|Publisher:||Epicenter Press, Incorporated|
|Product dimensions:||6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.98(d)|
About the Author
Mary Richardson Daheim, a Seattle native, began her publishing career with the first of seven historical romances before switching to mysteries in 1991. Since then she has published at least 55 books. You can find her on the Web at authormarydaheim.com.
Read an Excerpt
Breathless from exertion and terror, Dallas was reduced to writhing helplessly in their grasp. They had passed the second row of houses on the hill when a voice that sounded oddly familiar called out behind them, "Kidnappers end up in the Tolbooth, you know."
Drunk as the young revelers were, they recognized authority in that cool, almost casual tone. They stopped in their tracks, dumping Dallas unceremoniously onto the cobblestones. Struggling to her feet, she looked up to see that her savior was the dark man she had encountered near Holyrood Palace. He stood outlined against a whitewashed house, his hands at his hips, his head to one side.
"We--we're handfasted," blurted the redhead. "We're just having a bit of fun, my mates and I."
"Handfasted?" One dark wedge of eyebrow lifted. "No, I think not." The man took a step forward, and though he moved indolently, there was something menacing in his attitude. His hands remained at his hips but the eyes of all four revelers fastened like magnets on the lethal-looking dirk shoved into the stranger's belt. There was only the briefest hesitation before the four young men took to their heels and scuttled off down the wynd and into the sanctuary of the night.
Dallas had remained huddled against an iron railing while the brief exchange took place. She was still out of breath, her thick brown hair half-covered her face, and a wild trembling had overtaken her limbs. The dark man approached her and gently took her hand.
"You should not have stayed out so late without a proper escort, lassie," he said reproachfully. "Unless," he added with a glint of mockery in his hazel eyes, "it is to your profit to do so."
Dallas pulled her shaking hand away and felt her spirits revive with a jolt. "Pox on you for such impertinence!" she railed. "I go where I please, and never has any man pestered me until this night."
He lifted one shoulder in a gesture of indifference. "As you say. You live nearby?"
"Aye," she muttered. The shaking had stopped and her hands worked at pulling the thick hair from her face.
"Then you won't call out the watch if I walk the remaining distance with you to your door?" He saw a stormy look but went on before she could speak. "My name is Iain Fraser and I live close by, in Mungo Tennant's former home. You know the house in Gosford's Close?"
"Aye, it's a beautiful place," Dallas asserted, trying hard to keep a check on her emotional turmoil. "Though I've heard it said that Mungo Tennant had torture chambers in the cellar and engaged in strange doings to gain his wealth."
Fraser shrugged. "He accumulated sufficient funds to take over the house when the monks were turned out."