Seductive Surrender

Highland Heather Romancing A Scot
Book 6

Dalliances, flirtations, liaisons? Aye.
But marriage? Nae. Spies dinna wed.

Betrothed four times.
Gwendolyn McClintock has resolutely slammed the door on romance and marriage. Intent on beginning a new life, she sells her beloved familial home in America and totes her orphaned niece and nephew to Scotland’s Highlands. But the grand adventure she promised becomes a tangled muddle when her coach accidentally runs down a powerful laird’s much-too-attractive, far-too-brawny brother.

A covert agent.
A confirmed, carefree rogue, Dugall Ferguson comes perilously close to being trampled beneath horses’ hooves. And the remorseful, deliciously tempting woman responsible for nearly killing him isn’t even aware of the peril awaiting her at her new home. Gwendolyn desperately needs protection, and though he’s on the cusp of realizing his life-long dream, Dugall rashly offers to aid the fiery lass.

Their futures collide.
Forced together in order to oust a would-be killer, irresistible passion erupts between Gwendolyn and Dugall. Dare she trust her traitorous heart one last time, especially to a known rake? How can he choose between his love for Gwendolyn and his desire to be a spy?

Read the sixth installment of the Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series for a suspenseful Scottish historical romance awash with intrigue, seduction, and passion you won’t want to put down.

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FlourishChapter One Excerpt

 

 

Twilight, September 1825

A deserted Highland Road

 

“Is he dead?”

Morbid fascination leached into Jeremiah’s nine-year-old voice.

I hope to hellfire not.

Squatting beside the enormous, unconscious man sprawled flat as a fritter in the middle of the road, Gwendolyn tossed a harried glance over her shoulder.

The children shouldn’t see this. They’d already experienced too much tragedy in their young lives.

Dangling over the coach’s open window, his moss-colored eyes bright with curiosity, her nephew swiped his nose across his sleeve.

Not for the first time, either.

Dried snot trails adorning his sleeve wasn’t the way she’d envisioned Suttford House’s new master arriving to claim his birthright.

“He sure ‘nuff looks like he’s got both boots in the grave, Auntie Gwenny.”

Gwendolyn considered the prostrate figure.

He did, indeed.

“Sugah, you’re quite certain the gentleman hasn’t already passed?” her maiden Aunt Barbara asked in her musical southern drawl.

Hovering beside Gwendolyn, Aunt Barbara turned down her mouth the merest bit as she skittered a timid glance over the gentleman in question.

“One way to know for certain.” Gwendolyn stripped off her pigeon-gray, ecru lace-edged glove before touching her palm to the man’s thick throat.

Sensation—tingling and scorching—ratcheted to her shoulder, across her chest, and then settled heavily in her breasts. She almost wrenched her hand away at the startling and unfamiliar jolt.

Good gracious. It’s his sheer size. That’s all. He’s quite the largest man I’ve ever laid eyes upon.

Crimping her mouth into a purposeful line, she stiffened her resolve, firmly gripped her cavorting composure, and pressed her fingertips to his neck harder.

A sturdy pulse thrummed against the pads.

Thank heavens.

“Dead, eh?” This from Mr. Dodd, one of the bristly-faced leery, wholly unchivalrous coachman, loitering a carriage-length away. Some protector he’d proven to be, the spineless poltroon.

Gwendolyn shook her head, and a tendril sprang loose from the tidy knot at her nape. “No, he yet lives.”

Oh, to be a man and be permitted to tell Mr. Dodd precisely what she thought of him. But southern belles did not curse. Ever. Instead, Gwendolyn assumed a well-rehearsed benign countenance and swore at him in her head as she tucked the strand back into place.

Craven ass.

Not as satisfying as delivering a tongue lashing, but sufficient to ease her annoyance a thimble’s worth. It did nothing to appease her disquiet about this stranger, however.

Other than a few cuts and scrapes on his face, only the man’s high forehead showed obvious signs of real injury, and those bumps and gashes didn’t appear lethal. Difficult to be certain with head wounds, though.

Dried blood matted the ill-fated brute’s longish midnight hair, and fresh scarlet rivulets trickled from his noble forehead, across a strong, patrician nose, and onto a stubble-covered left jaw. Bruised and battered cheeks tapered to swollen, split lips above a determined, cleft chin.

His puffy, damaged face made it hard to tell whether he was handsome, but given his chiseled features, she thought he might be passably attractive.

Not that it mattered a whit if he were as homely as a rotten potato.

She wasn’t a frivolous young miss, easily cozened by sharply hewn features, slashing raven brows, and a square, black-whiskered covered jaw.

Much.

Pushing aside a stray curl teasing her forehead, she raked her practiced gaze over the architecture of his impressive form. He wasn’t the first man she’d seen worse for wear after a sound thrashing.

The stable hands and her brothers, especially Markus, had returned home battered on more than one occasion, their bruised bodies recovering far swifter than their pummeled pride.

Except for that last tragic time when—

Tarnation.

