Brigand

Sabrina
York

Noble Passions, Book Four

Kidnapped and held prisoner by a
menacing Scottish brigand, Violet does her best to persevere and resist his
rakish charms. When she realizes the brigand is really Ewan, the boy who once
saved her life, who once kissed her and ruined her for all other kisses, she is
lost.

Ewan desperately needs the
respectability a titled bride can bring him. But when his kidnapped betrothed
is delivered—bound and gagged—he discovers it’s the wrong woman. And not just any
woman—it’s Violet, the person he blames for ruining his childhood. He keeps
her, determined to punish her in every sinful way he can devise, until the
seething passion between them strips away old grudges and leaves him reeling.

By the time he realizes the depths
of his feelings for her, she’s fled. All he can do is follow her—and win her
back by partaking in the glittering London Season, where the harpies are far
more dangerous than a Scottish brigand.

A Romantica®
Regency historical erotic romance
from
Ellora’s Cave

Dedication

This book is dedicated to you, and all the readers who have
embraced this series and asked for more. What would I be without you?

Acknowledgements

My deepest appreciation to Dar Albert for a rocking
cover—always gorgeous—and to Carrie Jackson for her editing genius. I adore you
both! Thanks to Donna Hoard for her eagle eyes!

My heartfelt appreciation to my fellow writers for their
support. Especially Sara Brookes, Emily Cale, Cassandra Carr, Cerise DeLand,
Delilah Devlin, Tina Donahue, Lisa Fox, Adriana Kraft, Kathy Kulig, Susana
Ellis, Danita Minnis, Eloreen Moon, Ana Morgan, Beverly Ovalle and Zenobia
Renquist.

And of course a shout-out to my Royal Court—Charmaine
Arredondo, Crystal Benedict, Crystal Biby, Kris Bloom, Kim Brown, Sandy Butler,
Carmen Cook, Jodi Ciorciari Marinich, Celeste Deveney, Tracey A. Diczban,
Shelly Estes, Lisa Fox, Joany Kane, C. Morgan Kennedy, Denise Krauth, Barbara
Kuhl, Angie Lane, Tina Leuthardt, Chris Lewis, Laurie Peterson, Tina Reiter,
Hollie Rieth, Regina Ross, Sheri Vidal, Sally Wagoner and Michelle Wilson, as
well as the shy ones, Christy, Elf, Fedora, Gaele, Hotcha, Laurie and Pansy
Petal.

To all my friends in the Greater Seattle Romance Writers of
America, Passionate Ink and Rose City Romance Writers groups, thank you for all
your support and encouragement.

It was such a lovely, peaceful day. The grass was a deep
emerald and the sky a cerulean blue dotted with fluffy white clouds. Birds sang
gaily in the trees.

One would never suspect utter mayhem was about to erupt in
the manor house on the far side of the sweeping lawn.

But Violet knew. She had recognized that look in her
brothers’ eyes. All of them, Ned and Malcolm and Sean and Dennis—and especially
Hamish and Tay—had had enough. A bloody mutiny was in the offing.

Violet did not want to hear the screams.

Hence this stroll in the gardens.

She gazed up at the rolling tors in the distance and sighed.
“Oh, I’ve missed Scotland so.” She pulled her cloak a little tighter around
herself. The air was brisk with a sharp bite. But she loved it. London had been
practically tepid. And dirty. It was wonderful to be home.

She’d hated leaving in the first place but they hadn’t had a
choice.

Abject poverty would do that.

The only pity was that her friend Kaitlin had stayed behind
in London. But then she had to. She was, after all, in hiding.

Aunt Hortense hobbled beside her on the path, leaning
heavily on her cane. “We’ve only been gone a few weeks, gel. No need to be
melodramatic.”

“Still, I’ve missed it.”

Aunt Hortense snorted and Violet grinned. Her aunt was
always snorting or grumbling about something.

She patted her aunt’s arm. “What is it, dear?”

“I didn’t miss it. Didn’t miss Agnes a whit.” They had come
back home—packed up the entire family and returned—with the news that
Hortense’s older sister was on her deathbed. They arrived to discover Agnes
wasn’t dying at all. She was merely aggrieved that Hortense had deserted her to
serve as chaperone for Violet while she was in London.

The dire illness had been naught but a pretense to hasten
her sister back to her side.

And no wonder Hortense had been so pleased to escape.

“Agnes is a…charming soul.” Violet gave a little shudder.

Hortense pinned her with a dark glare. “Young girls
shouldn’t lie.”

Violet chuckled. “I’m only being charitable.” She noticed
that Hortense’s steps were beginning to flag. “Shall we go back?”

“Back to the house?” Ah, the horror in her tone.

“It is rather chilly,” Violet urged. “And we did leave the
boys.”

Hortense cackled. The sound rang through the arbor and
startled the birds, which abruptly stopped singing and took to wing. “The
prospect of Agnes saddled with those rambunctious rapscallions—”

“They’re not so bad.”

