thomas’s mouth hardened into a frown. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

Conrad stared at his brother with a growing sense of disorientation. “Wait. You’re not saying you are…sweet on her?” Thomas looked away, but not before Conrad read the truth. “Bloody hell…you are.”

“Damn it, Con, you wouldn’t understand. She’s just…she’s Freddie, blast it all, and I don’t want to lose her.”

So Thomas wasn’t in love with her? Well, that made the gnawing discomfort of his own inexplicable attraction to the chit seem less lecherous, if only barely. What would his brother—not to mention her brothers—think if he knew how many times Conrad had stripped her bare in his mind and proceeded to have his lascivious way with her?

“What makes you think you will lose her? It’s only a Season. Plenty of ladies don’t find husbands in their first Seasons.” Or second or third. Especially not those who preferred to wear breeches, ride astride, bait their own hooks, and shoot targets from horseback. Likely, it was only Conrad who had a carnal fascination with that sort of female.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You must be blind if you can’t see she’ll be the toast of London. I may not be sweet on her, as you put it, but I know a beautiful woman when I see one. Just because we grew up together does not mean I can’t see her clearly. Apparently, I’m the only one around here who can.”

This was hardly the time for Conrad to admit that his eyesight was perfectly functional when it came to Miss Langston.

“We all have to grow up some day, you know. Even you and Miss Langston. Although, I suppose, hoping that Walter Langston will join the two of you in achieving adulthood would be too much to hope for.”

“You’re making light. The three of us have been friends for our entire lives, but now that we’re grown up, one of us will be forced to move away, simply because she happens to be female. I hardly call that just or fair.”

Fair or not, it was the way of the world. What did Thomas think Conrad could do about it?

“Marry her yourself, then.”

No sooner had the words passed Conrad’s lips than he wished them back. God, the only thing that would be worse than living in the same town with Freddie Langston while not being able to touch her would be living in the same household with her. Just the thought of his brother in bed with her sent an icy shard of rage through his gut.

“I suggested that. She turned me down flat. Doesn’t think any of the London gents will want her, but I know better.”

“Maybe she’ll turn them all down flat, too.”

“I’m sure that’s what she thinks she’ll do. But you know Freddie. She’s too passionate by half, and she doesn’t do anything by mere doubles, or even triples. When she gets to London, she’ll throw herself into the balls and routs the way she throws herself into everything, and then she’ll fall headlong in love.” Thomas sighed. “And then she won’t be back.”

The icy shard that had penetrated Conrad’s gut when he thought of his brother with Freddie twisted sharply as he envisioned the scene Thomas painted so vividly for him. Because Thomas was undoubtedly right. That was exactly how it would be when Freddie Langston arrived in London. She would take it by storm, and it would never be the same again.

“So, she is going to let Nash take her to London without a fuss, then?”

Thomas chuckled. “Oh, hardly. In fact, I think she rather hopes to do something so outrageous, the news will make it all the way to London and Nash won’t be able to take her at all.”

And that was how, a few seconds later, Conrad discovered that the Honorable Miss Winifred Langston intended to visit Miss May’s Pleasure Palace just two nights hence. The reason in order to learn “what all the fuss is about.”

Conrad had a mind to show her. In the interest of not being called out for pistols at dawn by Nash Langston, however, he went upstairs and showed his hand instead.

~ End of Excerpt ~

An Excerpt from

Hot Under the Collar (Lords of Lancashire #2)

By Jackie Barbosa

Available Now!

Despite the old saw about third sons being destined for the church, no one ever expected the rakish, irresponsible Walter Langston to take up the collar, least of all himself. After an accident renders him unfit for military service, however, he has few other options. When he’s given the post of vicar at a parish church in a sleepy, coastal village, he’s convinced he’ll molder in obscurity. Instead, his arrival brings a sudden resurgence in church attendance…or at least, the attendance of female parishioners. As word of the eligible young vicar spreads, every well-heeled family for miles with a marriageable daughter fills his pews, aiming to catch his eye. Unfortunately for these hopeful members of his flock, Walter’s eye has already been caught—by the one woman who doesn’t come to church on Sundays.

Artemisia Finch left a lucrative career as a celebrated member of London’s demimondaine to care for her ailing father. Returning home hasn’t been easy, though, as her past isn’t even a well-kept secret in the village. When the new vicar arrives on her doorstep, Artemisia is determined to send him on his merry, pious way. But Walter Langston is nothing like any man of the cloth she’s ever known—he’s funny, irreverent, handsome, and tempting as sin. Falling in love with a vicar would be a very bad idea for a former courtesan. Why does this one have to be so hot under the collar?

Chapter One

Cumbria, England--May 1803

The good Lord had a devilish sense of humor. That was the only possible explanation for the series of events that had led, inexorably, toward Walter Langston’s current predicament.

To be fair, there was nothing amusing in the accident that had brought an abrupt end to his nascent—albeit not terribly promising—military career. If he had been shot in the arse or even the foot, the story would at least have made good fodder for post-prandial gatherings, but when the errant bullet struck one’s collarbone and left one with less than full use of the adjoining arm, there wasn’t a great deal to laugh about.

He could, of course, have continued in the army despite his disability, but the truth was, he hadn’t wanted to. Having been successfully shot at once by mistake, Walter had little inclination to put himself in a position where he was guaranteed to be shot at on purpose. A single encounter with a projectile was enough to last a lifetime. It had certainly come close enough to ending that lifetime.

