Tara woke with a jolt. She was in her own bed back in Edinburgh.

Oh, God. Tara released a huge breath and sat up. It had been a dream. A terrible, messed up dream. Thank goodness—

But the feeling of relief screeched to a halt when she spotted the long rifle resting on top of the tufted ottoman at the foot of her bed. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Tara recalled being ambushed and abducted by Magnus’s beta goon, Alban, who at least had the courtesy to tell her his name. This time.

She recalled the long drive to the castle in Faoltiarn. She had never once visited Ontario’s kingdom town. Yet here she was, at Magnus’s kingdom town twice in one year.

Tara recalled finding the gun in that jail cell of a study. It was a masterpiece of polished mahogany and well-oiled steel. It smelled—not exactly ancient, like much of the castle—but definitely old.

She quickly pulled down the weapon and grabbed the wooden box of bullets beside it. Tara could hear and smell Magnus as he approached. She carefully loaded the gun and was ready and waiting when he crashed through the door.

As soon as she raised the gun and aimed it at him, he commanded her to, “Put the rifle down, Tara! Put it down right now!”

His voice was harsh, but not with anger. Magnus was afraid. She could see it in his face along with another emotion: concern, and his gray eyes were fixed on her still-flat belly.

“Careful there, Tara,” said an older man, who Tara remembered from the last time she’d been brought here against her will as Magnus’s and Iain’s father, Lachlan. “That is a very old military gun—and it’s not entirely dependable. None of us want to see you or the bairn hurt…or worse.”

Lachlan looked a lot like Magnus. Tall and strong, with only his gray hair and a few additional decades of sags and wrinkles to differentiate them. But unlike his son, he didn’t command her. Instead, his voice was low and gentle, the way someone sounds when they are trying to calm a spooked horse.

Guilt twisted Tara’s stomach. She hated the idea of having to use force on Lachlan or anyone else, for that matter. Even if Magnus did order his goon, Alban, to kidnap her from her office parking garage.

But she had been kidnapped, she reminded herself. That was a fact. And this rifle was the only leverage she had. Magnus wanted to talk, but how much talking would he have been willing to do if she hadn’t found the rifle?

Not much, she bet. He’d have kept her against her wishes, completely ignoring the fact that she had a life she needed to get on with.

No, she had to get away. She would not let herself be trapped again, like in Canada.

So instead of lowering the gun, Tara began to walk resolutely forward. When she reached the threshold, the three men parted for her like the Red Sea, Lachlan still murmuring warnings about the gun.

Out in the hall were three older she-wolves. They wore long brown skirts with a swatch of the Faoltiarn tartan overlaid. The females regarded Tara with teary eyes and happy smiles, seemingly oblivious to the loaded rifle in her hands.

There hasn’t been a baby born in Faoltiarn since the end of the last century…

Tara remembered Iain’s explanation about why the villagers held his pregnant mate in such high regard. Now they were staring at her in the same way. As if a walking miracle had manifested in the hall.

“Banrigh! Banrigh!” they cried and then began spewing a bunch of Gaelic in her general direction.

“Get back,” she warned, even though she knew she would drop the gun before she’d ever fire on three older she-wolves.

From the side, she heard Magnus tell the women to, “Stand back. Let her go. Give her no reason to fire the gun.”

The she-wolves did as he asked and moved out of her path. That was all the leeway Tara needed. She dashed down the partially carpeted white marble stairs, still carrying the rifle, and escaped the castle.

Tara stole the Land Rover she’d been driven here in. Alban unwittingly aided her when he dropped his car keys into the center console before escorting her into the castle. Other than a brief issue negotiating a three-point turn—the Land Rover didn’t have power steering—Tara was home free.

The last thing she saw as she peeled out of the gravel parking area beside the stone bridge was Magnus standing in front of his ancient castle. His hair whipping in the wind, and his father and staff standing behind him. Tara couldn’t make out the details of his expression, but she felt certain he watched her retreating vehicle like a hawk.

Her wolf whined. The beast didn’t understand why her human refused to allow her the one thing, the only thing, she’d ever asked for. But Tara pushed the wolf into a heel as she peeled away down Faoltiarn’s only road.

We are free, she reminded her wolf, and nothing can top that.

Eventually, after a long, anxious drive back to the city, Tara returned to the safety of Iain’s high-security apartment. She set the antique gun on an ottoman and collapsed into her bed, not even bothering to change out of her work clothes.

Fast forward to the next morning. Tara brushed her hair out of her face and reminded herself she was safe here at Iain’s. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and set her feet on the heated floor.

I’m safe, she reminded herself again. At least for now…

Tara showered, applied her make-up—and then abruptly decided to stay home. There was no way in hell she could handle work after what happened the day prior.

She returned her second-favorite Ted Baker dress to the closet and slipped into the pink satin Boux Avenue nightgown she’d bought while shopping for a wedding gift for Milly.

Had that only been ten weeks ago?

Tara shook her head, unable to fathom how much her life had changed since her best friend became a werewolf.

