The Thief

  The Thief

  Allison Butler

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  The Thief

  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.

  About the Author

  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.

  Acknowledgements

  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

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Epilogue

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  Chapter 1

  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 ta
ut 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.

  ‘Ah, Christ,’ Lachlan muttered, lunging forward to catch her.

  ***

  ‘Have you lost your touch with the lasses, laird?’ Iona, the Elliots’ ancient healer, cackled at her own wit and drove her needle into the torn flesh of his arm.

  Lachlan flinched, then sipped his ale as the bite of the needle subsided.

  Lundy, Duff, Adair, and Callum sat across from him at the laird’s table, doing a poor job of hiding their mirth as they shovelled steaming porridge into their mouths.

  ‘How is our thief?’ he asked, ignoring Iona’s question, and his smirking clansmen. After riding back to the keep with the senseless wench in his arms, he’d carried her up to the spare chamber they used for uninvited guests. Sadly, Castle Redheugh didn’t have a dungeon.

  ‘She’s a lively one,’ Iona said. ‘Made a fuss when the women stripped off her sodden clothes.’

  Lachlan flinched again as Iona sewed another stitch. ‘Was she injured in any way?’

  ‘Not that I could see,’ Iona said, tying off the next stitch.

  Relief swept through him that the woman—thief—was unharmed.

  ‘The she-devil did fall at his feet,’ Lundy said. Lachlan smiled at his clansman’s support. ‘Right after she cut him,’ Lundy added.

  ‘With his own knife,’ Iona said, cackling anew.

  Lachlan frowned at Lundy and said, ‘Are you done yet, old woman?’

  ‘Aye.’ She pulled tight on the final stitch and bent low to sever the thread with her few remaining teeth. ‘Slap this on the wound before you find your bed.’

  Lachlan took the clay pot of salve she thrust at him. ‘My thanks, Iona.’

  ‘Nae need to thank me for patching you up, lad,’ she said, gathering her tools and herbs. ‘But if you’re wanting advice about snaring a woman, you know where to find me. It’s been too long for a young, able lad as yourse—

  ‘Did the wench speak?’ Lachlan said, cutting her off.

  ‘Nae.’ The furrows and ruts on her wrinkled face deepened until her small dark eyes were almost lost in the folds. ‘Not a word,’ she said, tilting her head to one side as if she too found the thief’s silence odd.

  ‘Nae matter,’ he said, thrusting the image of their mysterious guest from his mind. ‘My thanks, again.’

  Iona nodded and shuffled her way to the spiral stone staircase. Lachlan gestured to one of the young servants to aid the healer’s ascent. The hunched old woman was too stubborn to ask for assistance. Light from the flaming torches washed over her silver-white hair, reminding Lachlan of how she’d looked when he’d been a lad. Reminding him how swiftly time slipped by. Reminding him that time waited for no man.

  Lachlan drained the last of his ale, and turned his thoughts to a concern that had robbed him of sleep for almost a year. Now he’d caught the thief, he’d run out of reasons to delay. He needed to marry. He’d come close last winter’s end, but close wasn’t good enough.

  Lachlan scanned the hall. Dawn had barely come and gone, but more than the usual number of his people were up and about, no doubt due to his return from sentry duty, carrying his prize. Some clansmen slumbered on, while others began their chores. These were his people. His responsibility.

  Murdoch, Castle Redheugh’s steward, emerged from the kitchens with a fresh jug of ale. Spying the empty wooden bowls on the table, he summoned a maid to clear them away, and topped up the six empty cups.

  ‘Where is Caelan?’ Lachlan asked.

  ‘He’s on his way from the stable,’ Murdoch replied.

 
‘Sit, Murdoch,’ Lachlan said. ‘We’ll fill the lad in when he arrives.’

  Lachlan lifted his ale and took a long swig. He lowered his cup and met each man’s gaze before leaning forward, resting his bare forearms on the worn timber surface. The five men, sharing the halo of light from the torches in the sconces behind him, waited expectantly.

  ‘I know four of you are eager to find your beds,’ Lachlan said quietly. ‘God willing, this won’t take long.’

  Lundy, Duff, Dair and Cal, his companions and best swordsmen, straightened where they sat. Murdoch gave a slight nod, the glint in his faded blue eyes spoke of his awareness regarding the subject Lachlan was about to broach, and his approval. Though Lachlan didn’t need his steward’s recognition, he respected the seasoned Borderer’s opinion.

  ‘The reason I’ve asked for your counsel is it’s time I married.’ Lachlan toyed with the cup in his hands as he waited for a reaction.

  ‘Who’s the lucky lass?’ Duff asked.

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  Dair’s fair brows lifted in mischief. ‘So you want our help in choosing a bride?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Lundy winked at Cal, leaned forward and said, ‘What do you find most appealing about women, laird?’

  Lachlan smiled at the question. ‘I find everything about women appealing.’

  Grins wreathed his friends’ faces. Having accompanied Lachlan to the surrounding villages and towns for a bout of womanly comfort on more than one occasion, the four were well aware of his preferences in women. Murdoch tried to hide his knowing smile.

  Downing the rest of his ale, Lachlan set the empty cup on the wooden table with a thud. ‘But it isn’t just a woman I’m looking for.’ His lips tightened. ‘I need a wife.’

  If his plan to wed Jeanne Irvine had succeeded—

  ‘Pity the Irvine lass married another,’ Murdoch said, as if reading his mind.

  Lachlan nodded. ‘An alliance with the Irvine’s would have been ideal. They could have watched our backs, granting us more time to harass the English.’