Nicole Locke - Her Enemy Highlander

‘There’s been a mistake,’ she stated, her voice unsteady, just like her thoughts. ‘I’m…in the wrong room.’

Though he didn’t move any closer to her, his caress on her neck was light. She wasn’t free of him, but at least he wasn’t grabbing her and dragging her to his bed.

‘I doona think there was any mistake just a moment ago. You came to my room. Let me kiss you.’

His fingers made gentle circles, trailing down her neck to her shoulders and back up.

‘And before I was so clumsy you wanted me to kiss you…more.’

So true. All so confusingly true. But she needed the dagger—not this man, who caused her to want to go and stay at the same time.

I want to say the inspiration for Mairead and Caird’s story came from a fateful trip to Wales. But it didn’t. Not really. Caird is brother to Gaira, who is wife to Robert, who I saw grieving under a tree in Wales (long story). But that doesn’t explain much. Except that there are people in my head, and those people want their stories told. Now and all at once. So, although I intended to write about Robert’s friend Hugh, from The Knight’s Broken Promise (stay with me on the people!), I couldn’t ignore Mairead, who was about to do something mad.

Well, mad for the rest of us. Not for Mairead. She’s impulsive, she makes mistakes and she’s reckless. When her brother was killed she chased after the murderer. Since she was by herself, I rushed to tell her story in case she got hurt. When Caird showed up I thought, Oh, good, he’ll rescue her.

Unfortunately he hates Mairead, he is controlling and he only plays by the rules. When Mairead realises that Caird is just as insufferable and arrogant as the rest of his clan I knew Caird needed rescuing from Mairead.

Then they kissed. They kissed ! At that point I gave up and told them to write their own story. I think they did. I don’t know; I’m afraid to look.

Her Enemy

Highlander

Nicole Locke

www.millsandboon.co.uk

NICOLE LOCKEdiscovered her first romance novels in her grandmother’s closet, where they were secretly hidden. Convinced that books hidden must be better than those that weren’t, Nicole greedily read them. It was only natural for her to start writing them (but now not so secretly). She lives in London with her two children and her husband—her happily-ever-after.

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To my husband—

you know what you did.

To my children—

who seriously should have known better.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Scotland —September 1296

Mairead Buchanan tried to calm her heart and failed. She didn’t even know why she tried. She knew it wasn’t possible. It had been pounding like this for over a fortnight and now it was only worse. Inside her thumping heart, grief clawed sharp.

But she didn’t have time for grief, didn’t have time to be reasonable, or to think. She was about to break; she just needed to do .

This nightmare had to end. And here, tonight, where she stood observing the shadows of a disreputable inn and freezing in the night’s damp cold, it would.

The candles on the inn’s ground floor were finally extinguished. The windows were black; the main shutters were closed. Not even a woman laughing in the distance marred the soft rustling of the night breeze. It was late; it was time.

Yet even now she fought what she had to do. Even now, she wanted to shake herself, to run in circles like a madwoman trying to escape what she had seen, what she had done. What she could not ever repair. Her brother, Ailbert, collapsing to the ground. His eyes going vacant, losing their sight. She clenched her eyes shut. Grief clawed. She clawed back.

It wouldn’t do to think of Ailbert now. Her anger or her pain. She must still her heart and retrieve what was stolen from him. It was the only way to save her family from Ailbert’s recklessness. If she didn’t retrieve the priceless dagger, the laird would certainly punish her family.

Scotland was being ravaged by war and conflict. Her mother and sisters would never survive the humiliation or the certain banishment from the clan. Without the clan, there was nothing to protect them from the English. They had nowhere else to go. No other family to turn to.

For her family’s sake, she followed Ailbert’s murderer to the inn. The man had actually paid for a room. Had probably eaten his fill and was now sleeping soundly. Ordinary actions her brother would never do again. Fury swamped Mairead’s grief and she welcomed it. Grief and desperation consumed her, but only anger would get her through this night.

Looking over her shoulder and into the gloom of the evening, she took a big breath. There was no one behind her and she had had enough of waiting.

Silencing her breath, she opened the door and let herself in. It was darker than she imagined; the shadows blanketed furniture and walls. It was unnaturally quiet and she concentrated on the sounds she could hear. The hammering of her heart, the air as it left her body, the creak of the boards as the night wind buffeted the old building.

Nothing else.

Swiftly and nimbly, she weaved through the benches and trestles on her way to the stairs. She wasn’t certain which room the murderer occupied, but she’d give herself no more than an hour to search the rooms for the stolen dagger. Any more time and travellers would be likely to stir.

She had to have—no, needed that dagger. She’d lie and steal if she had to. She’d even go into strangers’ rooms and risk her life. The dagger’s large handle was made of finely decorated polished silver and was inset with two rubies. If she could sell it, like Ailbert had intended, the debt he’d incurred could be repaid. Everything would not be lost by his reckless gambling and then, only then, could she grieve.

Walking down the small hallway, she stopped at the first door and eased the heavy iron latch open, only to find the room empty. Gently closing the door, she peered over her shoulder. She was alone.

Mairead crept to the next room and winced as the door clicked loudly. A narrow window on the opposite wall provided the light needed to illuminate an occupied bed.

From the size and shape of the lump, it looked to be a man. Her brother’s murderer was large and this man looked large, but she couldn’t tell whether the bed linens gave him the breadth or if it was the man himself.