Table Of ContentAnOriginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Karen Hawkins
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To Nate V. N.
Thank you for never getting tired of my endless quest for “just the right word”
and for keeping your snickering to a minimum when I sing in the shower.
Nate, you make my heart smile.
T. A. I.
Acknowledgments
I would like to acknowledge my agent, Karen Solem, who never says, “You want
to write WHAT?”
And a huge hug to my new editor, Micki Nuding, who was also my old editor
from a long time ago.
Micki, you were right! We’re working together again! WOOHOO!
How to Abduct a Highland Lord
Prologue
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
Prologue
Och, lassies! Such doubters ye are! I’ve met men who were cursed. And women,
too…
OLDWOMANNORA OFLOCHLOMOND
TO HER THREE WEE GRANDDAUGHTERS ONE COLD NIGHT
Stirling, Scotland
April 9, 1807
Jack Kincaid died as he had lived: awash in a haze of fine bourbon, his perfectly
tailored coat pockets stuffed with his winnings from a night of wild gaming, and
reeking faintly of the perfume of another man’s wife.
Jack had whiled away this particular evening at a grand house outside Stirling,
lured from London by the charms of the lovely Lady Lucinda Featherington.
Lord Featherington, ambassador to a distant foreign clime, was due home any
day. Jack had overcome the lady’s qualms at his presence with a heated kiss and
a murmured suggestion that had sent a delighted flush through that not-easily-
shocked woman.
“Black Jack” lived lustily, and many were the hearts tossed his way only to be
smashed upon the hard rocks of his heart. Women were always guaranteed a
good time in his bed, though.
Hours later, the sound of a carriage rumbling up the drive had caused the lady to
gasp, throw back the covers and scramble from Jack’s arms. Jack just laughed.
He didn’t fear Lord Featherington; the man was a pitiful shot and had never hit
his man. Jack never missed.
But Lucinda had no wish for a scandal. Concern for her reputation outweighed
her feelings for Jack, and she begged him to leave.
Amused and a mite tipsy from sampling her husband’s excellent cellars, Jack
allowed himself to be coaxed into climbing out the window. Just as the doorknob
of the master bedchamber turned, Jack leapt from the trellis to the garden below.
Whistling to himself, he sauntered through the gardens to the stable, where he
gathered his horse from a surprised groom. Then he was off, flying back to the
amusements to be had in London. If he changed horses along the way, he would
arrive in two days, in plenty of time for Lord Mooreland’s private card party.
Mooreland was a fool, but he entertained with a lushness that was unparalleled.
A more prudent gentleman would have taken the York Road, with its wide
avenue and frequent inns.
Jack took the stage road to Ayr, a dark and lonely road notorious for its
highwaymen. The Ayr Road was doubly dangerous for a lone man on horse,
especially one dressed in London finery, a ruby flashing on one hand, his head
muddled by Lord Featherington’s best bourbon.
Jack urged his spirited horse to a gallop, heedless of the darkness and
highwaymen alike.
As he turned a corner, the calm, balmy weather changed with an abruptness that
stunned him.
The skies suddenly opened with a clap of thunder, and a heavy, drenching rain
slashed down. Cold and sharp, it soaked him in a second, and the thunder caused
his horse to rear. Jack’s hands slipped from the wet reins, and he fell. As the
ground rushed up to greet him, the faint scent of lilacs tickled his nose, then the
fall stole both his breath and his consciousness.
Sometime later, he awoke to the stinging slap of rain on his face. He lay in a
deep puddle of mud, its thick ooze gluing him in place. His hair stuck to his
forehead and clung to his neck, rain running over him in rivulets. The warm mud
that held him to the ground was in striking contrast to the cold rain sluicing
down upon him. Rain that smelled like lilacs…
Fiona MacLean.
But surely not. He hadn’t spoken to her in fifteen years, though he could still
picture her exactly as he’d seen her last: rich brown hair falling about her face,
her tears hidden by the rain—
His heart tightened. There was no sense in remembering that. And to think that
this accident involved Fiona merely because of the scent of lilacs was ridiculous.
He must have hit his head harder than he thought. Indeed, it was difficult to think
at all, his temples ached so much.
Bloody hell, he didn’t have time for this. There were women to be bedded,
wagers to be won, bourbon to be tasted.