“They’re hellions.”

“But they’re my hellions.” Violet adored her brothers. All six
of them. The thought of them dancing circles around sour-faced Aunt Agnes made
her grin.

“What?”

Violet shrugged. “The boys didn’t care for her last lecture.
They…may have something planned.”

Her aunt’s expression lifted hopefully. “Do tell. No, wait.
It will be more fun to watch it unfold. As long as they don’t set the house on
fire. They don’t plan to set the house on fire, do they? Because I really do
not fancy spending the night in an inn.”

Violet nibbled at her smile. “No fires. I’ve been very firm
on that point.” Sean had a certain fascination with watching things go up in
flames. Dennis, on the other hand, preferred shredding things. With the twins,
one could expect a plethora of bugs or worms. Ned and Malcolm were older. More
reserved. They could be counted upon to exact subtler forms of revenge.

“Bah. Whatever it is, serves her right.”

“For what?” Violet’s brow quirked. Not that she couldn’t
fathom why Agnes had incurred the boys’ wrath. She was just curious as to which
particular offense Hortense was referring.

“For refusing to take you in when you were in desperate
straits.”

Ah. That. Violet cleared her throat. “I’m sure she had her
reasons.”

“No doubt,” Hortense grunted. “All of them selfish.”

Agnes was old. And grumpy and, yes, a bit selfish. But it
was her home. Who could blame her for not wanting it overrun with ragamuffins?
Relations or not.

“Well, no matter. I’m happy with the way things worked out.
I do adore Edward.”

“He is…tolerable, I suppose.” Her aunt’s voice was gruff but
Violet suspected she made it so to mask a tender emotion. Hortense was prickly
as a hedgehog but only because she was soft and mushy on the inside and needed
to protect herself.

“I found him quite nice.”

“He’s hardly nice.” This, Hortense muttered under her
breath, but Violet heard. Edward Wyeth, Duke of Moncrieff, was a notorious
rake. And like her brothers, very much a hellion as well.

Violet shot her a look. “He took us in, dear. Lock, stock
and barrel.” Violet, her six brothers and Kaitlin. Oh, and Aunt Hortense as a
chaperone. None of whom her English cousin had ever met. They had descended
upon him with nary a warning and completely upended his household.

And he had let them.

Another snort. “As though he had a choice.”

“He had a choice. He could have turned us out on the
street.” Thank God he had not.

“He’s a duke. There are appearances to keep up.”

“Edward doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who gives a fig
for appearances.”

Hortense harrumphed. She whacked the head off a poor
unsuspecting rose with her cane. “Every man of Quality does.”

Heavens. There was probably a juicy story in that outburst.
Aunt Hortense was a font of juicy stories. Violet filed it away for a future
interrogation. “Well, I like him. He’s been so kind despite…everything.” He’d
even allowed Kaitlin to stay at his home in London—where she would be
safe—while the rest of the family hared up to Scotland to attend a “dying” Aunt
Agnes. Oh yes. She owed Edward a great deal.

“As I said…tolerable.” Hortense tried to sound diffident but
Violet caught a hint of satisfaction in her tone. Though why she should care
what Violet thought of a distant relation was beyond her. Then again, the
machinations of Aunt Hortense’s mind were often beyond her. “Because of him,
you will finally have your season.”

“I should be excited about that, I suppose.”

Hortense gored her with a gimlet glare. “You should.”

“It just seems so…”

“So what?”

Violet shrugged. “I don’t know. Contrived?”

Hortense shrugged. “All of the best associations are.”

“Sequestering all the eligible
partis
in Town for
three months. Forcing them to dance and socialize and sniff around for a
suitable mate like hounds on a hunt…”

“Don’t forget dry cakes and watery lemonade.”

“Naturally.” Violet turned away, pretended to study a bloom
as they passed. But really, she felt the need to hide her face from her aunt’s
eagle eye. Yes, a season seemed artificial and forced. An unnatural way to
choose a mate. Falling in love should be a natural thing. Something that simply
happened when one found the right man.

Her heart lurched at a memory.

She had found the right man—or the right boy, at least—and
lost him.

She wasn’t sure she ever wanted to go through that again.

Oh, it had been glorious while it lasted—especially that
kiss. Ewan had been perfect. So handsome. And so heroic. He’d saved her life.
Once when she was a girl—a stupid girl—she’d gone out on the iced-over loch to
play. She’d gone through, into the freezing water, and he’d risked his life to
save her. He jumped in after her, found her deep in the swirling waters,
dragged her to the surface and hauled her out. But as he struggled out
himself—ice cracking under his much greater weight—a sharp edge had sliced him
open. He would always carry a jagged scar on his chest for saving her.

Oh, how she had loved him.

Her heart still ached whenever she thought of him.

Because he’d been there one day—such a large part of her
life, part of her girlish dreams—and then, just like that, he was gone. No one would
talk about him. When she asked, her father turned purple and pressed his lips
together. At her frequent queries, all the servants turned away.

