My Fair Highlander

Gordon’s voice drew her back to the harsh world with its discomforts. She opened her eyes to discover that the sunlight was gone and only moonlight shone through the open window.

Her husband lifted her up and placed another pillow behind her to keep her head more elevated.

“There’s my lass, open yer eyes and share a bit of supper with me.”

“The night feels further gone than supper.”

He offered her a smile and a nod. “Aye, it is. The sun will rise in another hour.” Claire brought him a small bowl that gently steamed. Jemma wrinkled her nose, the scent of food sickening her, but her husband offered her a spoonful in spite of her disgruntled expression.

“Ye can nae expect to recover without food, lass, and I’ve gone to quite a bit of trouble to share a bit of a meal with ye.”

She opened her mouth and swallowed the soup. A cramp seized her belly. It was so painful she gasped. Gordon set the bowl aside and placed a large hand on her stomach to gently massage the tension from her muscles. His fingers forced the knots to loosen, allowing her to draw breath. Sweat dotted her forehead, and she shook her head.

“No more. I cannot stomach it.”

Claire stood nearby, unrelenting in her quiet fashion. The companion took only a single step forward and waited until Gordon turned his attention to her.

“She must eat to cleanse the poison from her flesh, else it will fester.”

Gordon’s fingers tensed where they still worked the tight muscles of her belly, and his expression hardened. She’d only seen such determination in him when he faced down the English knights who had tried to kill her. Now it was aimed at her. He picked up the bowl and the spoon, but from the look in his eyes, it might as well have been sword and shield.

“Ye will eat, Jemma, because I know that ye are every bit as stubborn as I am and ye will nae allow this foul deed to take yer life away.”

The spoon was pressing against her lips, but it was his tone that made her open her mouth and take his offering.

“The sun is going to rise, and I want ye to see how beautiful the day is, lass.”

There was no relenting in him. One spoon after the other, he pressed the contents of the bowl into her. But her insides only gave a few more twinges before accepting the soup. It might even be called soothing except that there was dull pain still lingering everywhere within her. She heard the spoon scraping the bottom of the bowl and sighed with relief. Her eyelids closed in weary fatigue.

“Aye, lass, ’tis enough for the moment.” He set the bowl aside, sparing her the last bit. She blew out a sigh of relief while her belly balanced on the edge of nausea. She closed her eyes, trying to think of other things besides the discomfort attempting to make her reject the soup.

“I brought ye something, sweet wife. Open yer eyes and look at what ye reduce me to gathering for ye. Me men believe I’ve gone soft, and that is a fact.”

Jemma opened her eyes to see him lifting a small bundle of heather up off the table. This time he’d tied it with a ribbon.

“A bit of an enticement to make ye want to rise from this bed. The world is out there waiting on ye to fill it with mayhem once again. I believe even the laundresses miss ye.”

“They do not.” She reached for the heather, her eyes drinking in the sight of the tiny flowers so rich with color. Why had she never noticed the brilliant shade before? Each tiny petal was unique but blended together to form a magnificent display of beauty. It was breathtaking. “So kind of you . . .” Her words trailed off, and the hand she raised to reach for his gift never made it. Now that she was full, her strength seemed to be gone. Her eyelids fluttered shut, but she smiled because she took the vision of that bouquet with her and the feeling of tenderness for the man who had picked it for her.

He’d never been so frightened.

Gordon watched his sleeping wife and ground his teeth in frustration. His sword arm was no use here. The urge to have Anyon whipped until she confessed threatened to boil over, past his logical ability to reason. Although the girl was the likely culprit, they had no proof. He’d never been a laird to condemn without evidence. Barras Castle had never once held the reputation as being a place where mercy was absent. There was no rack in the dungeon or any other foul means of torture. At the moment he felt as if that fact was the only thing holding his hand back from ordering something he might regret.

He wanted to hang her.

Or himself for tumbling her. It had been the rash mistake that many a man made when they’d had one or two ales and the night was cool enough to make the idea of pressing up against something warm enticing.