The ringing of her cell phone put an end to her troubled thoughts. Tara dashed over to the nightstand where she’d left her phone charging the night before. She glanced down at the main screen and cursed when she saw the familiar Canadian number. It was Barbara, the used bookstore owner and long-time family friend who let her parents use the phone at her store for their Monday calls.

“Hey, Barbara,” she said, forcing as much cheer into her voice as possible. “How are you?”

“The question is how are you, Miss Tara?” Barbara’s wholesome Canadian voice answered. “Your parents were worried when you missed the call yesterday.”

Tara’s chest tightened. Just when she thought she couldn’t possibly feel any worse about yesterday…turns out she completely forgot to call her parents for their weekly chat.

Then again, she’d been kind of preoccupied. After all, being abducted, held prisoner, and escaping in a stolen car didn’t leave a lot of spare time to call the folks. But her parents didn’t know this, and Tara hated to worry them. “I am so sorry,” she replied. “Something…came up.”

“I’ll say,” Barbara chuckled, her voice taking on a teasing quality. “But your parents were worried sick. You’ve never missed a call. Not once!”

“I know, I know. And I am so, so, sorry.” Tara loved her parents. They were kind and thoughtful and she always looked forward to their weekly conversations. “Please let them know I’m ok and I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“And…?” the teasing tone had returned to Barbara’s voice.

Tara was confused. What was going on with the older woman? “Uh…and…I’m very sorry? I mean, I don’t know what else to say, Barbara.”

“Okay, I understand. I imagine you want to tell them yourself. But in the meantime, don’t you want to share your exciting news with me?”

“What exciting news?” Tara asked, totally bewildered.

“Oh, you know—the announcement plastered all over the Scottish news sites! Your parents were very worried yesterday when they didn’t hear from you. I decided to check online after they left to make sure nothing had happened to you. I mean, you have never missed a call. Anyway, I Googled your name and almost had a heart attack when the results popped up. But then I took a closer look and, well, you know…”

“Hold on, hold on. What do you mean, ‘you know’?” Tara was trying to be patient with Barbara but she was become more confused than a fattened turkey on Canadian Thanksgiving. She took a deep breath and reset. “Okay, let me see if I understand. You say you found something about me online? Are you sure it’s not another Tara Hamilton? I mean, I can’t be the onl—"

She was interrupted by two short beeps announcing another incoming call. “Hold on, Barbara…” Tara glanced down at the screen to see her boss’s name pop up on caller ID. The notification was right beneath her phone’s digital clock…which helpfully reminded her that she was over an hour late for work.

Oh, shit.

“Barbara, I am so sorry but I really have to go.”

“Tara, wait...!”

“I can’t talk right now. My boss is on the other line. I’ll call you back soon…” Tara didn’t wait for Barbara to reply…just switched over to Gordon.

“Hi, Gordo, I am SO sorry I’m late. I—uh—I was just about to call in sick,” she began…

“Glamour!” Gordon’s voice boomed into the phone and he sounded downright…jovial? “Hold on a tic, lass. Let me put you on speaker…” She could hear him fumbling with his desk phone and then, “Everyone, I’ve got her on the line!” This was followed by a loud cheer.

Tara frowned. What in the hell was going on? And then it clicked—of course! This was obviously some kind of joke...probably because she didn’t show up this morning. Tara’s co-workers would happily “take the piss” out of a nun if given the chance.

“Okay, okay. I get it. I’m late. But I have a very good reas—”

A loud burst of laughter cut her off followed by Glenda’s voice shouting, “Well, of course you’re late! I’d be late too if I were in your shoes…!!”

Tara sighed. This was definitely the last thing she needed right now.

“Look, Gordon? Gordon!! Can you please take me off speaker for a minute? Or at least can we talk in private?” She waited until she heard the click of Gordon’s office door. “Okay. So Gordo…I’m going to have to leave Scotland sooner than I thought. I’m really so—”

“What?!?!” Gordon bellowed into the phone. “Do you mean to say the rumors are true? Scotswolf will retire at the end of the season after he gets his 100^th cap? No! Say it isn’t so!”

“Gordo…STOP! What are you talking about?” Tara was too confused and frustrated to be polite.

“What are you on about?” He demanded right back at her. “Because if Magnus is retiring as a result of you and him getting hitched and having a bairn on the way, then I cannot be as happy as I was when I first heard the news. I mean, I know most players throw in the towel after 14 years, but I still think Scotswolf has a good two or three more left in him.”

“Excuse me,” Tara said, her eyes widening. “Who told you I was pregnant…and getting married?”

“He did,” Gordon answered.

Tara felt her stomach knot. “Are you saying Magnus contacted you and told you I was pregnant and engaged to him?” she asked.

“No, course not! Why would he do that?”

“Then wha—?”

“It was in the press release, announcing you and him were up the duff. You’re famous!”

Iain’s penthouse took up the entire top floor of the building. And according to Iain, the floors, ceilings, and walls had been well insulated to minimize incoming and outgoing sounds. Still, Tara doubted there was single resident in the entire building who didn’t hear her shrieked “WHAT?!?!”

As if on cue, the apartment security system announced, “Magnus Scotswolf and guest are at the front door.”