Highland Thirst Read online

  HIGHLAND DESIRE

  “Brona,” Heming groaned as he kissed her throat, “do ye ken what I want?”

  “Aye, I ken it,” she whispered. “I want it, too, although I will confess that I am nay all that sure of what it might be.”

  Even as Heming began to unlace her gown, he said, “It is me deep inside ye, love.”

  “Will that include a lot of kissing and touching?”

  “Och, aye, loving, as much as I can bear ere I go mad with the wanting of ye.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “Are ye sure ye are awake, love, and aware of what ye are agreeing to?”

  “Verra awake and verra aware.”

  Slowly tugging her gown down, Heming followed the line of her collarbone with soft kisses and light sweeps of his tongue. “I just dinnae want ye to have any regrets.”

  “Do ye ken? I ne’er thought a mon would work so hard to talk a lass out of what he wants.”

  Heming grinned against her skin and then finished tugging off her gown. As he began to unlace her shift, keeping them both dazed with kisses, he decided she did know what he wanted and what she wanted. In the way she gasped and trembled, even in the heady scent of arousal on her soft skin, he could tell that she wanted him as much as he wanted her...

  Books by Hannah Howell

  Only for You

  My Valiant Knight

  Unconquered

  Wild Roses

  A Taste of Fire

  Highland Destiny

  Highland Honor

  Highland Promise

  A Stockingful of Joy

  Highland Vow

  Highland Knight

  Highland Hearts

  Highland Bride

  Highland Angel

  Highland Groom

  Highland Warrior

  Reckless

  Highland Conqueror

  Highland Champion

  Highland Lover

  Highland Vampire

  Conqueror’s Kiss

  Highland Barbarian

  Beauty and the Beast

  Highland Savage

  Highland Thirst

  Highland Wedding

  Highland Wolf

  Silver Flame

  Highland Fire

  Nature of the Beast

  Highland Sinner

  Published by Zebra Books

  HIGHLAND THIRST

  HANNAH HOWELL

  LYNSAY SANDS

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  CONTENTS

  HIGHLAND DESIRE

  Books by Hannah Howell

  CONTENTS

  BLOOD FEUD

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  THE CAPTURE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Epilogue

  HIGHLAND SINNER,

  BLOOD FEUD

  Hannah Howell

  Prologue

  Northern England—Spring 1511

  The chill of foreboding swept through Heming MacNachton’s blood as he dismounted before the inn. He frowned at the sign hanging crookedly above the door. The fact that the inn was called The Hanging Tree only added to his growing sense of unease. Heming no longer thought the huge old tree a few yards away was an intriguing sight, despite how the moon turned the emerging leaves a soft silver color. At least no one was still dangling from its thick, sturdy limbs, he thought, and reluctantly handed his reins to the stable boy.

  “I dinnae like this,” he said to his cousin Tearlach MacAdie as they approached the door to the inn.

  “We willnae stay long.”

  Heming nodded, recognizing that statement as Tearlach’s agreement that something felt wrong. They could not falter in their search for information just because they felt a little uneasy about a place, however. Their people were being hunted and the hunters were getting more organized. The very survival of their people depended upon gathering as much information about their enemies as possible.

  Once he was inside the inn, however, Heming’s wariness grew even sharper. He and Tearlach found a table set away from the others, their backs to the wall, but that did little to calm him. A burly cold-eyed man served them ale and as Tearlach paid for it, Heming looked around. The first thing he noticed was that there were no serving wenches to be seen. That was odd but he knew there could be many reasons for that. What could not be so easily explained was the fact that no one paid them much attention. Two kilted Scotsmen in an English border inn should draw attention but aside from a few hasty, sidelong glances, everyone continued talking and laughing. And there was a false note to all of that talk and good cheer, Heming thought as he drank his ale with more haste than enjoyment.

  It was not until the three well-dressed people, two of whom had actually shown a natural curiosity about two Scotsmen in an English inn, got up and left that Heming knew he and Tearlach had made a serious error in judgment. “The ale—“ he began as an odd feeling started to creep over him.

  “Was poisoned,” growled Tearlach as he slammed his empty tankard down on the scarred wood table.

  “Nay, not poisoned. Something to weaken us or make us sleep.” Heming saw that all those fleeting sidelong glances were becoming far more intent; the men obviously were watching and waiting for whatever potion he and Tearlach had just drunk to take effect. “Didnae taste it at first, but the taint of it is now verra clear. I just thought the ale wasnae a verra good brew.”

  Tearlach stood up and started for the door. Heming quickly joined him. The fact that everyone in the inn just sat and silently watched them caused Heming’s insides to chill with alarm. Even before Tearlach opened the door, Heming knew they would not be escaping this trap. His thoughts were already clouding over and he felt as if he were trying to walk through thick mud. Once they were outside, the cool night air did nothing to ease that. Heming staggered and he saw Tearlach do the same. They both managed to stumble along for a few more feet although Heming wondered why they even bothered, for they would never make it to their horses.

