Secrets to Seducing a Scot - By Michelle Marcos Page 0,2

and the force of it spun his head. The intense pain disoriented him long enough for the bearded man to swing his other fist into the side of Malcolm’s head. A burst of pain filled his head, and Malcolm felt his world sputter like a dying candle.

Finally, the fist came flying at his chin.

And all went dark.

A sound was breaking through the quiet darkness. It punctured a hole through his syrupy sleep, and though he didn’t know what it was, it demanded that he wake up.

Malcolm’s eyes fluttered open, and the pain in his head came flooding back. He didn’t know how long he had been out, but he no longer heard the brawl.

There it was again … a high-pitched scream. A child’s voice.

He tried to make his eyes focus. Through the haze of consciousness, he saw his little sister, Willow. She was being dragged to the kitchen fireplace.

The man with the ginger beard held her eight-year-old body against his chest, her feet scissoring helplessly in the air. In his other hand, clenched in his fist, he held out her wee hand.

A kilted man pulled an iron out from the fireplace, its tip glowing orange from the intense heat. She struggled against her captor, her pretty blond hair whipping around her, but her strength was no match for his. Shrilly she screamed as the hot end of the iron neared her hand.

Malcolm tried to come to her rescue, but his limbs were not responding to the cry of his mind. Stop it, he wanted to shout, but no sound could come out of his mouth.

Suddenly he felt himself being dragged across the floor. Though one of his eyes had swollen shut, the other one could see blurred images. They dragged him past the body of his mother, lying lifeless on the floor. Then past his brothers, Thomas and Hamish, who lay in a pool of their own blood. Finally, he saw John, his father, his eyes half closed in encroaching sleep. Just like the boar’s had been.

The beautiful handle made from the stag’s antler was protruding from his father’s chest.

Malcolm closed his eyes to the horrifying vision. A scream, even if he could make it, would not erase the images from his mind. His twin sisters, Shona and Willow, and his little brother Camran cowered in a corner, tears drenching their faces as they clutched their burned hands.

“And this one?” said a voice far above his head.

“We’ll brand him, too.”

“Then put the iron back in the fire.”

Seconds later a white-hot bolt of pain shot down his arm. He was helpless to prevent it, helpless to fight back, helpless even to cry out. But his unresponsive body could still sense every painful nuance of the searing on the back of his hand. Even the smell of his own charred flesh filled his nostrils with repugnance.

“We can’t take this one.”

“Why not?”

“He’s bleeding out of his ear. The boy’s as good as dead.”

“He might recover.”

“Think, man. The others can walk. But this one is unconscious. We don’t have the horse to take him. Three slaighteurs. That’s more than enough recompense.”

All Malcolm’s entrails seemed to scream from the pain on his hand, even more than from the terrible throbbing in his head and neck. But no pain was greater than the sight of his little brother and sisters being hauled away. Orphaned, mutilated, and terrified—and forced to go with their captors. And just before he drifted out of consciousness, only one thought filled his head.

Hunt them down.

ONE

KENSINGTON PALACE, ENGLAND

1819

A royal ball is very much like any other ball. One sees many of the same guests, eats many of the same dishes, and has many of the same conversations. But juggle enough balls, and one is bound to fall.

And so it happened to a certain gentleman and his lady who found themselves discreetly escorted from the Princess’s birthday fête. Perhaps too much wine led to too much whine, but this unwise man balked about the selection of spirits at the Duke of Kent’s table, and he decided to boast to the Prince Regent about his own collection of expensive liquors.

A word of advice to those who attend at court: Never complain about the champagne. It is one thing to be considered a connoisseur of the finer pleasures, but it is quite another to be demanding of them.

Unhappily, this particular man (and his particular tastes) will never be invited back. You may be called fussy, you may be called arrogant. But the one thing you don’t