"A feisty five star 17th Century Highland Romance full of intrigue and betrayal!"
Reviewed by Audrey Lawrence
Posted October 6, 2008
Romance | Historical
Despite how tightly her wrists were bound, Claire still
endeavoured to keep up her fight against her captors, but
the odds were not with her. Welcoming the distraction of
two men on horseback, Claire only inwardly cursed herself
for having left her sister, Ann, unprotected. Arrogant about her skills and single minded in pursuit of
saving Anne, Claire hardly pauses once freed to thank her
rescuers and takes off. She wasn't going to trust them.
While one seemed as gallant as Sir Galahad, he had declared
himself to be Lord Argyll, a Campbell, and they were all
known to be Roundheads and as shifty as the wind. The
other, handsome as the devil, clearly was a Highlander and
should be a loyal Royalist, but what was he doing traveling
with a Roundhead? An avowed ladies' man, Graham Grant, Commander of the
feared MacGregors, wasn't going let this feisty and
attractive woman out of his sights so easily. He soon
catches up with her and together they fend off another
ambush. Determined not to let them find out that she was a
Royalist noblewoman, Claire Stuart lies about who she is
but with their knowledge of politics, they soon figure out
who she is and devise their own plan to take her to General
Monck and to her sister. Perceiving Monck as her brother's
murderer, Claire only wants to kill him, but Monck has his
own plans for Claire and Anne. He wants to wed them off to
key leaders, but the men chosen have their hearts lost to
others. Then, a blood stained letter arrives with
astonishing news. Could a trusted friend really be so
treacherous? You too will want to find out how things got so tangled as
you surrender yourself in this gripping tale of 17th
century romance. Paula Quinn has done awesome research
with a clear eye for the right detail to move this
intriguing love story on without being intrusive into the
plot line. Quinn is brilliant in recreating this period of
unrest after Cromwell's death and true to the passions and
customs of clans and their feuds in Scotland. Never will
you find such a headstrong heroine as Claire and you'll
laugh out loud at the humorous interplays and double
entendres between Claire and Graham as they continue to
rail against each other and their own true hearts. Graham
is the quintessential Highland hero, lusty, strong and with
a strong sense of honor and justice while Robert Campbell
is the perfect counterfoil - entertaining and a delightful
mix of being the gallant gent and klutz at almost
everything, except swordplay and love. With this story's strong plot, wonderful repartee, and well
developed characters, this is a truly a book that will
captivate you and one you won't want to put down!
Definitely a top pick and I look forward to more great
reads from this very talented writer!
SUMMARY
Desire is the deadliest weapon of all . . . Defending Her Was His Duty Skilled with a sword and quick with her wit, Scottish
rebel Claire Stuart cannot be tamed. And nothing can deter
her from rescuing her beloved sister and saving them both
from arranged marriages—not even the handsome Highlander
who vows to protect Claire. His scorching gaze and fiery
kiss bring her to the brink of surrender, but she belongs
to no man . . . Seducing Her Would Be His Reward Graham Grant has had his share of lasses. But he has never
met one as headstrong or as bonnie as Claire—or one with
such desperate, dangerous plans. Helping her could betray
his honor, his country, and more. Graham can't claim her.
Yet everything in him says: Take her, make her yours,
teach her pleasure, and never let her go.
