Paula Quinn A Highlander Never Surrenders by user

Author:user [user]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-10-20T00:31:00.809000+00:00

was as much a bitch as her brother was a bastard. Always refusing him, always so

serious, with no interest in play.

And James had wanted to play with her. Good and hard. He wanted to hold that tight

bitch down and use her until she screamed her allegiance to her new lord and master. And

scream she would, just before he cut her throat.

There was still a way to gain Connor’s lands with them all dead. When the king was

rightfully restored to the throne, and he saw that it was Buchanan who rode at General

Monck’s side when they took back the kingdom—Buchanan who slaughtered the men

who dared to kill his two lady cousins, he would grant the lands and titles to his faithful

servant.

James smiled to himself, pleased with his craftiness. He could not lose. Even if Charles

never made it back to England, Monck trusted him, and after delivering Connor’s head to

them on a silver platter, Lambert and Fleetwood did, too.

A disturbance from within a stand of trees to his left interrupted his thoughts. Pouncing to

his feet, he drew his sword and kicked the sleeping soldier beside him.

“Who is there?” he called into the twilight shadows, waking a dozen more. “Announce

yourself, or die.”

“Hold!” a man hailed Îghtback. “It is I, Steven, with men from Ravenglade!”

Hearing this, James sheathed his blade and stepped forward. What the hell was the

captain doing so far from Ravenglade? James had to leave him and his entire legion

behind. For they were not any of his men, but Connor’s, loyal to the Stuart line. “What is

it? Why have you followed us?”

“A missive.” Steven held a folded parchment aloft and leaped from his saddle, joining

James in three long strides. The seven men who accompanied him hung behind in the

shadows. “It arrived from London by way of Stirling,” he said as James tore the

parchment from his fingers. “The messenger said it was urgent, and should be delivered

to you posthaste.” He followed James to the firelight. “Who is sending you missives from

London?”

The tone of Steven’s question was innocent enough, but when James slipped his gaze to

him, he saw suspicion in the thrust of the captain’s chin.

“I will tell you who after I myself find out.” James cast him a sinuous smile before

returning to the missive. He recognized the handwriting right away. Elizabeth Fleetwood,

the general’s daughter. The stately slut who had shared his bed and many of her father’s

secrets when James visited London last winter. He scanned the letter quickly, suspecting

she wrote to beg him to visit her again. His eyes fell to two words leaping off the

illuminated page.

Connor Stuart.

His heart thumped madly in his chest as he quickly scanned the rest. Above the flames,

his face went ashen and he stumbled back. Steven caught him by the arm and tried to

have a look at the letter.

“What is it that causes you to look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

He just had. Connor Stuart was alive—imprisoned in the Tower, but alive.

“Who knows of this missive?” he asked, yanking his arm from Steven’s grasp.

Steven eyed him warily as he dropped the parchment into the fire.

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