The Thief
Authors: Allison Butler
The Thief
Allison Butler
Allison Butler
From Allison Butler, bestselling author of
The Healer
, comes a sexy new Scottish romance about a man in search of a bride, a woman in search of a home and an inconvenient attraction that can’t be denied.
To fulfil his father’s dying wish, Border laird Lachlan Elliot must marry and sire a legitimate heir, cementing his family’s name in the tumultuous borderlands. But his marriage will be one of convenience. Lachlan has no time for the pain and betrayal of love, and his land and position must always come first. So even when the spirited thief he catches stealing his horse turns out to be breathtaking – and appropriate – he vows to marry her, bed her, but never love her.
Kenzie never wanted an arranged marriage, but to be forced to wed the domineering laird who catches her thieving from his lands is even worse. Feisty, strong-willed and determined to make her own way, Kenzie may have no choice but to agree to the marriage, but she will never give up her independence. Lachlan may own her body, but he will never own her heart.
Allison Butler is an author of Scottish historical romance. She spent her early years in country New South Wales building pretend castles with hay bales and leaping white posts with her army of two older sisters and a younger brother. Many years later, with her mother’s influence, she discovered a passion for words and history, read her first historical romance and was inspired to create her own. She writes in the morning and cares for the elderly in the afternoon. Her love of travel has given her the gift of many amazing sights but none more heart-stirring than the rugged beauty of Scotland. Allison lives in a small town in New South Wales, Australia, with her very own Scottish hero and a Jack Russell named Wallace. Their two beautiful daughters have left the nest and have begun their own adventures. Allison loves travelling, taking photos, dancing like no one’s watching and seeing the sights from the back of her husband’s motorcycle.
Many thanks to Romance Writers of Australia and Romance Writers of New Zealand for the ongoing support and guidance and all the amazing members I’ve met along the way. Huge thanks to Kate Cuthbert, the wonderful team at Escape Publishing and my editor, Belinda Holmes. Super thanks to my special writing buddy, Alissa Callen, and the fabulous members of Claytons. A special thank you to all my friends and family, especially my two beautiful daughters for their constant encouragement and excitement. And finally, thank you to my gorgeous husband for believing in me, for still bringing me flowers after thirty years and for looking amazingly sexy in a kilt.
Maddison & Molly
Precious Angels Forever In Our Hearts
Contents
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
Clan Elliot Lands
Scottish Border, November 1402
Only a soul touched by madness would venture out on a bitter night such as this.
Or a man determined to guard what was his.
Lachlan drew a long, shoulder-lifting breath. The ice blanketing his fur mantle crackled, breaking the quiet. He slowly exhaled and a puff of frosty air clouded his view of the snow-encrusted north field and the herd of slumbering cattle within. The filthy ice water swelling about his feet seeped through the toughened hide of his leather boots and sucked the heat from his toes. Thank Christ dawn was near, and with it, another to stand guard during the daylight spell.
Trust the accursed thieves not to strike this night. In the four weeks since he’d traded the warmth of his bed to spend the dark hours in bone-chilling misery, not a single beast had been lifted. Numbed fingers flexed around the hilt of his dirk. He was furious, but also intrigued. Whoever had fixed their eye on stealing his cattle was either the poorest thief raiding the Borders, or their wits were addled. Why else risk a noose about their neck for only two beasts each time? The wretches must be caught and punished.
‘Laird!’
Lachlan whipped about at the faint call to see his man Duff riding up the icy drifts toward him. Slipping free of the stark birch wood, Lachlan ran to meet him, the sting of every footfall shooting life up into his bloodless legs.
‘Thieves, Duff?’
‘Aye, laird,’ his clansman said, drawing his mount to a halt and leaping to the ground.
‘Where?’ Lachlan stepped closer and grasped the reins. His chilled blood heated as his excitement swelled.
‘Came from the east, left the same way.’
‘How many?’ Lachlan threw himself into Duff’s saddle.
Damned English, no doubt.
‘Just the one.’
Lachlan stilled and looked down at Duff. ‘One?’
‘Aye. Lundy’s after him now.’
‘How many cattle lost?’
‘Nae cattle, laird. Just your horse.’
‘Good Christ.’ Sensing his frustration, his borrowed mount shifted beneath him. Lachlan unclenched his jaw and forced his lower limbs to relax. ‘Return home and tell the day guards to start their watch now.’
‘Aye, laird,’ Duff called, as Lachlan whirled the horse about and cut across to the east.
Poor light and the lack of fresh snow had left the ground hard-packed and slippery. The garron he rode proved his worth, skirting hidden rocks and hollows and clusters of naked, jutting branches. Lachlan searched the shadowed landscape ahead. Nothing. Had Lundy caught the thieving bastard already? The bloody cur had stolen De Brus. Stolen
his
horse from the five his men had left sheltered in the crude hut they called a shieling.
With Lachlan’s lands at the edge of the Scottish border and the direction the thief had come and gone, it was likely he was English. Clan Elliot had fought for and defended these lands for nigh on a hundred years and while Lachlan had the strength to draw breath, he’d continue to defend what was his.
