Highlander Ever After

  Highlander Ever After

  Nvengaria, Book 3

  Jennifer Ashley

  JA / AG Publishing

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Excerpt: The Longest Night

  Author’s Note

  Also by Jennifer Ashley

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  The Devil’s Teeth

  To Egan MacDonald

  Castle MacDonald

  Ullapool, Scotland

  Egan, my friend, I am sending you precious cargo. Nvengaria is once again rife with plots, and I have recalled Grand Duke Alexander to help me fight them. I am not entirely worried—Alexander has the most devious mind I have ever known, and between the two of us, we will deal with the insurgency. An Imperial Prince of Nvengaria has to expect a rebellion every year and a serious one every decade—it is the way of Nvengarians to be restless.

  But trouble has come to my cousin Zarabeth. As I told you, she married one in the Council of Dukes—Sebastian is his name—and he is one of the ringleaders of this current plot against me. He is intelligent and commands loyalty, and I cannot take his threat lightly. Zarabeth braved certain death to escape from his stronghold and make her way to inform me of his betrayal.

  Of course, his faction immediately denounced her and offered a reward for her death or capture. This need not worry you, because I will find and punish the perpetrators, and once I mop up Sebastian’s resistance, she will be safe. But I cannot send her to her father, nor can she continue here because the palace, as usual, is rife with treachery.

  I remember visiting you at Castle MacDonald before my father’s death, and what I remember most is not the spectacular views or the excellent fishing, but the fact that it is extremely difficult to reach. I think it an excellent place to tuck my little cousin, and she could have no better protectors than you and your Highlanders.

  I am sending a guardian with her—Baron Valentin, a good man who is loyal to me and to Princess Penelope.

  Keep Zarabeth safe for me, my friend, and when Alexander and I have suppressed things here, I will have you return her to Nvengaria. Penelope would be happy to see you, and you’ve also made a friend of Meagan, the Grand Duchess of Nvengaria, who has melted the ice floe that was Alexander.

  I beg you to keep Zarabeth safe.

  By my hand,

  The Twentieth of September, 1820

  Damien

  Imperial Prince, Nvengaria

  Postscript: Penelope sends her love.

  October 1820

  Ullapool, The Western Highlands, Scotland

  Egan barreled out of the tavern onto the dock. A curtain of rain soaked the wooden pier and the stone buildings, heightening the fishy, briny smell of the harbor. Rowboats were just breaking through the rain and mist, a blue-coated captain standing in one’s bow. To the west the harbor closed in a series of rolling hills, leaving a gap that led to the open sea and wind-whipped waves.

  Egan tried to make out the passengers in the boats, frantic to see Zarabeth. He’d been told her ship had broken up off shore, but he refused to believe he’d failed her already. She would be on one of these boats pulling in, laughing that she had become wet, none the worse for wear.

  Egan hadn’t set eyes on Zarabeth for five years but he hadn’t forgotten one strand of her black hair, the deep blue of her eyes, her sweet face with its slightly pointed chin. She’d been a beautiful young woman, poised to take her world by storm.

  So beautiful he’d forced himself to walk away.

  Sailors leapt onto the docks from the rowboats, then reached back to haul out the drenched passengers. The boat with the captain contained three men in the garb of faraway Nvengaria but Egan saw no sign of Zarabeth.

  His blood ran cold as the captain approached him, the man’s eyes weary in the rain. “Are ye Himself?” the captain asked.

  “I’m Egan MacDonald. What happened, man? Tell me and be quick about it.”

  “We lost a mast, and the hull cracked open. I thought we could limp into harbor, but the ship broke up just outside. My first officer, he put the young lady into the jolly boat and rowed away, but …” He cleared his throat. “We lost sight of it in the mist. We searched …”

  Pounding rain soaked Egan’s bare head but he scarcely felt it. “Where?” he shouted at the captain. “Where did ye go down?”

  “By the Devil’s Teeth.”