Aye, a mistake, and one that may have risen up to cut far deeper than he believed he might survive. Jemma was too pale, and dark circles ringed her eyes. Lady Justina would not confirm to him that his wife would recover; instead, the lady offered him only the hope that their action ensured—that no further poison would make its way into her body. He reached out and stroked his hand along his wife’s face. Her skin felt more delicate than before, more fragile. But her breath teased his knuckle, giving him solid proof that she was still the wildcat he’d labeled her. There was fight in her yet.

But would it be enough?

That question tore at the very fabric of Gordon’s soul.

He stood up and left the chamber, moving toward the sanctuary of the church. There had never been a woman who drove him to his knees, but now he knelt willingly in the hope that God might hear him.

For his lament was great and the blessing he sought more precious than he could say. For Jemma, he would fall to his knees.

Gladly, even humbly.

Chapter Eleven

“I am so tired of this bed.” Jemma folded her legs and let out a huff. Claire eyed her from across the room.

“You should spend more time being grateful that you are still alive.”

“I am grateful.” But she did sound like she was whining, and she was very aware of how fortunate she was to be alive. The sunlight looked brighter and the air smelled better than she had ever noticed. Scooting to the edge of the bed, she stood up, but she had to hug the thick banister that held up the curtain to remain on her feet. Weakness still ruled her.

Claire knew her duty well, for the companion was quickly by her side, offering her shoulders to help support Jemma.

“Do you wish to go to the window, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you.”

It was a long journey that frustrated Jemma almost to the point of tears. Now that the pain was gone, she was impatient to return to normal, but her body didn’t seem to agree. She needed to lean on Claire for every step. Her knees felt wobbly, and the activity demanded that her heart move faster, but it felt like the muscle was too weak to keep up with the simple task of walking. Her blood was sluggish, resisting the command to circulate. Along her legs, her muscles protested having to move, but the sunlight drew her forward.

“There now, the sun must feel good on your face.”

“It does.”

And the sight of the yard filled her with happiness. The church was in sight, and she could see the nuns tending to the windows. Off to the other side the boys were once more training with their wooden swords. She could see men walking along the curtain wall and hear the blacksmith working on his anvil, the steady hammering drifting up to her window. She could also hear the water beyond the tower in front of her. Her senses wanted to notice everything suddenly, and Jemma drank it in, absorbing it. But she forced herself to be realistic about how much effort it was going to take to return to the bed.

She might be weak, but she was sick of being carried like a babe.

“I should return now.”

“Very well, my lady.”

Claire lent her strength again on the way back to the bed, and Jemma blew out a tiny sigh of relief when she reached it. Her legs quivered, but satisfaction filled her, too, for being able to do something beyond waiting to be catered to. There was an ache in her legs, but the sort that came from working hard. She felt better, as though the short walk had begun the process of unfreezing her body. Her breathing felt deeper, and she smiled as the increased air cleared up her thoughts even more. The fresh breath banished the haze that seemed to have settled into her for so long. Relief replaced the weakness, and she smiled with satisfaction.

“Shall I read to you, my lady?”

“Umm, that would be thoughtful.” And a test of her newly cleared thoughts.

Claire opened up a small book and sat down on a stool near the bed. Her voice was even and soft as she began to read. Jemma reached over to pick up the newest piece of heather Gordon had brought her. Holding it up to her nose, she inhaled the fragrance, allowing it to chase away the depression that was attempting to settle into her.

He hasn’t told me he loves me.

Which was not to say that he didn’t, but it wasn’t to say that he did.

I love him.

She knew it now and even found herself being thankful for the poison because it had forced her to see what she had. When time grew short, everything became dearer. It had been that way with her father, too. She smiled at the memories, able to recall them without sorrow now. She would never regret the years she had spent with him, for that was what made her into the woman she was. It was what had taught her to love. If that was insanity, so be it. She wanted no cure, only time to spend loving the man who was her husband. There was never enough time to love the ones you held dear, but always plenty of days to mourn your mistakes.