Feeling the dagger tucked into the band at his waist, he smiled. His cheeks stung at the shift in expression, but even the bite of the chill air couldn’t lessen the rising anticipation at the thought of capturing his prey. Lachlan hoped Lundy hadn’t caught the thief yet. He relished dealing with the reiving scum himself.
Movement to the left caught his eye. He narrowed his gaze to scan the white-capped boulders strewn between ghost-like shrubs. A dark shape flickered and then disappeared. With a twitch of his fingers, he turned his mount north and forged a path up the slope to higher ground. He drew the pony to a halt and dismounted. He stroked the garron’s neck reassuringly, crouched low and made his way to the ridge’s edge. Screened by a clump of frosted alders, he peered down into the shallow valley.
A lone figure slowly made his way up the narrow trail, passing directly below Lachlan’s hiding place. Lachlan studied the heavily garbed form and the ancient mount he rode, before his attention came to rest on the horse trailing behind.
As if sensing his master’s presence, De Brus stopped, lifted his small head and flicked his ears. The coarse, thin rope circling his neck drew taut as the horse stood his ground.
The rider turned and looked back at De Brus.
A grim smile tilted the corners of Lachlan’s mouth.
An extra carrot for your efforts, De Brus, me lad.
He crept to the edge of the ridge, drew a lungful of air and launched himself at the thieving cur.
His chest collided with the wool-clad form, and he locked his arms about the well-padded figure, bracing himself for the fall. His right side struck the hard-packed ground like a mighty blow from a smithy’s hammer. Air exploded from his lungs. Keeping a tight hold on his captive, Lachlan straddled the thief’s hips. Fists pounded his upper body.
‘Be still, you thieving spawn.’
Thump, thump, thump.
Gritting his teeth, Lachlan drew back his fisted right hand, fixed upon the place he’d hit to stun, and froze.
A long, dark braid clung to a smooth, delicate jaw line.
Thump, thump.
Damn! He captured the flailing fists in one hand, while his other hand shot down and plucked the shapeless woollen cap from the head thrashing from side to side. The figure beneath him tensed and then went still. Unblinking pools of deepest brown stared up at him. Lachlan stared back. Her eyes were rimmed by clusters of dark lashes, giving her the look of a startled doe. Her nose was small; her slightly parted lips were full and pink, tinged with blue.
The thieving beauty suddenly bucked and wriggled beneath him. Leaning forward, Lachlan stretched her hands high over her head. His chest brushed hers. Certain parts of the body beneath him began to materialise in his mind. The soft mounds hidden from view by a thick layer of clothing. The slender hips trapped by his weight, and what lay mere inches below.
She went still again.
The wrists he held suddenly seemed fragile, bird-like. He noted again the silky curve of the jaw that would have shattered beneath his fist.
‘God Almighty. I almost hit you.’ His gut turned. ‘Are you hurt?’
His captive thief stared up at him wide-eyed, but said not a word. Short, sharp breaths escaped her parted lips.
‘Answer me,’ he said through clenched teeth.
Silence. He finally had the only woman in Christendom who could hold her tongue under him and … Damn! He was likely crushing her. Shifting so his weight rested on his knees and releasing her wrists, Lachlan rocked to his feet. He shoved her cap into the band at his waist, then grabbed fistfuls of her damp woollen cloak and set her on her feet.
She staggered and he tightened his hold. Small hands breached the opening of his mantle to shove against him. Despite the layers of clothing he wore, his stomach muscles clenched. He let her go, but stood his ground, studying her eyes. She shivered. Alertness lingered in the brown depths, hinting at wariness rather than fear.
‘Your name,’ he said. He loosened the leather cord at his throat and lifted the fur from his shoulders. Holding the garment up as an offering, he stepped toward her. She stepped back. Did she shake her head to refuse his mantle or was she trembling from the cold?
‘This will warm you,’ he said, moving closer. He swirled the fur to one side, preparing to drape it about her. Too late a glint of steel flashed in her hand. Pain ripped through his upper arm.
Hell’s fire.
With an indrawn breath, he stopped and stared at his slashed sleeve and the gash beneath. Blood welled, spilling over and dripping down to his elbow.
Ignoring the sticky warmth, Lachlan turned and glared at the woman he’d underestimated. Her head slowly shook from side to side as she backed away from him, still brandishing her weapon—his dirk. When he’d set her on her feet, the little thief had stolen his blasted knife.
Lachlan gave her his best laird’s glare. She tilted her chin and glared back.
The sound of galloping hooves echoed behind him. Wiser now, Lachlan refused to take his eyes off the bloodthirsty wench.
‘You caught the thief, laird.’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ Lachlan said recognising Lundy’s voice. Lachlan continued to watch the knife-wielding woman. Her gaze darted between Lachlan and his clansman.
‘You’re bleeding, laird,’ Lundy said from beside him.
‘Aye. A token from our thief.’
The woman looked from Lachlan’s face to his arm, and then to the drops of blood staining the ice near his feet. All trace of colour leached from her elfin face and her huge brown eyes looked into his. The clatter of steel sounded as his dirk dropped from her hand to the frozen ground.
