Meet the most level-headed of the Clan Kendrick brothers and the independent woman who steals his heart in the fifth installment of USA Today bestselling author Vanessa Kelly’s intoxicating series set in Regency Scotland...

Filled with saucy wit, surprising twists, and unforgettable lovers, the latest novel in USA Today bestselling author Vanessa Kelly’s captivating historical romance series puts the most level-headed Kendrick at the center of a passionate and perilous adventure . . .

It’s Christmastime in Edinburgh, but Lady Samantha Penwith’s secret mission takes no holiday: the Highlands-born lass vows to find the assailants who murdered her beloved husband, founder of a charitable school for orphaned boys. On her latest undercover excursion, she closes in on a pair of armed attackers and interrupts another assault, then disappears into the darkness, leaving the lone victim mystified—and lucky to be alive . . .

Braden Kendrick may be the sensible brother, yet the dedicated doctor routinely ignores the dangers of his late-night calls to the city’s slums. But when a fleet-footed rescuer saves his life, he’s determined to uncover the stranger’s identity. And once he does, he’ll find himself facing his own past loss for the first time—and more than willing to risk his heart again, just in time to make the Clan Kendrick’s Christmas celebrations more festive than ever . . .

Excerpt

Braden Kendrick, an Edinburgh physician, is returning home late at night after attending a patient in the city’s slums. When two villains intending revenge attack him, an unlikely pair comes to Braden’s rescue.

“No one cares what ye think,” bellowed Parson, brandishing his club. “I’m gonna shut that gob of yours once and for all.”

He moved in for the kill. Braden curled up his fists, and—

Boom.

Plaster exploded from the wall behind Parson, showering chips and dust down on his head. He staggered sideways, crashing into his friend.

Mangled Nose howled. “Dougal, that’s my bad arm!”

“Who gives a shite about that? Who the hell is shootin’ at us?”

Braden peered toward the end of the alley. “I believe they did.”

Two figures garbed in black advanced silently toward them. One was a tall, broad-shouldered man swathed in a greatcoat. He was carrying a pistol, so had obviously fired the shot. It had been an excellent one, too, stopping Parson dead in his tracks by barely missing him.

But the other figure? Braden shook his head, as if to clear his vision. That person was slender and not very tall.

“Dougal, that be a girl,” Mangled Nose said.

No, a young woman, Braden guessed.

Dressed in a black riding habit, her hair tucked under a brimmed cap, she carried a walking stick and matched her companion’s steps with easy, confident strides. The mystery man and woman both wore dark scarves wrapped around their lower faces, effectively disguising their features.

“What the hell?” Parson growled, facing the pair.

Braden snapped out of his astonishment. “Tough luck, old man. Good Samaritans have come to my rescue.”

Parson threw him an ugly sneer. “Some doxy and a bloke who just shot his bolt? I’m ready to piss myself with fear.”

He began to stalk toward the pair. As the silent man reached into his pocket, the woman darted forward, whipping up her walking stick.

Except the stick was actually a long, lethal-looking blade. When she deftly slashed it across Parson’s cheek, he roared with pain and reared back, clapping a hand to his face.

“Oy,” yelled Mangled Nose, charging forward, machete held high.

Another shot boomed out, fired from a second pistol the man in black had pulled from his coat. Shards flew up from the cobblestones, directly in front of Mangled Nose. With a shocked cry, he turned on his heel and staggered back up the alley. Quickly, he disappeared into the night.

Parson was made of sterner stuff. He held his ground, holding his bloody cheek and glaring at the woman, who slid over to stand beside Braden. Her companion joined them, a silent, threatening guardian.

“I should kill the whole lot of ye,” Parson snarled.

Braden cocked his head. “I just heard the night watchman blow his whistle. He probably heard the shots and is calling for a constable. You’d be wise to follow your friend, Parson.”

A string of truly vile oaths ensued as the bastard shot a final glare at Braden. Then the man took to his heels, following his partner in crime.

For a moment, Braden and the others stood frozen in a silent tableau, listening to Parson’s footsteps fade away. Then Braden reached to doff his hat to his rescuers before realizing he’d lost the bloody thing in the bloody alley.

He smiled instead. “Thank you. I’m hoping you didn’t save me just so you could rob me.”

The big man simply shook his head, while the woman huffed an impatient breath from behind her black silk scarf.

“Then you have my sincere gratitude for your excellent timing,” Braden said. “I doubt my skull would have survived the encounter with Parson’s club.”

The man shook his head again before gesturing toward the lights of Cowgate. He and the woman then strode off in that direction, leaving Braden to both mentally and physically catch up.

“Can I know your names, so I can properly thank you?” he asked, coming up behind them.

The woman didn’t even glance back.

Braden almost laughed in disbelief. This was turning into the most bizarre night of his life. And given his family’s history, that was a very high hill to climb.

As he followed close behind them, a flicker of movement caught his attention. The woman’s gloved hand moved in gestures that looked practiced and precise. Braden’s amazement grew as her companion responded with a few, sharp motions of his right hand.

They were communicating with some sort of sign language.

“So, I take it you are not going to talk to me,” he commented.

The pair continued to ignore him as they gained the entrance of the alley. The woman reached out and grabbed something. She slid her blade into the slender wooden sheath that had leaned against a wall. Instantly, her lethal weapon was transformed into a genteel walking stick.

Braden felt as if he’d fallen into a dream or some sort of upside down fairy tale, one where the mysterious princess did the rescuing.

They led him out into Cowgate, and Braden had to blink against the flare of gas lanterns lining the street.

His silent escorts stopped and turned, calmly perusing him from behind their extremely effective disguises.

Now that he could finally get a good look at her, Braden saw that the lass had a trim, neat figure, dressed in a close-fitting wool jacket over a matching skirt. Her walking stick appeared to be of polished ebony with a carved brass handle. As for the man, who towered over her by a good foot, Braden had the impression that he might be a servant. He stood a few inches behind the woman, patiently waiting, as if taking his cues from her.

Fascinating.

If not a fairy tale, then Braden felt he might have stumbled into a corking good adventure. Unlike his brothers, he never fell into corking good adventures.

“If you won’t tell me your name,” he said, “then allow me to—”

A shrill whistle cut him off. They all glanced up Cowgate to see a sturdy watchman, lantern and long staff in hand, trundling toward them in the distance.

The woman glanced at her companion. He twirled a finger by his head and then pointed back to the alley. She nodded, and they turned in that direction.

Braden made a grab for her. “Wait, you can’t go back in there.”

As she gracefully eluded him, the man stepped in front of Braden, his stance all but yelling, back off.

He quickly put up his hands. “I just want you to be safe.”

The woman huffed out a ghost of a chuckle. Then she tapped the brim of her cap, saluting him before disappearing into the night, with the tall man at her heels.

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