Harlequin Historicals "Undone"
December 2010
Scottish Highlands, 1072
Laird Léod Mac Ruadhán is accustomed to being feared. But when his dark reputation causes his betrothed, Lady Helene MacKail, to flee from him every time he attempts to get close to her, it is an insult he cannot ignore. Léod vows to make Helene regret turning her back on him—by seducing her in disguise before selecting a new bride. In the dark intimacy of a secret meeting, however, Léod may be the one seduced by the provocative Highland beauty...
ISBN-13: 9781426882296
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Read the Excerpt
He was gaining on her.
Resisting the urge to peer over her shoulder, Helene MacKail quickened her pace toward Domhnaill Keep’s massive great hall where Twelfth Night festivities awaited guests hailing from all over the Highlands. If only she could reach the throngs of revelers before Léod mac Ruadhán caught her, she might slide into a seat beside her mother and avoid conversation with the brooding Scots laird.
The man sought more than her hand her marriage. He required her lands, her wealth, and her body. And he wished to dominate them all absolutely.
“Lady Helene.” The deep tone of his voice would surely carry over a war-torn battle field at the height of mayhem. It reverberated now down the long, narrow corridor of an old tower with ease.
If she pretended not to hear him, she would offend the most influential clan leader in all of Scotland. Word of it would surely reach her father’s ears. But to speak to the warrior here – alone in a remote part of the drafty old keep – made her heart race unsteadily. Léod mac Ruadhán had been known to turn on his own knights, keeping his men in a heightened state of readiness fueled by fear so they might fight for him at naught but a moment’s notice.
She’d heard enough tales of his cruelty. And not just toward his own men. She also knew that his insatiable appetites had sent his last wife running to the furthermost outreaches of the Highlands until she perished from the inhospitable winters. Unfortunately, Helene’s father had been more concerned with Mac Ruadhán’s ability to protect the people of the clan MacKail than with his unsavory reputation with women.
Perhaps – knowing she could end up wed to the brute in the spring – she would do well not to earn even darker levels of animosity than his last bride.
For that reason, she slowed her step on the cool stone floor.
“My lord.” She faced him in the darkened corridor lit only by two sickly tapers sputtering at either end of the long expanse.
Was it possible he loomed even larger and more threatening than she recalled from previous meetings? He stood far closer than she’d realized when she’d been hurrying to increase the distance between them. The leather of his boots was heavy, yet his step had been surprisingly light. Agile. Stealthy, even. She could envision him prowling about the Highland forests at night, personally gutting any man or beast who dared to threaten his stock of fat sheep or his stables of coveted horseflesh.
It helped that his hair, black as a raven’s wing, would blend with the shadows. A strong jaw and prominent cheekbones made him appear as though he were carved in granite, an illusion upheld by the impossible breadth of his shoulders. A gray wool cloaked him now, the fabric held by a heavy silver brooch at one shoulder, though most swept down his back like the folded wing of a great predatory bird.
Or perhaps she merely thought as much since she felt as nervous as a mouse about to be carried off in the grip of steely talons.
“I see you are in some haste to dine.” He offered her his arm.
To escort her? Or to squeeze the breath from her with one careless touch?
Memories of the more graphic tales she’d heard came to mind. A maid in her father’s hall had confided that the laird’s dead wife had rattled the rafters with her screams on their wedding night. One of the laird’s grooms had bragged to all her father’s men-at-arms that his lord’s… endowments… were the stuff of legend, as disproportionately large as the rest of him.
Helene had nightmares for many days hence.
“My lady?” Léod’s voice pierced her inappropriate thoughts. “Will you join me to sup?”
Her cheeks flushed with warmth as an expression of annoyance sent his dark brows swooping downward. A frown curled his lower lip. Her breath caught in her throat at the thought of what he might do to women who displeased him.
She hadn’t heard that he would eat them for desert, but that did not mean she couldn’t be the first.
“I am sorry.” Flustered, frightened, and angry that her father would give her to such a man, Helene executed a ridiculous little curtsey that would better befit a kitchen maid or a wine server. “I have forgotten my knife in my chamber.”
Hoisting a handful of her skirt in one hand, she turned on her heel and sprinted away from him, her eating knife actually jostling her hip where it dangled from the chain at her waist. In a few moons’ time, she would not have the legal right to run from this man. But for now, she would follow her good sense and put as much distance between them as possible.
Behind her, she could have sworn she heard him snarl like the ravenous beast he was reputed to be. And, skidding back into her chamber, she promised herself that no matter the cost, she would find a way to avoid a betrothal to the monstrous laird. Even if it meant openly appealing any other man in attendance of the holiday festivities at Domhnaill Keep. She could compromise herself, or at least create whispers of her unworthiness to wed, if she were to dally in dark corners with another man.
She had until Twelfth Night before her father packed her up and sent her back to the isolated mountains she called home. Less than a fortnight to make sure Léod mac Ruadhán viewed her as the last woman on earth he would choose for his bride.
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