  Egan’s heart burned. The Devil’s Teeth were razor-sharp rocks below the mountain called Ben Duncraig. Ships or fishing boats that ran up on them were shredded into useless bits of lumber.

  Egan turned away, calling for a horse. The captain tried to stop him. “There’s no point, man. The boat will have been washed out to sea.”

  “If she were dead, I’d know.” Egan grabbed the bridle of the horse the hostler brought him and scrambled into the saddle.

  A hand on his ankle stopped him. He looked down into the grim eyes of one of the Nvengarians, a man with a granite-like face, black hair, and a hard mouth. “I will go with you,” he said in heavily accented English. “I was sent to guard her.”

  “I can move faster on my own,” Egan told him, facing the man’s intense gaze. “Zarabeth saved my life once. I’ll not leave her t’ die.”

  Before the man could say more, Egan urged the horse forward and charged from the docks for the road that ran along the shore.

  * * *

  I am here! Please help me!

  Zarabeth silently shouted the words as she clung to the black rocks, the pounding sea threatening to carry her back into its depths. The boat the first officer had used to escape the sinking ship had cracked in two, icy waves tossing the pieces far north of the harbor mouth.

  She’d grabbed on to what broken boards she could find until rocks had swirled out of the fog. Then she’d reached for the rocks and embraced them desperately.

  The first officer had gone down and not come up, or at least Zarabeth had not been able to see him through the mist and rain. Either way, she could no longer sense his anguished thoughts, and she knew he was dead.

  Zarabeth was terrified at the same time she was furious. She’d traveled from the tiny land of Nvengaria across the length of Europe, through the German states to the North Sea, and endured a hazardous ocean journey to land here on the west coast of Scotland. She’d come so close to safety, so close to seeing Egan MacDonald once again. But now she would die.

  What use was magic? One of Zarabeth’s charms, a piece of gold wire twisted over a stone, dangled coldly between her breasts. It had been made to ward off an enemy’s physical attack. Well, that had worked in the literal sense. The first officer had slipped when he’d tried to put his hands around her neck, and an instant later the boat had crumbled to nothing beneath them.

  Too bad the charm did not also ward off sharp rocks or death by drowning.

  I’ll have to add that in next time.

  Zarabeth was freezing—she’d perish of cold and exposure even if she didn’t drown—but she didn’t regret the actions that had brought her this far. Sebastian was a monster, and he’d made her life unbeara
ble. When she’d learned some months ago that he was also a traitor, she could no longer pretend to be a loyal wife.

  She’d had to plan for weeks, choosing just the right moment to creep from the castle in the middle of the night with the help of her two loyal footmen. She’d sought her cousin Damien, Imperial Prince of Nvengaria, reaching the capital city after a terrifying journey, expecting at every moment to be caught, forced home, locked away again.

  Damien had helped her begin divorce proceedings against Sebastian, but after several attempts on Zarabeth’s life and one to abduct her, Damien had shipped her off to Scotland for her safety.

  Only Zarabeth would not reach safety. Or Egan. She’d planned to apologize to Egan for being such a fool one storm-tossed night five years ago. The world had taught her that dreams and reality were vastly different, and Zarabeth planned to tell him so.

  Her only regret was that she’d never again see his strong face or watch his sternest expression dissolve into a warm grin; she’d never hear his rumbling voice that comforted her like nothing else could.

  Egan MacDonald, the only person she’d ever met whose thoughts she could not read. He was her knight in shining armor, like the legends of old, except he wore a kilt and old leather boots. She’d waited for his rescue for so long.

  It was likely he wouldn’t come now, and she’d be dead and unable to scold him.

  Help me, Egan.

  Over the pounding of surf against rock, she thought she heard hoof beats on the hard road. Zarabeth raised her head but could see nothing through the spray, rain, and mist.

  Then, out of the darkness, loomed a knight, gleaming from head to foot in armor, his mighty warhorse pawing the ground, sparks flying from his hooves.

