Duncan closed his eyes and, for one brief moment, let himself pretend it was possible. He imagined what it would be like to be the man so blessed as to sleep with this lass in his arms each night and to wake up each morning to her sunny smile.

“It will never happen,” he said.

“Of course it will,” she said.

Moira was accustomed to having her way. Her father, who had no other weakness, had spoiled her, but he would make his own choice on such an important matter.

“Your father will never permit his only daughter to wed the nursemaid’s bastard son,” he said. “He’ll use your marriage to make an alliance for the clan.”

Duncan pulled out his flask of whiskey and took a long drink. With Moira talking such nonsense, he needed it.

“My father always lets me have what I want in the end. And what I want,” she said, her breath warm in his ear as she ran her hand up his thigh, “is you, Duncan Ruadh MacDonald.”

With all his blood rushing to his cock, he couldn’t think. He pulled her into his arms, and they fell across the blankets, their legs tangled.

“I’m desperate for ye,” she said between frantic kisses.

He still found it hard to believe Moira wanted him—but when she put her hand on his cock, he did believe. For however long she wanted him, he was hers.

*  *  *

Duncan ran his fingers through Moira’s hair as she lay with her head on his chest. He fixed every moment of their time together in his memory to retrieve later.

“I love ye so much,” she said.

An unfamiliar sensation of pure joy bubbled up inside Duncan.

“Tell me ye love me,” she said.

“Ye know I do,” he said, though it made no difference as to what would happen. “I’ll never stop.”

His feelings didn’t come and go like Moira’s. One week, she loved her brown horse, the next week the spotted one, and the week after that she didn’t like to ride at all. She had always been like that. They were opposites in so many ways.

Duncan forced himself to sit up so he could see the sky outside the cave.

“Ach, it’s near dawn,” he said and cursed himself. “I must get ye back in a hurry.”

“I will convince my father,” she said as they dressed. “He’s no fool. He can see that you’re a warrior who will one day be known throughout the Western Isles.”

“If ye tell your father about us,” he said, cupping her face in his hands, “that will be the end of this.”

Moira could not be as naïve about it as she pretended.

“He would let us wed if I carried your child,” she said in a small voice.

Duncan’s heart stopped in his chest. “Tell me ye are taking the potion to avoid conceiving?”

“Aye,” she said, sounding annoyed. “And I’ve had my courses.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek. It was strange, but he would love to have a child with her—a wee lass with Moira’s laughing eyes. He had no business having thoughts like that. It would be years before he could support a wife and child, and he’d never be able to provide for a woman accustomed to fine clothes and servants.

The scare she gave him made him resolve, once again, to end it. Moira could hide the loss of her virginity, but a child was another matter.

“If my father won’t agree, we can run away,” she said.

“He’d send half a dozen war galleys after us,” Duncan said, as he fastened her cloak for her. “Even if we escaped—which we wouldn’t—ye would never be happy estranged from our clan and living in a humble cottage. I love ye too much to do that to ye.”

“Don’t doubt me,” Moira said, gripping the front of his shirt. “I’d live anywhere with ye.”

She believed it only because she’d never lived with hardship. And Duncan knew that even if he could give her a castle, he could never keep her. Moira was like a colorful butterfly, landing on his hand for a breathless moment.

The sky was growing light when they reached the kitchen entrance behind the keep.

“I love ye,” Moira said. “And I promise ye, one way or another, I will marry ye.”

Duncan was a lucky man to have her love, even for a little while. He pulled her into one last mindless kiss and wondered how he would last until the next time.

He lived on the precipice of disaster, never knowing which would befall him first—getting caught or having her end it. And yet, he had never felt happier in his life. He had to stop himself from whistling as he crossed the castle yard to his mother’s cottage.

Damn, there was candlelight in the window. Duncan was a grown man of nearly twenty and didn’t have to answer to his mother. Still, he wished she were not awake to see him come in with the rising sun. She would ask questions, and he didn’t like to lie to her.

Duncan opened the door—and his stomach dropped like a stone to his feet.

His chieftain and Ragnall sat on either side of his mother’s table with their long, claymore swords resting, unsheathed, across their thighs. Rage rolled off them. With their golden hair and fierce golden eyes, they looked like a pair of lions.

Duncan hoped they would not kill him in front of his mother and sister. Though he didn’t take his eyes off the two warriors dwarfing the tiny cottage, he was aware of his mother hunched on the floor in the corner, weeping. His eleven-year-old sister stood with her hand on their mother’s shoulder.

“The old seer foretold that ye would save my son Connor’s life one day.” The chieftain’s voice held enough menace to fell birds from the sky. “That is the only reason I did not kill ye the moment ye walked through that door.”

Duncan suspected he would be flogged within an inch of his life instead. But a beating, however bad, meant nothing. He was strong; he would survive it. What weighed down his shoulders was the realization that he would never again hold Moira in his arms.

His chieftain was speaking again, but Duncan found it hard to listen with the well of grief rising in his chest.

“I suspect Connor and my nephews knew ye were violating my daughter!”

When the chieftain started to rise from his chair, Ragnall put his hand on his father’s arm.

“We are taking Knock Castle from the MacKinnons today, so fetch your sword and shield,” Ragnall said. “As soon as the battle is over, you, Alex, and Ian will sail with Connor for France. Ye can hone your skills there, fighting the English.”

“By the time ye return,” the chieftain said, his eyes narrow slits of hate, “Moira will be far from Skye, living with her husband and children.”

Duncan had known from the start that he would lose Moira. And yet, he felt the loss as keenly as if he’d been the expectant bridegroom whose bride is torn from his arms on his wedding night.

The bright spark was gone from his life forever.

The Dish

Where authors give you the inside scoop! From the desk of Jill Shalvis

Dear Reader,

It’s been a fun, exciting year for my Lucky Harbor series. Thanks to you, the readers, I hit the New York Times bestseller list with The Sweetest Thing. Wow. Talk about making my day! You are all awesome, and I’m still grinning from ear to ear and making everyone call me “N-Y-T.” But I digress…

In light of how much you, the readers, have enjoyed this series, my publisher is putting Simply Irresistible and The Sweetest Thing together as a 2-in-1 volume at a special low price. CHRISTMAS IN LUCKY HARBOR will be in stores in November—just in time to bring new readers up to speed for book three, Head Over Heels, in December.

When I first started this series, I wanted it to be about three sisters who run a beach resort together. I figured I’d use my three daughters as inspiration. Only problem, my little darlings are teenagers, and they bicker like fiends. Some inspiration. But then it occurred to me: Their relationships are real, and that’s what I like to write. Real people. So I changed things up, and the series became about three ESTRANGED sisters, stuck together running a dilapidated inn falling down on its axis. Now that I could pull off for sure. Add in three sexy alpha heroes to go with, and voilà… I was on my way.

So make sure to look for CHRISTMAS IN LUCKY HARBOR, the reprint of books one and two, available both in print and as an ebook wherever books are sold. And right on its heels, book three, Head Over Heels. (Heels? Get it?)

Happy reading and holiday hugs!

www.jillshalvis.com From the desk of Margaret Mallory