A Highlander Never Surrenders (37 page)

www.samanthagraves.com

P.S. In case you were wondering,
“Quite mis ropas”
means “Take my clothes off.” Happy reading!

From the desk of Paula Quinn

Dear Reader,

Few authors get to see their characters come to life before their eyes, but I did. You met Graham Grant, the hero in A HIGHLANDER NEVER SURRENDERS (on sale now), in my previous release, LAIRD OF THE MIST. I met him in Grand Central Terminal. The Scottish Village there hosts a fashion show that was about to begin. I like kilts. I’ll watch.

Donning a kilt of black leather and matching jacket that he held closed at his chest, model and former rugby star Chris Capaldi stepped onto the stage like he owned it. His tousled mop of deep amber hair eclipsed killer green eyes that sparkled with confidence and a hint of wickedness. All he did was smile and a horde of women behind me started whooping and cheering in a dozen different languages. Oh, yeah, he knew the ladies were digging him, and he fed the frenzy by sliding the jacket off his bare bronze shoulders and curling his sulky mouth into a grin so salacious I swear every woman in attendance sighed at the same time. Grand Central was never so hot.

There was my Graham Grant. Six feet three inches of pure rogue.

Chris has graciously agreed to star in my next Grand Central Publishing release about a notorious rogue and a beautiful rebel he can never have. From the moment Graham meets the bold and passionate Claire Stuart, he wants to take her, claim her. But Claire has far more dangerous undertakings ahead than surrendering to a wickedly alluring Highlander. Amid betrayal, honor, duty, and ultimately love, she must put this vision in his place in order to save her sister’s life, and her own. Pick up a copy of A HIGHLANDER NEVER SURRENDERS and journey with Graham to a place that has remained untouched until now—his heart.

Enjoy!

All the best,

www.paulaquinn.com

^*
Portions of this passage are taken from
written by General George Monck, 1644–46. Published 1671.
(back to text)

^*
Portions of this passage are taken from
written by General George Monck, 1644–46. Published 1671.
(back to text)

Chapter Thirty-five

F
or men wear not arms because they are afraid of danger, but because they would not fear it.

Claire thought she was dying while she leaned against a tree expelling her breakfast. She’d lost track of how many times she had done the like over the past sennight. Everything she ate came right back up. She could barely ride for more than a quarter of an hour before swooning in her saddle and forcing them to stop. If that wasn’t terrible enough, she had actually wept like a babe two nights past for no reason whatsoever, other than that they had finally crossed the border into England.

Graham was wonderfully patient, but more insistent than ever about leaving her at an inn when they reached London. Claire did not argue—most of the time. She felt too ill, but there was another reason for her silence. Every day she watched her lover transform more and more into a commander, alert, aware of every nuance around them, set afire with a single purpose—to get them in and out of London alive. She would not defy such a leader.

Entering the city in his Highland plaid would gain too much attention, so he’d purchased a high-waisted doublet of dyed mulberry and breeches from an innkeeper in Northumberland, both of which fit a bit snugly, and left a drunken Puritan patron slumped over his chair in naught but his tunic and undergarments. With a few more coins, Graham acquired two linen shifts and a coarse mantle of dark wool for Claire.

“How will we do it?”

Riding at an easy canter at her side now, Graham swung Claire a hard look. “
I
will gain entrance into the Tower. Ye will—”

“How?”

“I’m going to dangle a lure before the generals; one that is too tempting for them to resist. I’m going to tell them that I know General Monck’s true intentions.”

Claire bit her lip and shook her head. “They will not believe you.”

“They will when I tell them that I accompanied Connor Stuart and James Buchanan to their meetings with Monck, meetings no one else knows about save yer brother, Buchanan, and the generals.” When Claire smiled, seeing his point, he continued, with a spark of devilment firing his green eyes. “That is how I will gain entrance. Once I am in, I will have yer brother out by the following morn.”

She did not question him further. The man was a snake, able to coil around even the most mistrusting heart. She needed no further proof of it. But still, she worried for him. She did not want him to do this alone.

“What if they—” The rumble of many horses approaching halted her in midsentence.

Claire reached for her sword, but Graham stopped her. “They are soldiers. Be still.”

She narrowed her eyes on the first group to break through the trees. “They are General Monck’s men. Look, they carry his banner.”

Graham nodded, seeing it snapping in the wind. “A call to war against the military, mayhap?”

“Let us go ask him.” Without waiting for his response, Claire flapped her reins and dug her heels into Troy’s flanks, leaving Graham to gape after her.

He caught up quickly, risking an arrow to his chest should an order be given to shoot the madman charging toward them. But no such order was issued. Instead, the lead rider raised a gloved hand and called a halt to the men behind him.

“General Monck,” Claire greeted him coolly as she faced the man she’d hated for months.

