Personal Target: An Elite Ops Novel (33 page)

An Excerpt from

by Lecia Cornwall

Legends say a curse lurks among the shattered stones of Glen Dorian Castle. Will the love that is beginning to grow between Megan and Kit be able to withstand fate? For only the living, those with bold hearts and true love, can restore peace to Glen Dorian at last.

M
egan scanned the valley once more and ignored her sister. “I’m just saying goodbye to Glenlorne. At least for now.”

“Better to say farewell to people than places,” Sorcha said. “I’ve already been to the village, telling folk I’ll be back come spring.” She grinned mischievously at her sister. “You won’t, though—you’ll be in London, bothered by the attentions of all those daft English lairds at your first Season.”

Megan felt a rush of irritation. “Lords, Sorcha, not lairds—and stop teasing,” she commanded, and flounced down the steep path that led back to the castle.

Sorcha picked a flower and skipped beside her sister like a mountain goat. One by one, she plucked at the petals. “How many English
lords
will Megan McNabb kiss?” she asked, dancing around her sister. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

“Stop it,” Megan said, and snatched the flower away. She wouldn’t kiss anyone but Eachann. But her sister picked another flower.

“How many English lords will come and ask Alec for Meggy’s delicate hand in marriage?” she mused, but Megan snatched that blossom too, before Sorcha could begin counting again.

“I shan’t go to London, and I will never marry an English lord,” she said fiercely.

“We’ll see what mama says to that,” Sorcha replied. “And Muira would say never is a very long time indeed.”

Megan stopped. “What exactly did Muira say?” she asked. Old Muira had the sight, or so it was said.

Sorcha grinned like a pirate and rubbed a dusty hand over her face, leaving a dark smudge. “I thought you didn’t believe in the old ways.”

Megan rolled her eyes, let her gaze travel up the smooth green slopes of the hills to their rocky crests, and thought of the legends and tales, the old stories, the belief that magic made its home in the glen.

Of course she believed.

She believed so much that she’d decided to become the keeper of the old tales when Glenlorne’s ancient
seannachaidh
had died the previous winter without leaving a successor. She loved to hear the old stories, and she planned to write them down so they’d never be lost. But for now, in Sorcha’s annoying company, she raised her chin. Now was hardly the time to be fanciful. “Of course I don’t believe in magic. I think being sensible is far more likely to get you what you want—not counting flower petals or relying on the seeings of an old woman.”

“Muira foresaw an Englishman, and a treasure,” Sorcha said, not deterred one whit by talk of sense. “Right there in the smoke of the fire, clear as day.”

Megan felt her mouth dry. “For me?” she asked through stiff lips.

“She didn’t know that. For one of us, surely.”

Megan let out a sigh of relief. Perhaps she was safe. If only Muira had seen Eachann, riding home, his heart light, his purse heavy, with a fine gold ring in his pocket. “That’s the trouble with Muira’s premonitions. She sees things but can’t say what they mean.”

“Still, a treasure would be nice,” Sorcha chirped. “A chest of gold, or a cache of pearls and rubies—”

“Not if it comes with an Englishman attached,” Megan muttered.

An Excerpt from

by Lorraine Heath

(A version of this work originally appeared in the print anthology
To Tame a Texan
, under the title “Long Stretch of Lonesome”)

Chance Wilder never wanted to be a hero. That is, until a young boy offers Chance everything he owns to rescue his sister from a couple of thugs. But after he saves her, Lillian Madison awakens in him long-buried dreams and possibilities. Facing the demons of his past, Chance is forced to question his next move. Dare he risk everything by following his heart . . . and trust that the road to redemption begins with Lillian?

“W
hy do you want me in the house?”

“As payment,” she blurted, the heat flaming her face. “Payment for your kindness to Toby . . . and for saving me. I hate that you killed the man—” Tears burned the backs of her eyes. She despised the weakness that made her sink to the porch. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth, memories of the glittering lust and hatred burning in Wade’s eyes assailing her. “He was going . . . going to . . . no one would have stopped him.”

Strong arms embraced her, and she pressed her head against the warm, sturdy chest. She heard the constant thudding of his heart.

“No one wants you here. Why don’t you leave?” he asked in a low rumble.

She shook her head. “This place was the only gift Jack Ward ever gave me. It’s special to me.”

“You loved him?” he asked quietly.

She nodded her head jerkily. “I shouldn’t have. God knows I should have despised him, but I could never bring myself to hate him. Even now, when his gift brings me such pain, I can’t overlook the fact that he gave it to me out of love.”

“Have you ever talked with John Ward, tried to settle the differences?”

“No. John came here one night with an army of men. He told me to pack up and get, then threatened to kill me as a trespasser if I ever set foot on his land. Delivered his message and rode out. Makes it hard to reason with a man when you can’t get near him.”

“It’s even harder to reason with him if he’s dead.”

Lillian’s heart slammed against her ribs. Trembling, she clutched Wilder’s shirt and lifted her gaze to his, trying to see into the depths of his silver eyes. But his eyes were only shadows hidden by the night. His embrace was steady, secure, his hands slowly trailing up and down her back. “Promise me you won’t kill him,” she demanded.

A silence stretched between them, as though he was weighing the promise against the offer that he’d cloaked as a simple statement. “If he’s dead, you and the boy will be safe.”

She tightened her fingers around his shirt and gave him a small shake. “I don’t want the blood of Jack Ward’s son on my hands. Give me your word that you won’t kill him.”

His hands stilled. “What are you willing to pay me to keep me from killing him?”

Her stomach knotted, and her chest ached with a tightness that threatened to suffocate her. Even though she couldn’t see it clearly, she felt the intensity of his perusal. She had no money, nothing to offer him—nothing to offer a killer except herself. And she knew he was aware of that fact.

Had she actually begun to feel sympathy for this man whose solitary life gave him no roots, allowed him no love? He was worse than Wade because at least Wade had barreled into her, announcing loudly and clearly what he wanted of her. The killer wanted the same thing, but he’d lured her into caring for him and trusting him, catching her heart unawares.

The pain of betrayal ripped through her, and she thought she might actually understand why one man would kill another. Tiny shudders coursed through her body, and tears stung her eyes as she answered hoarsely, “Anything.”

Beneath her clutched hand, his heart increased its tempo, pounding harder and faster. He cradled her face between his powerful hands. “Anything?” he whispered. “Even if I want all a woman can offer?”

She nodded jerkily. “I don’t want John Ward killed.” How could she warn the man when approaching him meant her certain death?

Wilder leaned closer to her. His warm breath fanned her face. He shifted his thumbs and gently stroked the corners of her mouth. “Give you my word that I’ll let the bastard live.”

He pressed his mouth to hers, demanding, claiming all that she’d offered to willingly pay: her body, her heart, her soul. She could not give one without giving the others.