The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely 8)

“Belmont is the right man to care for her in her distress.”

Kit chanced a glance around the room and met a wall of avid eyes, but she was too upset to read what impact Neil’s story had on the onlookers. There was one consolation. Whatever the outcome of tonight’s intrusion, at least she was safe from ever having to marry Belmont.

“You’re too late, Neil,” Kit said with satisfaction. “I’m already married. Under the terms of the will, once I wed, I gain control of my fortune.”

Shock leached the color from her stepbrother’s face, then a flash of such coruscating anger blazed in his eyes that she cowered against Quentin.

“You little bitch, you’d do anything to spite me.” Neil spoke over the onlookers’ audible gasps of horror. “Given the doubts over your sanity, I’ll have any match overturned.”

“No, you will not,” Quentin insisted, stepping in front of Kit. “Christabel is my wife, and you’ll take her from me over my dead body.”

Neil wrenched the sword from the scabbard at his hip. “That can be arranged, whoever in Hades you are.”

A few of the ladies shrieked, as the guests retreated further toward the walls. With impressive speed, Neil’s cohorts drew their own weapons and created a tight circle around Kit and Quentin. Kit surveyed the pitiless faces observing her, and her fear stirred anew.

“Dinnae be a fool, man,” Fergus Mackinnon said, moving up beside Hamish. “It’s clear you’ve lost. Murder and mayhem willnae change that.”

“By God, I’m not beaten yet,” Neil growled. He lurched forward to grab Kit, but Quentin kept her out of reach.

“Quentin, here!”

Through a mist of rising panic, Kit saw Diarmid wrench a ceremonial sword from a display on the wall and toss it across to her husband. More cries of shock from the crowd, and at last a few of the gentlemen advanced with a hint of aggression.

“Much obliged, cuz!” Quentin caught the sword in one hand with a deftness and confidence that did wonders to revive her spirits. “Drop your weapon, Maxwell. Even with your men, you can’t hope to prevail against a crowd of this size.”

As Neil edged around, seeking an opening, Diarmid marched around the room and passed swords to some of the other men, including Fergus and Hamish and Brody.

“Neil, it might be sensible to make a strategic retreat,” Belmont bleated, inching away and eyeing the forces that assembled against them. Kit noticed that while her suitor was armed, he hadn’t yet unsheathed his weapon. “The gamble hasn’t paid off.”

“Be buggered if I’m going to fail at this late stage,” Neil blustered.

“You’ll have to kill me to take me away from here,” Kit said with a calmness that in no way reflected the frenzied pounding of her heart. “And if I’m dead, the estate goes to cousin Stephen.”

“You’ve lost, Maxwell,” Quentin said, raising the sword. His face was set in determined lines, and his jaw was square with purpose. “My wife has the victory.”

At last Neil seemed to realize the danger he was in. He swung his head from side to side like a trapped rat. In the fraught silence that descended, the clock in the hall began to strike midnight.

Chapter 14

The Maxwell bastard was good-looking.

Quentin hadn’t expected that, for some reason. Now he stared into that highbred, saturnine face and felt a pang of irrational jealousy.

And fear.

After last night’s astonishing mixture of passion an

d tenderness, the idea of living without his Christmas countess was unbearable. He and his lovely bride had years of happiness ahead of them – and he wasn’t letting this mongrel get in the way of that.

“That’s the clock marking the start of Christmas Day,” Kit said in a steady voice. Quentin’s heart leaped at her extraordinary courage. “I’m twenty-one. Even if I wasn’t already married, you’d have lost, Neil.”

“What time were you born?” Neil asked, desperate to claw back a few hours to change the inevitable outcome.

“What can it matter now?” Hamish growled.

To Quentin’s surprise, Kit smiled. “Five minutes past midnight. I’ve managed to stay out of your greedy clutches just long enough. And you must know you’ll never prove me mad. I’ve got a whole clan of Urquharts willing to swear to your depredations on the estate and your cruel treatment of me.”

Quentin’s chest expanded with pride, as he heard her steady defiance of this man who had bullied her for so long. “Not to mention everyone here on the Glen Lyon estate.”