ExcerptScotland
Autumn 1659 Chapter One
It has all gone terribly wrong. What I feared most has
come to pass. The stench of cheap wine and ale filled the tavern like a
dense fog and settled onto the table where Graham Grant,
first in command of the mighty clan MacGregor, sat
watching his friend, the eleventh Earl of Argyll, drain
his fourth cup of ale. “This business with Connor Stuart weighs heavily on ye.” Robert slapped his cup on the table and raised his heavy-
lidded gaze to him. “Why do you say that?” “Ye’re getting drunk, and ye brood more than I can stand
of late.” “I’ve only had four cups,” Robert countered with a
scowl. “I’ve seen you drink more than twice that amount.” The mocking curl of Graham’s half smile needed no
explanation, but Graham gave one anyway. “I’m a
Highlander,” he said and raised his cup to his mouth. “I can drink as much as any of you.” Robert swung around
on his chair, teetered, caught himself, and tried to catch
the attention of a swarthy serving wench. He succeeded, but the deep-cleavaged lass’s eyes swept
past his and settled on Graham’s. Graham looked her over
from foot to crown, thinking what a pity it was to have to
send her away, but the last thing his friend needed was
more ale. A subtle shake of his head was all it took for
her to move on, pretending not to have seen Robert
motioning for her. “Damnation,” Robert swore, then waved to another wench. “Rob.” “What?” “Look at me,” Graham said seriously, and Robert
obeyed. “Not being able to find Stuart is naught to be
ashamed of. The man’s as elusive as Callum. Find yerself a
wench fer the night and ferget yer duty.” Robert pushed his cup away, raked his hand through his
dark hair, and gave Graham a look that said his friend
could never understand what he was feeling. “Graham,
General Monck commanded me to find him. Since I was a boy
I’ve wanted to serve the realm. Now, when I’ve been
granted the honor, I have failed.” “Who have ye failed, Rob?” Graham asked him and winked at
a bonny wench who caught his eye. He stretched his long,
bare legs out in front of him, crossing his boots at the
ankles, and downed the rest of his ale. “Oliver Cromwell
is dead. His pacifist son Richard has been ousted from his
seat by military tyrants who claim to hate despotism, yet
fight fer power to rule the country.” “But someone needs to lead us, Graham. General Monck was
one of Cromwell’s most fearsome warriors of the New Model
Army.” “Aye,” Graham agreed caustically. “So great were his
victories over the Royalists in Scotland, the old Lord
Protector named him governor over the country he had so
skillfully subdued. Yer country.” Graham added, giving his
friend a pointed look. “That was many years ago,” Robert pointed out. “He’s been
fair to our people and has refused to support the
dissolving of Parliament.” Graham yawned. “Besides, the most likely to gain the title is John
Lambert. Remember, he commands all the military forces in
England.” A vision caught Graham’s eye, thankfully distracting him
from his friend’s tedious passion for politics. The lovely
Lianne. The lass had stolen into his thoughts several
times since she left his bed the night before. He flicked
his simmering gaze over her form as she approached his
table, toting a pitcher of ale. Now here was the kind of passion Rob needed. When Graham
left his home on Skye two years ago with the newly
confirmed Earl of Argyll, it was with a vow to teach the
peach-faced lord how to balance his duties with pleasure.
Robert had yet to experience the pleasures a lass could
offer. Graham narrowed his eyes on him. What the hell was
he waiting for? Love? Graham almost snorted out loud.
There was no place for it in a warrior’s life. A man was
either a husband or a great warrior. He could not truly be
both. Graham had made his choice long ago. He was a great
warrior because he did not fear death. He had naught to
lose, no one’s life to destroy. Hell, he’d seen it so
often throughout his life. Lasses made into widows, bairns
left to go hungry, without a father to look after them. He
did not want to carry that fear—that vulnerability, when
he faced his enemy. He motioned for Lianne and she practically flung herself
into his lap. “More brew, m’laird?” “Nae, my lovely,” Graham coiled his arm around her waist
and fitted his palm neatly over her buttocks. “My friend
has had enough.” Hearing him, Robert shot him an irritated
look. “He could use a wee bit of distraction from his
troubles, though,” Graham continued, ignoring him. With a
gentle nudge, he pushed Lianne off his lap and in Robert’s
direction, then leaned back in his chair to watch. “Is that so?” The golden-haired wench rested her tray on
the table and swung her tattered apron over her shoulder,
readying herself for what she did best. “I’ve been waitin’
all day to be of some aid to such a fine nobleman as
yerself.” Robert barely looked up. He rested his elbow on the table
and sank his head into his hand. “I fear, dear lady, that
you cannot help me.” She slid down Robert’s chest until her rump reached his
knee. “Dinna be so hasty, sir. Ye’ve no idea what talents
I possess.” Graham did. He smiled, accomplishing his mission and
spread his gaze around the crowded tavern in search of
another wench to help him pass the night while Robert
became a man. “I…ehm—” The sound of Robert stumbling over his words reminded
Graham just how much he still had to teach the young earl.
