A Perfect Knight For Love

Books by Jackie Ivie

A Perfect Knight for Love

Knight Everlasting

A Knight and White Satin

Once Upon a Knight

A Knight Well Spent

Heat of the Knight

The Knight Before Christmas

Tender Is the Knight

Lady of the Knight

“A Knight Beyond Black” in
Highland Hunger

A
P
ERFECT
K
NIGHT
F
OR
LOVE

Jackie Ivie

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Books by Jackie Ivie
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Copyright Page

To Benjamin Levi,
for all you are
and everything you’ve yet to accomplish.

And another special thanks
to Michael Larsen
for once again coming up
with a great title.

Chapter 1

AD 1689

Limitless . . . that’s what it was. And stretching as far as the eye could see.

Amalie inhaled with pure joy, focusing a moment on breaking clouds tinted with a setting sun. Everyone else had dismounted the coach, stretching and yawning as they cleared the door. Amalie ignored them. She knew what they’d be looking at: a hastily erected posting house whose wood was so new it contained slivers, or one hewn from rock looking old and worn before it got finished. They’d also see a collection of horseflesh that might taint any decent stable, before being accosted by more robust and uncouth humanity. It would be exactly like the last stop, and the one before. The only good thing about this one was it was the second-to-the-last one she must visit.

Amalie exhaled and watched the mist from her breath for a moment before it dissipated. It was all so beneath her. She had more immense things to ponder than jostling through a crowd to a sparse attic room, eating a lukewarm and probably unappetizing sup, and bedding down on coarse sheets atop a hard bed. She had freedom. The moment they’d crossed the border she’d felt it. She was free. Absolutely, totally—

She tripped, spinning into a tangled mass of skirts and traveling cape before landing in a bruising cradle without much give to it.

“What the saints?”

Amalie slapped her hand against a massive chest having a total lack of softness. Nothing about him felt remotely soft. Or anything other than hard. Heated. Male. Amalie squinted up at him.

“Good catch, Thayne.”

“Now lasses just come raining from the heavens for him, too? ’Tis vastly unfair of fate.”

“Hush. All of you.”

The man moved his chest with the words and that moved her. His head came around the brim of her hat next, showing the unfairness of the entire exchange. Handsomeness such as his existed only in some night-fantasy capacity. And those, she’d never admit to.

“’Tis fain easier to use the steps, lass.”

He had a thick Scot accent that teased her ear. It also required a moment or two to decipher what he said.

“Th-thank you.”

He tied her tongue with the view, and then tangled her words with the size and strength of him. She didn’t know where her wits had gone. It was just so completely unexpected. Her palm flesh itched and tingled where it touched solid male through a too-thin muslin shirt, there wasn’t but a bunched band of plaid cloth intersecting him near her knees, and she was having trouble breathing.

“Nae thanks necessary, miss. It is . . . miss?”

He lifted his brows, showing off light-shaded eyes. They combined with perfect features and thick reddish-brown hair. He was extremely tall. Either that or he stood on the loading stool. Amalie could see beneath the coach she’d just fallen from.

“Y-yes.” She sounded weak. And she stammered. It was better than remaining stunned and silent, but not by much. It wasn’t possible to converse properly with him, though. Her mouth didn’t work.

He let out a pent breath and turned his head. “All’s well, lads. She’s unwed.”

“That’s MacGowan luck for you.”

The reply caused chuckling about her. The man holding her didn’t join in. He turned back to her. Amalie licked her lips and ordered her heart to cease the gallop of beats. It didn’t work.

“’Luck?” Amalie asked.

A grin split his face, sending his handsomeness right into beautiful. Amalie’s eyes went wide.

“’Tis luck I’ll na’ be accosted for my actions.”

“Actions?”

“I caught you.”

“True,” Amalie agreed. “But I . . . don’t understand.”

“A husband might find my action objectionable.”

“He would?”

He cleared his throat. It rumbled through the chest she was pressed to. “’Tis na’ exactly the catch. More the delay that has ensued afterward.”

“Delay?”

“I’ve yet to release you.”

“Oh. Then, do so.”

“’Tis muddy through here.”