  The next thing he knew he was on his knees. Tearlach fell to his knees right beside him a heartbeat later. Heming tried to fight the pull of the potion but was not really surprised when he next found himself sprawled in the dirt, Tearlach quickly sprawling at his side. His last sight was of dozens of booted feet encircling them.

  Consciousness came to him slowly and painfully. Heming felt as if his head were going to split apart. Then he recalled sprawling in the dirt, dragged into unconsciousness by some herb or potion slipped into his ale. He slowly opened his eyes and stared around him in utter disbelief. He was in a cage, thick silver chains holding his wrists and ankles to the heavy iron bars surrounding him. He was also naked and weaponless and there was no sign of Tearlach. Hearing footsteps, Heming fought down his rage and the panic he felt twisting inside of him. A moment later a tall, elegantly dressed man stood before his cage.

  “Weelcome to Rosscurrach,” the man drawled and coldly smiled.

  The name sounded familiar but it took Heming a moment to place it. Then he recalled that he and Tearlach had stopped in an inn near the keep a few days ago. It was the home of the Kerrs. Their laird was named Sir Hervey Kerr and he was not well liked, if Heming recalled correctly. This slender man, dressed as if he were about t
o attend the king, did not look like the cold, brutal man they had heard whispers about, but Heming knew all too well that looks could be deceiving.

  “Tearlach,” he began, intending to demand to know where his cousin was.

  “Your companion? I fear he is now the guest of the Carbonnels and enjoying all the comforts of a secure English dungeon. My ally, Wymon Carbonnel, intends to make your cousin tell us all about the hiding places of your people. We wish to locate your many nests so that we can clean them out.”

  “He will tell ye naught. Nor will I.”

  “Oh, I dinnae intend to ask about where all of ye hide yourselves. Nay, ‘tis my intention to find out all of your strengths and weaknesses.” He lightly rubbed his pale, elegant hands together. “I have many an idea on how to test them. I fear ye willnae find that as enjoyable as I will, however.”

  “And just why have ye made us your enemies?” Heming suspected the man knew far too much about the MacNachtons already, but wanted to hear the man admit to it.

  “Ye and your ilk are the enemies of all men. Ye are an abomination. I find it an insult that ye e’en look like a mon instead of displaying clearly the mark of the devil as ye should. No mon of conscience can allow such spawn of hell to continue to exist. ‘Tis time the ones ye see as prey become the hunters.”

  Heming did not believe the man was truly on some righteous crusade against evil, but would not try to guess what his game really was. “I am but a mon,” he said quietly.

  “Nay, ye are far more than that. Dinnae play me for a fool. Ye will soon show me all of your strengths and weaknesses; reveal all of your secrets. ‘Tis said that your kind can live forever and I mean to find out why.”

  Something in the tone of the man’s voice told Heming that what the man had just said was a clue to his real intentions, but Heming’s head was throbbing too much for him to be able to sort it all out right now. Once his head cleared, his first thoughts were going to be how to escape and then rescue Tearlach, not about what this swine wanted. Heming refused to think that this was how he would meet his end—as a caged beast for this courtier to torment. When the man took a few hasty steps back, Heming suspected his rage was revealing itself upon his face.

  “Ye cannae escape,” the man said, a faint tremor in his voice revealing his fear. “Those chains are made of silver and, just in case that is a myth, the cage is made of iron.”

  “What? In case I am fey as weel as a demon?” Heming was not surprised to hear the low rumble of a growl in his voice, for his anger was running hot and wild. “Ye have heeded too many tales told to scare bairns.”

  “Och, nay, MacNachton. I ken what ye are—a bloodsucking, soul-eating abomination. I will learn all of your secrets, including why ye and yours should be blessed with such long lives. Here is where the truth of your evil will be fully revealed and here is where ye will die.”

  Watching the man stride away, Heming murmured, “Nay, fool, the only one marching toward that fate is ye. Ye are now a walking dead mon.” It was a vow, one Heming fully intended to fulfill no matter how long it took.

  One

  He had eyes like her pets, almost solidly black as if the center had grown so that he could see more clearly in the dark. Brona Kerr immediately decided that was not precisely true. The man’s eyes were decidedly far more feral than her dog’s or even her cat’s. The fact that both of her pets were tense, their fur bristling slightly, told her that she was not the only one who sensed a dangerous wildness in the man. Yet she knew her pets were as confused as they were wary, as if they each sensed a friend as well as a foe.

  The man was caged like some feral animal, thick silver chains holding his wrists and ankles to the fat iron bars of the cage. Water and a congealed stew sat in bowls set in one far corner of his cage and a bucket sat in the other. There was no bedding for him, not even the thinnest of old blankets. Despite the fact that he was naked, he did not appear troubled by the damp chill of the dungeon. In the flickering light of the torches she had lit, his skin appeared to be almost golden yet the wounds she could see on him should have left him as pale as a ghost. Those wounds should also have bled away the fury she could see glittering in his feral eyes. Eyes in which she could now see a hint of gold as the black circle eased back into a more human size.