  The knight flung himself off the horse and descended the treacherous rocks toward her. His figure resolved into that of a Scotsman in dark blue and green plaid, then suddenly he blurred and vanished.

  A dream, Zarabeth thought dimly, and then she lost consciousness.

  * * *

  Egan hauled Zarabeth’s limp body from the rocks, cradling her against his chest. Her skin was clammy and cold, and so wet. The damned rain wouldn’t cease.

  Zarabeth’s dark hair hung in tangles, her hands cut and bloody from the rocks. Her dress was torn, revealing the pale skin of her breasts, a strange piece of jewelry glinting gold against her chest.

  Get her warm. The thought pounded through Egan’s head. He’d wrapped her well in his cloak, but she was too cold, too lifeless. They’d never reach Castle MacDonald before she froze—it was a long way and night was falling.

  Egan laid Zarabeth across his saddle and mounted behind her, pulling her up to cradle her against his chest. He turned the horse toward Ullapool, knowing an inn that lay at a crossroads not far from there. It wasn’t much of an inn, but he could get Zarabeth warm and dry inside it.

  The inn’s proprietor and his wife quickly acquiesced to Egan’s commands—they’d never refuse anything of a MacDonald, and they were kind folk besides. Soon Egan had Zarabeth in a private bedchamber with a roaring fire in its hearth.

  He helped the innkeeper’s wife peel off Zarabeth’s garments, Egan feeling ill as he saw the bruises on her pale body. Zarabeth shivered and would not wake up.

  The innkeeper’s wife rubbed Zarabeth’s limbs vigorously with towels and blankets. Then Egan laid Zarabeth in the bed, piling on the quilts. The wife hung Zarabeth’s sodden dress and underclothes in front of the fire, shaking her head at the gashes in the fine cotton.

  After the woman had finished and gone, Egan sat down on the bed beside Zarabeth. Damn it, she was still too cold. The small room had already filled with heat, but none of it seemed to touch her.

  Egan stripped out of his coat and kilt and yanked off his wet shirt, his skin plenty hot despite being drenched. He spread his clothes in front of the fire to dry, then slid under the covers next to Zarabeth. He spooned himself against her chilled body, worried that she lay so still.

  “Take my warmth, love,” he whispered. “Take all ye need.”

  If she heard him she made no response. Egan pressed a kiss to her hair, remembering the Zarabeth who had kissed him so innocently in her father’s house a little more than five years ago. Her lips had warmed him, her smile enticing.

  Egan had been drunk and enchanted that night, and ready to take her right there on the carpet. He’d realized that his dear friend Zarabeth had become a woman—a beautiful, charming woman he’d wanted with every breath.

  Her lips had tasted of spice, and his hands had sought the curve of her hips. She’d been wearing a dress that showed much of her bosom, a pendant similar to what she wore now hanging in the shadow between her breasts. Egan had wanted to catch the pendant in his teeth, lick the salt of her skin. Itched to pull the dress down to bare the sweet darkness of her nipples.

  Leaving her had been the hardest thing Egan had done in his life. He hadn’t spoken to Zarabeth or seen her, not even had a letter from her, from that day to this. And now here he was in bed with her.

  I’ll stay until she’s warm, then go.

  His mind said that. Egan’s body knew that he’d ridden hard in the rain and carried Zarabeth to safety, and that he was exhausted from the journey and worry.

  He fell asleep.

  * * *

  Zarabeth woke to incredible warmth. She cracked open her eyes, then shut them quickly, because even her eyelids hurt.

  She became aware that she lay under heavy quilts in a prickly bed with a thin pillow. Her breath ached in her chest but she reposed in splendid comfort and felt no signs of fever.

  The thought trickled through her head that she was no longer clinging to sharp rocks in a stormy sea. She nearly wept with relief, forgiving the mattress its prickles and the pillow for being flat. For a time Zarabeth lay still, eyes closed, and enjoyed life and safety.