“Now, I truly must object—”

He stopped her words by gathering her close enough their chests touched. Then he took large paces through the muck of the stable yard, moving muscled flesh everywhere she touched.

He was accurate about one thing. It must be muddy. He slipped more than once and that got her gripped even more tightly.

“Iain? See to the door. And you, Sean! Fetch a mug of something.”

“Specifics?”

“Mead! Fetch mead. You ken mead?” Her captor asked the last, dipping his head to her and giving another quick smile.

“Ken?” she asked.

He blew a breath through his lower lip, lifting stray locks at his forehead with the motion. “A bit of mead works well at untwisting knots from a coach ride.”

“Put me down,” Amalie replied.

“What if I say . . . nae?”

“Surely that’s ungentlemanly.”

He tipped his head to one side as if weighing it. Then he bent sideways and slid her to the wooden floor, keeping a hold on her elbow as if she needed it. She hadn’t been mistaken. He was worse than tall. He was gigantic. Amalie looked over at the fourth button down on his too-thin shirt. She’d probably fit beneath his arm. She cleared her throat. It sounded weak.

“I really must leave you, sir. But I do thank you.”

“I’d best see you to a prime spot first.”

“Prime . . . spot?”

She may be at his side rather than plastered to him but her reaction hadn’t improved. She glanced up into clear, green-blue eyes and darted her look away.

“For your rest. And meal.”

“I’ve a room reserved. I do
not
sit in the common room.” Amalie knew she sounded autocratic, but it was too late. She could only hope he didn’t notice.

“You the governess expected by Clan MacKennah? The one from London-town?”

He’d noticed.

“Y-yes.” Her voice wavered again. Still.

“Sincerest apologies. Your rooms have been . . . borrowed.”

“What do you mean . . . borrowed?”

“They’re na’ available to you at present.”

“Release me at once. I’ll take this up with the innkeeper.” Her lips set. If he knew her better, he’d know what it meant.

“Nae need. The man’s well satisfied.”

“Satisfied? How? And with what?” Her voice was growing tart and acidic. Both signs of her temper. Amalie worked at controlling it.

“With copious amounts of silver. What else?”

“That’s impossible. My room is booked and paid for.”

“It’s still been taken.”

“You can’t take a room.”

“It’s done, lass. Come. I’ll see you a sup fetched and mead.”

“You stole my room?”

He gave her that innocent looking smile again. “You canna’ steal a room, lass. I’ve but borrowed it. I’ll return it. You’ve my word.”

The thick brogue attached to the words was no longer interesting. It was irritating and annoying. Everything about him was. Her voice rose.

“Unborrow it, then. This instant. Rooms have been reserved for me all along this route. And unhand me, as well.” She tried pulling her elbow from him, but all that happened was he tightened his thumb and two fingers.

“I ken as much.”

There wasn’t much of his previous joviality to the words and no leeway in his grip as he twirled her forward. Then he forewent any appearance of a gentlemanly escort to march her across the room, using long loping strides that slid her feet, sending orders above her head the entire way.

“Grant? Clear a spot nearest the fire. You, Sean! A chair. Iain, my cloak. And get me a plaide. A dry one.”

He dragged her across the common room as if it wasn’t crowded, went through a portal, and entered another room. Amalie’s heartbeat was so pronounced it pained her throat, while her mind flashed through every warning and dire consequence she’d been forced to listen to during the last few days.

She’d been told a Scotsman was barbaric. How ancient villages had been raided by Vikings, and those in turn became governed by Highlanders. Supposedly the culture hadn’t progressed much since. She’d been warned how any veneer of civility got wiped away by the Covenanters of the ’60s. It had all seemed so far-fetched and ridiculous. And she hadn’t paid enough attention. That much was patently obvious.

“I’ll scream. I swear.” And if her voice would work beyond a whisper, she’d have already done it.

“Hush!”

He moved with the word, folding her into an embrace of sorts. She’d known he was large, muscled, heated, and solid. Being clamped against him with her head tilted upward was unnecessary proof. Amalie opened her mouth but he’d forestalled her with a barrage of brogue-filled words, colored with what sounded like genuine fear.