Though that was years ago, Violet still wondered what had
happened to him, that boy, the one who’d kissed her once and ruined her for all
other kisses.

She’d never forgotten him and she never would until the day
she died.

Part of her dreaded having a season, choosing a husband,
simply because, in a way, it meant replacing her Ewan with some other man. One
who could never live up to her expectations.

She shivered. “Perhaps we should go back.”

With a sigh, Hortense turned and they headed toward the
house. It was a long and laborious journey. Possibly because Hortense was
moving so very slowly. She was hardly motivated to scuttle quickly. She and
Agnes really did not get on.

Then again, no one got along with Agnes.

They reached the edge of the sprawling gardens, halfway to
the manor. Hortense put a hand to her side and gusted a sigh. “Is it really
that far away?”

“It’s not so far. But here. We’ll go slowly.” Violet took
her arm and let her aunt lean on her as they strolled. “Or we can sit in the
folly for a bit.”

“Bah. A folly. Why Agnes would waste good money on that bit
of froth, I’ll never know.”

“It’s a nice place to sit when the walk is too long. Shall
we?”

“I suppose.” One would think Violet had asked her to muck
about in the stables, the way she grudgingly agreed. Hortense was something of
a curmudgeon but Violet adored her. They turned onto the yew walk and headed
for the folly.

They were nearly there when a man in a voluminous cloak
leapt out from between the trees.

Hortense screeched and reared back. Instinctively, Violet
stepped between her aunt and this threat, though her heart thundered.

One did not expect a man in a voluminous cloak to leap out
from nowhere onto this bucolic scene.

And grab her by the arms.

But he did.

“Where is she?” he snarled.

It took a moment for her mind to clear, but when it did,
Violet knew him at once. Callum MacAllister, Kaitlin’s brother. The beast who
wanted to sell her into an unwanted marriage to a foul villain. Dread coursed
through her. The wild expression, the way the veins in his neck stood out, the
pinch of his fingers on her flesh didn’t help.

“W-what are you d-doing here, Callum?”

“You know damn well.” His grip tightened and he gave her a
little shake. Violet was certain there would be bruises on her arms tomorrow.
“Where the hell is she?”

Outraged, Hortense jabbed him with her cane. “Unhand her,
you fiend!”

Callum yelped and let Violet go, but then he grabbed her
again and whipped her around, using her as a shield against furious swats.
“Where is she?” he hissed into her ear. “I know you’re hiding her.”

“Who? Who?” Aunt Hortense punctuated each word with a whack.
Unfortunately, they all hit Violet.

“Please…” More a plea to Aunt Hortense to stop smacking her
than to Callum to release her, but neither paid her any mind.

“Where. Is. She?”

Violet swallowed. “S-she’s not here.”

“Liar.”

“Who?” Heavens, Aunt Hortense could bellow. The air vibrated
with her roar.

“Kaitlin, of course, you old bat.”

Hortense took careful aim and smacked Callum’s leg. “I am
not an old bat you…cad. And Kaitlin isn’t here. She’s in London.”

Violet’s heart plummeted. Oh no! She had gone to great lengths
to hide her friend, to help her escape from a fate truly worse than death. And
now Callum knew exactly where to find her.

He stiffened. His hold became unbearably tight. Violet
struggled to breathe.

“London? What the hell is she doing in London?”

“Avoiding you.” Violet punctuated her roar with a sharp
elbow to Callum’s gut in an attempt to break free. It didn’t work.

But it did make him angry.

“You’ll pay for that,” he snapped and then, ominously, began
dragging her into the woods. Callum had never been violent before—but then
Violet had never seen him so enraged. So desperate.

She struggled to break free, dug in her heels, grasped at
passing trees, but to no avail. Kaitlin’s brother was a large man and rather
determined. Hortense hobbled after them in a flurry, brandishing her lethal
cane, but she was far too slow to catch them.

They came to a clearing where Callum’s horse was tethered to
a branch. He tossed her over the horse’s back, up in front of the saddle. She
landed on her belly. The breath rushed from her in an undignified oof. Still,
she wriggled off, landing on her feet. But she lost her balance and tumbled to
the ground.

He didn’t allow her any time to recover, wrenching the
cravat from his neck and quickly tying her hands behind her back.

“What are you doing, Callum?”

He lifted her again, this time setting her upright before
the saddle and leaping up behind her. “I’m taking you with me.”

“What?”

“Oh yes.”

“You can’t do this.”

“I can. And am. I must have my sister back. And she will
return to Scotland, to me…for you.”

Aunt Hortense burst into the clearing, gasping and wheezing.
“Release her, you…brute!” she warbled.

Callum yanked on the reins and sidled up to Aunt Hortense.
“You tell Kaitlin,” he barked, “if she ever wants to see Violet alive again,
she’d better come home. And soon.”

Then, before Aunt Hortense could so much as whack him with
her cane, he wheeled the horse and pounded through the forest, with Violet
pinioned helplessly between his arms.