Unbridled pain buffeted Gwendolyn’s ribs, stalling her breath, and she balled her hands against the overwhelming desire to wail her grief.

Not now, Gwendolyn Nicolette Eleanor McClintock.

Attend to the matter at hand.

She drew in a shuddery breath.

Yes. Yes. The injured man.

Anything to distract herself from the awful, heartbreaking memories. Lips cinched from the effort to control her tears, she blinked rapidly to dispel the moisture pooling in her eyes and gave herself a severe mental shake.

As she considered the lines of the man’s rugged face, she twisted her mouth in distress.

What other wounds might this poor scalawag have?

Was he a gentleman?

A nobleman?

His finely tailored black coat and buckskins—even dirt-smeared and torn—as well as his big—very big—once-shiny boots proclaimed him gentry.

Recently arrived from South Carolina, she wasn’t familiar with attire worn by the locals, and they certainly weren’t accustomed to hers. In fact, her practical split-skirt traveling ensemble had earned her more than one skewed brow and sideways smirk from the English and Scots, men and women alike.

For her part, she’d expected the Scots to be enshrouded in tartans from their calves to chins, all the while tooting bagpipes, quaffing whisky, and munching shortbread, clootie dumpling, and haggis.

Served her right for planting herself at Grandpapa Gawyn McClintock’s knee and raptly listening to his wild—and obviously exaggerated—tales of his boyhood homeland whenever she had a chance as a child.

That dear man could certainly spin a fanciful yarn in his lilting brogue.

Trailing her troubled gaze over the insensate stranger, she released a silent sigh. Massively built, his hair unshorn, he resembled the wild, Highland warriors Grandpapa boasted of. All this fellow needed was a broadsword, a belted plaid, and a shield.

Once, long ago—four wretched betrothals she’d rather desperately wanted to forget ago—she might’ve appreciated such a fine masculine specimen.

No longer.

Nonetheless, she permitted herself another leisurely perusal of his extraordinary form.

You cannot deny he’s unquestionably, quite pulse-stutteringly spectacular, Gwen.

Bah!

At her inane ruminations, she pinched her mouth into a tight line and narrowed her eyes in annoyance.

Enough moon-eyed musings.

Raising her orphaned niece and nephew to the best of her limited abilities was her only purpose nowadays. Even though it meant she must put aside her few remaining dreams. Seeing Jeremiah equipped to step in to the role of a Scottish Lord of Parliament when he became of an age was paramount.

Whatever, precisely, a Lord of Parliament might be.

Something akin to a baron, according to Hubert Christie, the solicitor who’d contacted them all those weeks ago on behalf of Gerard McClintock’s estate.

Gwendolyn still didn’t quite understand all the title falderal, or how she’d manage to prepare her nephew for the elevated position. Still didn’t quite understand how Jeremiah came to inherit the title either.

Grandpapa had been the youngest of four sons. What were the chances his great-grandson would be the next in line to inherit?

Well, when Mr. Christie had written, he hadn’t known of her brothers, Markus’s or William’s deaths. Nor Father’s, either. Christie hadn’t been altogether keen that a woman held Jeremiah’s guardianship. In fact, his follow-up letters were quite peculiar, and he’d repeatedly asked if there were no other male heirs.

How very different things would’ve been if Papa and her brothers had yet lived.

Most of all, she still wasn’t certain what she’d do when the children were raised and no longer needed her. Out of the question that she would remain in Scotland. The land was too wild and rugged, much like many of the untamed and unrefined people she’d encountered so far.

Homesickness, heavy and melancholic, already shrouded her. She missed the South’s gentility, the sultry clime, the polite, considerate, slow-paced culture.

Though only September, she’d been nigh onto freezing her bum off from Scotland’s permeating cold and damp which seemed to increase with the elevation. She didn’t even want to contemplate the discomforts of Scottish winters. First on her list was acquiring thick, woolen drawers and stockings, a heavy shawl, and two or three sturdier gowns—perhaps flannel-lined.

A slight breeze danced past, and she shivered, her skin puckering from waist to shoulders.

Add mittens and a snug cap to that list.

Drawing a steadying breath, she darted her aunt a swift glance.

Gwendolyn absolutely refused to become the nervous, self-conscious, trying-not-to-be-a-nuisance-lonely-tabby Aunt Barbara had transformed into over the years.

She’d find something to give her a focus or a purpose, by heavens.

“Miss McClintock, we canna delay much longer.” Mr. Murray, their Scots guide, rubbed the back of his neck and shifted from foot to foot, his rheumy eyes and craggy countenance a muddle of impatience, guilty regret, and tension.

“We needs be gettin’ on our way, or ye’ll not reach Suttford House afore nightfall. The great house be a good six miles away yet.” He levered a scuffed boot toe at the prone victim. “We can drag him off the road.”

“Not exactly the epitome of compassion, are you, Mr. Murray?” Gwendolyn asked, disdain sharpening her question.

“He’ll come ’round eventually.” Murray’s dubious tone contradicted his confident words.

Would he?

Flourish

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