Unfortunately, he had been equally disinclined upon his recovery to return to the life he’d led prior to purchasing his commission. It was one thing to live off the largesse of an older, titled sibling at twenty three or twenty four and quite another at nearly thirty. Walter had required a profession. The military option was now closed and murdering both his older brothers—not to mention two small nephews of whom he was rather fond—in order to come into the viscountcy was quite out of the question. That left only one remotely acceptable option. The one to which he, as the third son of an aristocrat, had purportedly been born, but which he had misspent the majority of his youth proving himself unfit for.

Walter Langston, who had never in his life been a model of either piety or propriety, was now a vicar.

He had, however, reconciled himself to this particular anomaly some time ago. His real problem stemmed not from his vocation—if it could even be called that—but from the fact that every week since his arrival, the size of his congregation had multiplied by leaps and bounds, until the pews of St. Mary’s were filled to bursting. This Sunday, his eleventh, he had gazed from the pulpit upon an audience that far exceeded the entire population of the tiny coastal village of Grange-Over-Sands.

This might be an enviable feat for many a clergyman, but Walter was well aware that the growth in church attendance had little to do with his powers of oratory or ministry and everything to do with his marital status.

An unmarried vicar, it seemed, must be in want of a wife.

And that was precisely his dilemma. Every Sunday after the service, he must run a growing gauntlet of dewy-eyed, dough-faced young ladies and their hopeful mamas and papas, who inevitably pressed him to come to their homes for tea; for dinner; for a lawn party; for no reason at all save the pleasure of his delightful company. By the time he reached the parish house, he was always horrified by the realization that once again, in an effort to appear polite and avoid offense, he had accepted every single invitation. This placed him in the unfortunate position of appearing to have a possible romantic interest in nearly every marriageable female in the surrounding countryside when, in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Not to mention that the whirlwind of social activity during the week inevitably left him no time to write his sermon, which in turn meant he stayed up well into the early hours of Sunday morning to finish it.

This Sunday, he had determined, would be different. He would not succumb to his naturally accommodating disposition, but would resolutely rebuff all overtures on the grounds that to do otherwise would be to neglect his duty to the church.

As he exited the double doors from the vestibule and into the throng that awaited him on the front steps, he reminded himself that just because he would prefer to have dinner anywhere but in the vicarage—Mrs. Graham, whose services had come with the post at St. Mary’s, was a more-than-competent housekeeper, but only barely tolerable as a cook—was no excuse to forego his course of action. Never mind that she would undoubtedly feed him something that would somehow achieve the feat of being simultaneously soggy and dry, and that she would press a second and third helping on him which he would be forced to choke down rather than hurt the poor woman’s feelings.

He made his way through the crowd, rejecting each proposed gathering with what he hoped was perceived as gracious regret, each time wincing internally as he recalled exactly how delicious the last meal he had consumed in that particular home had been. Resisting temptation was, however, good for the soul, not to mention excellent fodder for next Sunday’s sermon.

Walter had got to the bottom step and was conveying his apologies to the last disappointed family when he caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye.

She had been there every Sunday since he’d first arrived in Grange-Over-Sands, but she never entered the church…or even the church grounds. Instead, she parked the simple, one-horse cart she drove outside the gate and waited for Horace Finch, an elderly gentleman who attended each service alone, to make his slow, painstaking way across the churchyard. When he reached the cart, she got down from her seat, took his cane and helped him up, and then the two of them drove away.

From the first week, she had intrigued him. He told himself it wasn’t simply because she was beautiful. In all honesty, since he had never seen her at a distance of less than fifty feet, it would be difficult to say that she was beautiful. All he could say with certainty was that she was slim, tall for a woman, and blond, but she carried herself like a beautiful woman—erect, elegant, and at ease.

Who was she? And why didn’t she attend the service with the devout Mr. Finch? Walter had speculated at first that she might be an employee, perhaps a nurse or some other caregiver, but after watching the two of them interact for several weeks, he had concluded that was unlikely. There was a tenderness between them that belied a paid relationship, which left only a familial one. But that answer only deepened the mystery, because surely a daughter or granddaughter or niece would come to services.

And then there was that niggling sensation at the base of his skull. Familiarity. Even at fifty feet, he felt certain he recognized her. Though he could not fathom how that was possible.

“Wednesday, then?” Mrs. Thursby asked.

Walter blinked, jerking his attention back to the middle-aged woman who apparently thought his rejection of her initial invitation had been due to the proposed day of the week rather than, as he had clearly stated, a determination to attend to church business over social calls.

“I’ll have Mrs. Jenkins make her roast duck and french beans,” she added hopefully, casting a sidelong glance at Miss Thursby.

The saucer-eyed, dark-ringleted girl couldn’t be past seventeen and wouldn’t have appealed to Walter’s taste even when he’d been seventeen. Mrs. Jenkins’ roast duck and french beans, however, were entirely to his taste.

Yes, Wednesday will do nicely,” Walter heard himself say.

Damn and blast, he’d done it again. But at least he’d only done it once. And it meant he would get at least one decent meal this week.

Mrs. Thursby smiled broadly, looking more like a giddy adolescent than her daughter. In fact, Miss Thursby appeared less enthusiastic about his acceptance than her mother. Perhaps, Walter thought, he was no more to her taste than she was to his. It seemed he had chosen, by happy accident, precisely the right invitation to accept.

He said his goodbyes and turned away in time to see the cart carrying Horace Finch and his female companion pull away. As if she felt his regard, the woman cast a glance over her shoulder and their eyes met across the churchyard. His breath snagged in his lungs. This time it was more than familiarity that caught him off-guard.

It was desire. Hot, thick, and heavy.

He wanted her, whoever she was. And by one means or another, he meant to have her. In the most unholy ways imaginable.

~ End of Excerpt ~

Table of Contents

The Reiver

Author’s Note

Author Bio