Douglas awoke on the singular thought that somehow during the night, whilst he’d been asleep, and without him even waking because of it, someone had clubbed him over the head with a cudgel.
He stirred, tried to swallow, his mouth wanting water. Just the effort of opening his eyes to squint against the muted light of the dawn caused him to set his teeth, top to bottom, together. Any noise—the lads working in the stables outside, muffled voices coming from the downstairs taproom, the simple closing of a door down the hall—all of it took on a volume that thrummed, throbbed, ached.
Why the devil had he drunk so damned much whisky?
He’d not woken to a morning thus since he’d been a lad of fourteen, the day after he and his younger brother, Iain, had stolen their way into their uncle’s underground distillery. They’d been two green boys who’d wanted to play at being men and Douglas had learned then that while the drink of his ancestors went down quite smoothly, it came up with a violence that could make a grown man—or a fourteen year old lad—weep out loud.
He’d spent two days afterward hanging over a chamber pot, his uncle furious, Eithne tsk-tsking, and Douglas swearing never to do such a thing again. From then on, the only whisky he took would be in toasting—at weddings, clan celebrations, the birth of a new bairn. Occasionally he would take a dram to ward off the winter cold. But he had stood by that promise for more than seventeen years—until a hazel-eyed lass had issued him a challenge, a challenge that now left him wincing every time he blinked his dry eyes.
Douglas shifted on the bed, seeking the soft solace of a pillow to place over his aching head. He would have groaned if that small effort alone wouldn’t have caused him more strife than it was worth. So he burrowed further beneath the bedcovers like a mollusk in the sand, seeking to disappear, to push off the aftereffects of his poor decisions. It was only then that Douglas realized he wasn’t actually alone on the bed.
A curtain of hair, soft, light, fell against his shoulder. When he chanced to open one eye, the hair revealed itself the color of burnished gold. Douglas knew that hair, knew the lass that came along with it, the same lass whose arm he now realized was hooked carelessly around his waist—his bare waist—with a hand splayed dangerously closely to his groin.
Douglas stilled, unwilling to move, even to breathe, and struggled to recall something of the night before. He had brought a lost shoe up to her room, he remembered, and she had begged him not to leave. He remembered he’d intended to stay until she fell asleep. He remembered she’d been afraid. All he could think was that he must have somehow dozed off himself.
It must have been the whisky, that and the fatigue of having traversed the north of England on foot the previous day. He had been so intent on getting home to Skye, he apparently hadn’t realized how very tired he’d obviously been. When she’d called him into the room, he’d been lulled by the darkness, the sound of her voice, the whisper of her soft breathing. But that still left one question remaining to him now:
What the devil had happened to his clothes?
Just the realization of where he now found himself, how he was, and with whom, made Douglas’s groin instinctively tighten. Damn it. No hope for it. He was a man and his belly clenched as he imagined how close her fingers were to him, how soft she felt tucked against him, how silken her hair as it draped across his shoulder. He allowed himself to look at her in the pink light of dawn and watched her as she slept, trying to match his breathing to hers. Her brow was furrowed and her mouth frowned as if even in dreams she struggled against some unknown foe.
A part of him wanted nothing more than to just stay there in the warmth of that bed, listening to the soft cadence of her breath as the morning crept upward toward the day. The saner part of him, however, the part that registered fight or flight realized the absolute absurdity of his present situation. He had to somehow extricate himself from the bed without waking her, find his clothes, and get out of that room as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, that part of him didn’t act quite promptly enough.
“Elizabeth, I’m sure you’d love nothing better than to sleep the day away, but we cannot—”
The door had suddenly pushed open. A shriek surely loud enough to shatter glass tore across the room a moment after. Douglas grabbed the nearest pillow and buried his head beneath it.
“Elizabeth! What have you done?”
The sound of her sister’s shrill voice wrenched Elizabeth immediately awake.
She covered her eyes with her forearm, seeking to block the light. “Good God, Bella, why must you harass me at this unholy hour?”
She groaned against the pain in her head and burrowed into the warmth of her pillow, determined not to move for at least half an hour. Until her pillow moved—and she realized it wasn’t a pillow at all.
Elizabeth shot up and pushed at the faceless lump laying beside her.
“What are you…? Who are you…? What do you think you are doing in my bed? You must get out—immediately!”
She realized immediately she was wearing a chemise, nothing else. One sleeve had slipped down, baring her shoulder. Aghast, she grabbed for the pillow that covered his head, only to freeze when her hand glanced his leg. His very naked leg.
“Y-You’re not wearing anything!”
Douglas opened one eye to look at her. “No, lass, I am not.”
He didn’t, however, move to get out.
“How the devil did you get in here?”
“You invited me in, lass.”
“I did no such thing. You’re lying. I certainly did not—”
“When I was after returning your shoe last night… ”
Elizabeth quieted, the memory of their conversation the night before coming clearer. In truth, she’d almost thought it had been a dream.
I’m not going anywhere, lass.
She remembered his words. Just as she’d asked him, begged him, he hadn’t left her on her own in that dark room. He’d stayed with her all night, to keep watch against the shadows and that nameless, faceless monster of fear that had plagued her almost all her life. He had kept her safe.
Copyright © Jaclyn Reding, Oliver Heber Publishing, 2023
THE PRETENDER by Jaclyn Reding
Daughters of the Duke #1
A Scottish Jacobite Historical Romance
When the 9th Duke of Sudeleigh discovers that his eldest daughter, Elizabeth, is the clandestine author of a scandalous editorial, he hatches a plan to bring the feisty young woman to heel. He will secretly send her off to an arranged marriage so that she might better concentrate her efforts on hearth and home instead of the spreading of contrary ideas. But a mishap with her carriage en route brings headstrong Elizabeth a chance to foil her father’s plans. Douglas Dubh MacKinnon, an annoyingly handsome Highlander will provide her with the perfect riposte. What Elizabeth doesn’t consider is that in these turbulent political times, she, too, might offer Douglas something in return: a convenient means of securing his birthright–as well as the ideal disguise when the opportunity to save a prince on the run arises, leaving them both to wonder just who is the true Pretender after all?
Romance Historical [Oliver-Heber Books, On Sale: July 25, 2023, e-Book, / ]
About Jaclyn Reding
Born in the Midwest, Jaclyn Reding makes her home in central Massachusetts with her husband, young son, and various other domestic creatures. In addition to writing, her passions include playing the flute very badly, haunting antique bookshops, and making a spectacle of herself by cheering very loudly at her son’s hockey games.
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