But first, where had that swarthy wench gone off to? “We can retire above stairs, ye and I.” Lianne’s voice
dipped to a lusty whisper. “But I thought you…” Robert paused and swallowed audibly
when Lianne leaned forward and into him. “I thought you
fancied my friend.” “Aye, yer companion is a sinful creature, indeed.” Her
pale blue eyes settled on Graham and deepened with
pleasure as if the most decadent memory had just swept
across her thoughts. “But tonight,” she returned her
attention to Robert, “I want an angel in m’ bed.” A shadow rising above him drew Graham’s dimpled grin off
the seduction of his friend and upward. Very high upward. “Ye’re supposed to be at my table tonight, Lianne. I paid
in advance.” The Highlander was enormous. His soiled plaid
stretched across his broad chest when he grazed his eyes
over Robert and then to Graham. The challenge in them was
unmistakable before he turned back to Lianne. “Now get yer
arse where it belongs.” Hell, Graham thought, mildly disappointed for Robert. He
could get up and fight fer Lianne’s company tonight, but
the brute had paid, and he was quite large. As long as
Robert did not open his mouth there was still a chance
they might find themselves spending their energy on
something more thrilling than fighting tonight. Unfazed, Lianne left her seat and slapped her apron along
the man’s arm as she passed him. In response, the angry
patron gave her a shove between the shoulders before he,
too, turned to leave. “You there, the ugly one.” Graham’s shoulders crunched around his neck as Robert rose
from his chair. The giant pivoted slowly, his black expression, a prelude
to murder. “Are ye talkin’ to me?” “Aye,” Robert assured him coolly. “Though I’m astonished
you posses the intelligence to have surmised it.” The patron’s volatile gaze narrowed. Graham couldn’t help
but smile, suspecting that the brute was either wondering
if he’d just been insulted again, or deciding which of
Robert’s limbs to sever first. When the Highlander grinned, flashing what few teeth he
had left, Robert met the baleful challenge with a slight
hook of his mouth. Graham set his gaze heavenward and
shook his head. This was as bad as traveling with the
MacGregors. “I pray for your sake that you also possess the wisdom to
believe me when I tell you that if you lay your hands on
that lady again, I shall take you out of doors and beat
you senseless.” The confidence in his promise might have convinced the
other patrons who were watching that the smaller lad fully
intended to keep his word. But Graham knew better. Having
naught to do as a young lad but practice weaponry in the
fields of Glen Orchy and study the words of bards and
poets, Robert Campbell had grown into an excellent
swordsman—and an overzealous knight who was constantly
getting them into fights defending someone’s “honor.” But
for all his training with a sword, the young fool had
trouble connecting his fist to someone else’s face. Sadly for Robert, the murderous Highlander only laughed,
took a step forward, and swatted the table that stood
between them out of the way. Graham stepped aside to avoid getting struck in the head
with the flying wood. He grimaced as a huge fist felled
Robert to the floor. He wanted to help, but the earl
needed to learn how to fight without his sword, and now
was as good a time as any. Still, he pushed his cap back
from his bronze mane of curls, readying himself for the
fight. He would intervene if the ogre pounded his knuckles
into Rob’s face one more time. “Are ye goin’ to stand here and do nothin’ while Atard
beats yer friend to death?” Lianne charged, rushing to
Graham’s side. Graham figured she meant to get him moving with her
admonishment, but when she patted the creamy mounds of her
bosom with her apron, he was sorely tempted to leave
Robert to his own defense and carry her above stairs. “My friend does well.” His dimples flashed, as frivolous
as his concerns. “He is once again standing upright.” Robert’s body countered that opinion as it hurled passed
Graham’s shoulder. Muttering a curse under his breath when the earl landed
hard against the wall, Graham turned to the advancing
giant. He bent to pick up a leg from the shattered table
and swung, cracking the wood in half against Atard’s face. Stepping over the Highlander’s body, Graham knelt beside
his motionless friend. “Rob.” He slapped his cheek
gently. “Wake up.” Robert stirred, lifting his heavy lids. “Where is he?” “Afar off,” Graham assured, then gave him a hard
look. “How many times must I tell ye not to fight with
drunken Highlanders?” He shoved his hands under his
friend’s arms and lifted him to his wobbly feet. “The ruffian mishandled the lady.” Lianne offered the knight a grateful smile, but Robert’s
already swelling lip prevented him from offering her one
back. “What can I do”— Lianne’s smile changed into something
more obvious when she took a step toward them. –“to
persuade ye both to stop in again on yer way back from
where ye’re goin?” Graham’s languid grin sent a flame straight to Lianne’s
groin. Aye, she thought, melting before him, this one’s
mouth was as deadly as his sword, a sword he knew what to
do with. Ah, but he was a feast for the eyes. His lips
were full and fashioned for heathen delights. His eyes
sparkled in the light like emeralds set aflame from
within. The threat of prettiness was vanquished from his
features by an edge of rugged masculinity, and a nose that
looked as if it might have been broken a time or two. She let out a small gasp when he snatched her up by the
waist, hauled her against his hard angles, and swept his
mouth over hers. His kiss was like sin, tempting her to
abandon any last shred of decency she possessed and beg
him to take her with him. “I’m persuaded,” he said, releasing her with a smack to
her rump and a lecherous wink that promised he would
return. Feeling like a silly spring maiden, Lianne waved them
farewell, then tossed her apron over her shoulder and
headed for the patron calling for a drink. # “Ye look like hell.” Robert slid his gaze to Graham, riding alongside him, as
they left the town of Stirling. Everything else pained him
too much to move. “I feel like I was tossed into it.” “Ye needn’t fret about that, Rob,” Graham said,
readjusting his cap forward over his brow. “Hell wouldn’t
have ye. Which is fortunate fer me. I don’t want to spend
eternity with ye.” Robert didn’t believe his friend would spend an instant in
that fiery place. If anyone could find a way to convince
God that he belonged in His good graces, it was
Graham. “Though you lack any kind of honor when it comes
to women, bedding them is not a sin deserving of eternal
damnation.” The doubtful crook of Graham’s mouth convinced Robert
otherwise. Robert smiled, then cringed and lifted his hand to his
jaw. “Then for your soul’s sake, find a lady to give your
heart to and let her make a decent man of you.” Graham cast him an askew glance and laughed. “I fear yer
books about the courtly ways of love have led ye far from
the truth. Ye ferget I have eleven sisters, most of whom
are wed to miserable bastards who began as decent men.” He
held up his palm when Robert would have spoken, cutting
him off. “Lasses are fer caressing, bedding, and leaving.