Looking mildly ill, the general swept his plumed hat, a remnant from his days when he served King Charles I as a Cavalier, across his chest and dipped his head. When he lifted it again, a flash of affection warmed his steel-gray eyes and then passed, leaving his gaze hard and sharp. “It has been many years since I last saw you, Lady Stuart, but the gleam of rebellion still shines brightly in your eyes.”

“Brighter than before, General,” Claire assured him, proving her claim with a slight curl of her lips.

“Does that explain why you are not in Skye where you belong?”

“I am where I belong,” she replied succinctly, then, without further explanation, she looked past his shoulder and surveyed his troops. “Have you rallied so many men to save my brother?”

“Nae, I sent a missive to Robert Campbell that he might do so. He assured me that you were in his care.” He cut a cautious glance at Graham. “How did you come to be separated from him?”

“I left Skye once your missive was received,” Claire told him. “You have my—”

“You left?” Monck stared at her, horrified, and then enraged. His attention snapped to Graham. “Who are you? Tell me Argyll did not send you alone to do as I bade him.”

Graham opened his mouth to reply, but Claire did it for him. “He is not alone. I am with him.”

“You . . .” The general worked his mouth around words he could not bring himself to utter aloud. Finally, he ground his teeth. “You were to be kept safe. I see now that Argyll was a poor choice for a husband. He allows you to—”

“A poor choice, indeed,” Claire agreed with the snap of impatience in her voice. “But that is something we can discuss after I get my brother out of London.”

Monck’s complexion went milky white. “My dear, I will not allow you to do this.”

Graham would have told him that there was no cause for concern. He was not going to let Claire anywhere near London. But once again, she cut him off.

Her nostrils flared with belligerence, but when she spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm. “I’m afraid that choice is not yours to make, General. We are going to London to save Connor, and if you worry that I am not skilled enough to see the task done, then bring your best soldier forward so that I can demonstrate my competence and determination, and ease your apprehension.”

For a moment, General Monck simply gaped at her, astonished and taken aback by her brazen declaration. Then, because he recognized the same unshakable resolve in her eyes that he’d seen in her brother’s, he expelled a great sigh of resignation. “I’ve no doubt you believe you are fully capable of entering London with . . .” He shifted his gaze to her companion, waiting for the introduction he had been denied the first time.

“Graham Grant.” Graham bowed slightly in his saddle. “First commander to the clan MacGregor of Skye.”

Looking at least somewhat relieved, Monck continued. “. . . with Commander Grant and saving Connor. But I can assure you your quest will fail.”

“Why?” Claire asked softly, afraid to hear his reply, but needing to know. “Is he dead?”

“Nae, my dear, I am assured he is alive. But he is not in London.”

“Then where is he?” Claire demanded.

Instead of giving her an answer, General Monck turned to Graham, and with doubt and disquiet still etched in his expression, asked, “Are the two of you truly his only hope? Is your army not on its way?”

“I would not lead an army of three hundred against a number nae man can count.”

“Then how do you hope to rescue Stuart?”

“With cunning.”

Monck looked vaguely amused at such a foolish, arrogant statement, but then his careful gaze narrowed on the Highlander garbed in Lowland attire. “You are the MacGregor commander who infiltrated Duncan Campbell’s holding in Inveraray a few years ago.”

“I am.”

“I know the tale well. You gained the trust of your laird’s enemies and then led them all to their deaths.”

“Not all,” Graham corrected.

“Ah, aye, you left young Robert Campbell alive and tied to Kildun’s portcullis. Why?”

“Because he was no longer my enemy.”

General Monck returned Graham’s smile. “Very well then, I will tell you where Connor is. Only you must give me your word to guard Lady Claire with your life.”

“You have it,” Graham answered immediately.

Monck nodded and then cut one last concerned glance to Claire. “Stuart rides with General Lambert as his prisoner. Lambert set out for Scotland some time ago with roughly ten thousand men.”

“Ten thousand?” Claire echoed and cast Graham a wilting look.

“Take heart, fair lady,” Monck said gently. “Faced with the severe weather conditions and lack of pay, most of his men have since deserted him. I am told that a mere hundred remain with him in Newcastle.”

“Then to Newcastle we shall go,” Claire announced, turning to Graham.

“My men have not been out of the saddle in two days and begin to grow weary,” Monck told them. “We will make camp here for the night. Please, remain with me for a little while longer. Eat and refresh yourselves for the journey ahead. You will need to be strong.”

“There is no time.” Claire refused his offer, but Graham moved his mount closer to hers and rested his hand on her arm.

“Ye need to rest. I’ll not go until ye do.”

Making camp ended up taking over two hours. Tents that were too numerous to count were set up among the sparse trees, and inside the temporary sleeping quarters, hundreds of candles provided soft light. Outside, fires were built to offer warmth and heat water. After stationing over two dozen men along the perimeter to keep watch over the camp, General Monck finally entered the spacious tent where Graham and Claire waited.