  He watched her like some stalking predator, his golden eyes narrowed slightly and fixed unblinkingly upon her. Thick raven hair hung almost to his trim waist. He was lean and tautly muscular just as a predator should be. Brona did not think she had ever seen a man like him before. He should terrify her and, in some ways he did, but she also felt drawn to him. That made no sense to her and she frowned.

  Heming studied the woman who was studying him. She was an ethereal creature, not very tall and slender yet possessing lush breasts and nicely rounded hips. Horror and curiosity were evenly blended in her expression. The flickering shadows caused by the torches accentuated the fine lines of her face. A thick braid of pale hair was draped over her right shoulder and hung down to the top of her thighs. She smelled of woman, of clean skin and a hint of lavender. It was a welcome change from the damp foul air of his prison.

  To her right sat a very large gray dog and to her left sat a large yellow cat. Heming got the strong feeling that the animals were as much her companions as her pets. It surprised him that Hervey Kerr even allowed pets at Rosscurrach. The fact that this woman had the pets indicated that she was no mere servant of the keep. Few of the poor had the time or the food to pamper an animal and these two animals looked very pampered.

  “Who are ye?” she asked, struggling to keep her gaze fixed upon his face and fighting the urge to look him over, very carefully, from head to toe.

  “Sir Heming MacNachton,” he replied, wondering if she was in league with Hervey and sought to trick some important truth out of him.

  “I have ne’er heard your name before. Are ye one of my cousin’s enemies?”

  “I had ne’er e’en met the fool ere he captured me and brought me here. And who are ye that ye dinnae ken that?”

  Brona heard the suspicion in his voice but was not troubled by it. Chained naked in a cage as he was, the man had every right to be suspicious of everyone at Rosscurrach. She had a few suspicions of her own about him. She knew her cousin was not a good man, but she found it hard to believe that he would cage and torture a man he had never met and who had done no wrong.

  “I am Mistress Brona Kerr, first cousin to the laird,” she answered and could see by his hardening expression that she had only added to his mistrust. “I heard some quickly hushed whispers about a prisoner and decided I would see just what the secret was. No other prisoner has e’er warranted such mystery.”

  “Your cousin has a lot of prisoners, does he?”

  “Nay.” She sighed. “I fear he often just kills those he feels have wronged him. When he does hold a prisoner ‘tis for ransom, or to torture a few secrets out of him ere he kills him. What secrets does he think ye have?”

  “I ken naught that he needs to know.”

  “That doesnae really answer my question, does it.” Brona idly scratched her dog Thor’s ears. “Cousin Hervey is cold and cruel, but he is also lazy. He has obviously expended a great deal of time and effort to hold ye here and try to get ye to tell him something. I but wondered what it was.”

  “And why do ye need to ken such things?”

  “Knowledge is power.” Her cat, Havoc, rubbed its head against her leg in a bid for attention and Brona briefly leaned down to scratch the cat’s back. “‘Tis weel kenned round here that I dinnae hold with the torturing of a mon, but I doubt that it is the only reason there is such an effort at secrecy about ye. My cousin is little interested, and even less moved, by my disapproval of his actions. Nor are ye here for ransoming as no one has been sent out to take a demand to anyone.” She shrugged. “I have considered many a reason for this but each one only raised more questions, so I decided to come here and ask ye.”

  “Ah, and I have told ye. He thi
nks I can tell him something.”

  “But what? What could he possibly wish to learn that is worth treating ye like this?”

  Heming carefully considered his answer. The woman appeared honestly concerned, even appalled, over his mistreatment, but he dared not trust in that. Hervey could be trying to trick him into revealing something. Too many men had fallen victim to believing in a woman’s softness, in her wiles and words of caring. Even a few of his kindred had stumbled into such traps. He could, however, tell her exactly why Hervey had caged him and was torturing him so assiduously. If he spoke in the right tone of voice, used the right words, he could make her see it all as utter nonsense. He might even get her to question her cousin’s sanity.

  “He thinks I can tell him how to live forever,” he said, pleased by the scorn-filled drawl he was able to produce from his parched throat.

  Brona stared at the man and forced herself not to gape. “Why would he think ye could do that?”

  “My kin are long-lived. The fool thinks as far too many others do and sees such strength and health as the result of magic.”

  “Does he think ye have some potion? Mayhap some muttered spell words?”

  When Heming nodded, she frowned, recalling that many of the men in her family died young and not all from battle wounds, either. It was sad but she had never seen anything unusual in their deaths. Each one was easily explained. If this man spoke the truth, however, it could be that Hervey feared some curse or the like. It would also be just like her cousin to want to find out if some rumor about a potion for long life was true, even if he doubted it at first.

  “Then ‘tis wrong of him to do this to ye,” she said quietly. “Verra wrong.”

  A spark of hope stirred to life inside of Heming but he hastily doused it. Just because this woman believed her cousin was doing wrong did not mean that she would help him. Hervey was her kinsman and her laird. Even though her words implied that she held no affection for the man, going against him to the extent of releasing a prisoner could cost her dearly. A blood tie would not save her from punishment for such a betrayal.