A soft knock landed on the door. Claire stopped reading and stood up, but the door opened before she reached it. Jemma turned her head to see one of the nuns standing there in her wool robe. The garment was undyed, only the light cream color of the wool. Her head was covered with another piece of wool; this one had a black band that tightened around her forehead. The black signified that she had taken her final vows. There wasn’t a hint of her hair showing, the head wrap tightened down to help her preserve her chastity and modesty vows. She even hid her hands inside the wide cuffs of her sleeve by crossing her arms in front of her body and clasping her own wrists. Jemma wondered if the girl had a true calling, for she appeared to take the duty of being a nun very seriously.

“Forgive me, but the laird wishes to see ye in the church sanctuary.”

Claire frowned and looked at Jemma.

“The laird bid me care for his wife while you attend him.” The nun was meek and her tone mild. She even lowered herself when she finished speaking.

“I see. Yes. Thank you.” Claire walked toward the wall where her length of rust and orange Barras wool was hung. She placed it over her shoulder and belted it at her waist as she had been instructed to do. There was nothing to show that she was anything but another girl brought into the castle to work during the busy harvest season.

“I will return, my lady.”

The door opened and closed softly behind Claire. The nun seemed to be frozen in place for a long moment. She stared at her with eyes that were impossible to read. She suddenly stiffened and walked to the window. Reaching out she placed her hands in the opening and rested them on the thick stone of the wall.

“I saw you looking out of the window.”

Jemma felt a shiver go down her back. There was something in the tone of her voice that seemed cold. “Yes, the sunlight drew me toward it.”

“No, that is not what drew you toward the window.” The nun spoke sharply.

Jemma jerked and pushed herself up off the pillows. The nun turned slowly and watched her while shaking her head.

“It was God who drew you to this window. God.”

“Yes, of course, since God made all things.”

The nun had a smile on her lips that looked strange. It was almost as if the woman enjoyed seeing how much Jemma had to strain to sit up. She turned and looked out the window before turning back around to aim her attention at Jemma.

“God sent you to the window so that I might find you and finish the duty that He charged me with.”

The chill went down her back again, this time much colder because the nun was moving slowly toward her.

“What duty is that?”

“To help my husband live a pure life.” The nun’s voice turned sweet. “We shall be blessed in too many ways to count just like Abraham if we remain free of sin. But he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t trust in the gift that God can grant to those who listen to him.”

“Your husband?”

The nun moved closer and nodded. “Gordon, my husband. My father made me swear to wed him in spite of my devotion to God, but I see now that I may serve both God and my husband.”

“Imogen?”

“I am Mary Job. Sister Mary Job, and God sent you to that window so that I might know where you were and finish removing ye from tempting my sweet husband away from me.”

“Sweet Christ.” Jemma scooted across the bed, horror filling her. The woman was mad; Jemma could see the insanity burning brightly in her eyes.

“Yes . . . why yes . . . You understand. I am going to send you to our sweet savior where there shall be no earthly sin.”

“Imogen, no! This is not what God wants.” Jemma swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

Imogen didn’t like hearing her name. She frowned, her face turning red. “It is, and you are naught but a usurper! Trying to take my husband, oh whore! Ye shall not sully him! I shall smother you and remove ye from his path!”

Imogen lunged at her with her hands outstretched like the claws of a wolf. Jemma screamed and stood up. She had strength for enough steps to get to the door and pull it wide, but even the fear of her life was not enough to overcome the weakness that the poison had left. She stumbled into the wall, and Imogen slammed into her. Pain slashed through her as Imogen grabbed her braid and yanked.

“I must smother you in yer bed to show him what lust brings! Nothing but death.”

Jemma forced herself to draw enough breath in to scream again. This time the sound echoed down the stairway.

Imogen snarled and tried to drag her back into the chamber, but the door had shut, making it necessary to open it with one hand. Jemma jerked against her hold while it was divided between the door and her hair. Imogen snarled and pulled on her head, but Jemma allowed her legs to crumple, making her body dead weight. Imogen was jerked off her feet and fell over the top of her.