  After a while, she realized several more things. First, she had no idea where she was. Second, she was not alone in the bed. A warm bulk lay next to her, long and strong and protecting her like a wall. It was also snoring.

  Zarabeth pried open her eyes. It did not hurt as much this time, and she was able to see Egan MacDonald lying on his side next to her, his head pillowed on his bent arm.

  She nearly ceased breathing. The man she’d dreamed about for five years—in intense, deeply erotic dreams—lay under the covers with her. When she’d last seen him he’d been devastating—hair rumpled, brown eyes half closed, smile lazy as he’d said softly, “What is it ye wanted to tell me, lass?”

  If anything Egan looked stronger and more solid than ever, his skin darkened by sun and wind. The lazy smile had been replaced by a little frown in his sleep, and his eyes were closed, lashes curling.

  His large hand had spread out on the coverlet over Zarabeth’s hip as though he’d been reaching for something but had fallen asleep partway there. Misty sunlight picked out gold strands in Egan’s hair, light brown weaving through darker brown.

  Zarabeth had always loved his wild hair and how the colors were variegated, and she’d longed to touch it. She indulged herself now, sliding a finger through a twisting curl that rested against his cheek.

  The hand on the quilt twitched, and Egan’s lips curved into a half smile. He slept on, but he turned his head to nestle his cheek into her palm.

  Zarabeth moved the pad of her thumb across his cheekbone, back and forth, feeling the burn of unshaved whiskers. Egan’s smile faded as he drew a long breath, and his hand on her hip grew heavy as he drifted into deeper sleep.

  Zarabeth continued to rub the rough of his whiskers until her own eyelids drooped and she fell once again into dreamless, contented slumber.

  She awoke facing the edge of the bed. Her body was spooned to Egan’s, his chest to her back, his strong arm flung around her waist. She realized this time that they were both unclothed.

  A fold of blanket had wedged between them, but she felt every line of Egan’s body burrowed into hers, including the thick hardness that
nudged her through the fabric. A silver armband encircled the upper part on his right arm, the metal cool against her skin.

  Zarabeth still had no idea where she was. The room was tiny and whitewashed, filled mostly with the large bed. A fire flickered on the small hearth, and early sunlight leaked through the half shuttered window.

  Zarabeth tried to slide out from under Egan’s arm, but he murmured in his sleep and tightened his clasp. One hand came up to rest on her chest, his palm cupping her breast through the blanket.

  “Egan,” she whispered.

  “Mmm.” Egan nuzzled her ear, then his lips touched her hair. “Hush, love.”

  Love? For a moment Zarabeth pretended Egan meant the endearment for her, not for whatever lady he was dreaming of. She liked the thought of him kissing her and calling her love.

  “Egan, it is Zarabeth,” she said softly.

  Egan went still a moment, then with the suddenness of a lightning strike, he jerked awake. He wrenched himself up with unflattering speed and landed on his feet, snatching a length of tartan to wrap his lower body.

  Zarabeth sat up, hugging the blankets to her chest. Egan made a delectable picture, his hips draped by the plaid, the cloth dipping to reveal a hint of dark hair below his navel. His skin was tanned by the sun and his tight arms were marked with thin white scars, the intricately patterned armband glinting on the right one.

  Dark brown hair, unruly as ever, hung in tangles to his shoulders, and whiskers shadowed his face and jaw. Egan’s chest was sculpted with muscle like the rest of him, and dusted with dark hair. Flat, copper-colored nipples drew to tight points as Egan regarded her almost fiercely.

  Zarabeth’s blood heated at the sight of him—her Highlander was tall and very male.

  “’Twas only to get you warm, lass,” Egan said, voice harsh. “Nothing more.”

  Zarabeth couldn’t cease looking at him. “I’d say I was warm.”

  “I meant to leave ye, but I fell asleep.”