Else ye’ll find yer ears pricked by constant troubles, and
yer manhood as useless as yer battle sword.” “Mayhap the fault lies with your sisters,” Robert pointed
out. “Callum is not miserable with Kate.” “Aye,” Graham conceded, watching the bruise below the
young earl’s eye turn purple. “Yer sister is a rare jewel.
But even the Devil MacGregor has traded in his claymore
fer a sprig of heather clutched in his fist.” Robert sighed and shook his head. He had much to say on
the matter, but his jaw felt like it had been hit with a
mace. Besides, he’d had this argument with Graham a dozen
times and each time his words had proved fruitless. Graham
held fast to the belief that the only things lasting and
tangible on this Earth were battle and death. And he was
determined to enjoy his life in betwixt the two. “We should have taken my army,” Robert said after a moment
of silence. “If Connor Stuart were standing in front of us
right now, I fear I couldn’t pull my sword from its
sheath.” “I told ye, Rob, yer army would only have alerted him to
our search. Stuart is cunning. ‘Tis why he is the leader
of the Royalist rebellion. Remember ‘twas he who set the
ambush upon General Lambert’s army after they crushed the
rebellion in Cheshire a pair of months ago. I am familiar
with his brand of strategy. The tales of his prowess grow
each day. According to some at the inn, Stuart fights even
Monck’s men now. He attacked a legion of the governor’s
garrison not far from here. He is well skilled and trained
to sense danger days before ‘tis upon him. We’ll find him
faster with just the both of us. Trust me in this.” “I do. For I still recall your cunning in breaching the
walls of Kildun when MacGregor came for my uncle two years
past. But I am out of time, my friend.” Robert worried out
loud, rolling his shoulder to loosen the cramp setting
in. “In a few short days I will have to face General Monck
empty-handed.” At first, Robert had considered it an honor that General
Monck had commanded him to find the Royalist rebel, Connor
Stuart. Since there was no longer anyone formally “in
command” of the three kingdoms of England, Scotland, and
Ireland, the Royalists’ campaign to return Charles II to
the throne was rampant. Stuart was cousin to the exiled
king, and the leader of the resistance of the English
army’s occupation in Scotland. Monck wanted him found, but
the man was as elusive as the wind. “I will not find him unless he comes to me. And he will
not do that.” “Nor would I if the Roundheads were hunting me.” “Some would consider me a Roundhead,” Robert reminded him,
realizing once again how precarious their friendship was. Graham shrugged his shoulders, keeping his eyes on the
path ahead. “Aye, ye support a Parliament that has
recently been expelled by the military. ‘Twas better here
in Scotland when we had a king.” “You are a Royalist, Graham, I understand. But should I
forget my allegiance to the commonwealth?” “Yer commonwealth is ruled by generals who fight amongst
themselves and who suppress our people. Even Parliament
does not trust them.” Robert ground his jaw with frustration over his own
uncertainty. The Campbells had served the law for
generations. Whether that law was handed down by one man
or a house full of them made no difference. To turn his
back on the realm was treason. Still, he knew Graham was
right in his thinking. The return of a sovereign power
would be better than the complete anarchy in England
now. “Why do you aid me in finding Stuart if you believe
in his crusade?” Graham looked over his friend’s swollen face and
sighed. “Because I’m afraid he’ll kill ye.” “Your confidence in my skills is warming.” Robert
attempted a sardonic smirk, which Graham answered by
grimacing with him. “I’d be more confident if ye’d thrown a punch in return.” Robert shook his head, painful as it was to both his
shoulders and his pride. “I think the bastard broke my
jaw.”
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