A shriek came from the nun’s lips as she began falling down the narrow stairs. Her hand tightened in her hair, pulling Jemma after her.

At least the truth will be known . . .

It was little comfort, and her body tumbled down the steps. Pain tore through her as her spine struck the edge of one step and then her shoulder fell against another, and over she tumbled to strike her cheek. She lacked the strength to stop her fall, and it felt like time was standing still. Jemma heard each one of her heartbeats, listened to them and discovered that the wait between one and the next was very long indeed when you were anticipating the end of your life. They fell for what seemed like an hour before landing on the bottom floor.

“I must kill you!”

Imogen rose up with blood staining her cream-colored robe, the crimson fluid flowing from a cut in her forehead. Her eyes glowed with insanity, and her fingers were clenched into fists. Jemma tried to rise, but her body refused. Her muscles were useless, the weakness completely laying her at Imogen’s mercy.

“I must strike now! Now where God has delivered ye to me.”

Jemma rolled over and stumbled away from her a few more precious steps.

“No!” she wailed loud and almost pitifully.

“You interfere in God’s work! Stand steady to receive His judgment.”

Jemma gritted her teeth and forced her protesting legs to move again. But Imogen was far stronger. The nun jumped onto her, pushing her back onto the stone floor. Her hands locked around her throat, choking the breath from her. Jemma struggled, but Imogen held tight, preventing any breath from reaching her burning lungs.

“Yes . . . yes . . . so simple . . . ye will die now!”

Jemma forced her hands to stop trying to break Imogen’s hold on her neck. She clawed at the nun’s eyes instead. Imogen snarled but suddenly gasped when men rounded the corner. They were running and skid across the stone floor when they realized the way was blocked.

Jemma gasped for breath now that she could. Kerry reached out and pulled Imogen off her with one jerk of his arm.

“Christ in heaven, what are ye doing to the Mistress?”

“She is not the Mistress! She can never be my husband’s wife.” Imogen was distraught. She began walking in a circle while she babbled.

“Sweet God.” Kerry crossed himself, his face full of horror to hear a nun talk of murder. He went to grab Imogen but couldn’t force his hands to close around her arm. He didn’t need to. The nun was in shock, hugging herself.

“Why, God? Why wasn’t I able to kill her? I have been so close twice, and yet she still draws breath . . . he is my husband, joined to me by yer holy church . . . she is worldly sin and everything ye forbid . . . ye sent me to kill her, why did I fail? I am yer servant, yer most humble servant . . .”

The men who had come with Kerry all backed away from Imogen. Another set of footfalls came around the corner. This time Gordon led the charge, but he stumbled to a halt when he ran into his captain.

“What goes on here?”

The horror on Kerry’s face drew a frown from Jemma’s husband.

“Yer first wife, Laird.”

Gordon froze and turned to look at the nun. His face drained of color while he listened to her continue to babble.

“Imogen?” It was a whisper filled with horror and the desire to have himself proved wrong. His first wife looked up and smiled as innocently as a child. She held her hands open to him in welcome, but her palms were covered in her own bright red blood.

“Dearest husband, we must seek God’s favor through rejection of all earthly sin . . . I failed to kill the whore that draws ye away from chastity . . . so ye must help me . . . ye are my husband, my partner in this world . . . together we shall have all of the Lord’s blessings if we keep His commandments . . .”

“No, Imogen. Ye are nae me wife, ye chose the Church and I bid ye joy.” Gordon shook his head. “Take her away, Kerry.”

“But she’s a nun.”

“I shall take her if you have not the stomach for it.” Curan stepped forward with Synclair on his heels. His English accent drew a horrified gasp from Imogen.

“Stay away from me, Protestant! Do not touch me. I belong to Holy Mother Church.”

Curan slowly walked toward her. “Then you had best walk, madam, for I will gladly fit the noose about your neck myself.”

Imogen laughed. She tilted her head back and howled with amusement, her entire body shaking. She opened her arms wide and looked upward.

“Is this the gift ye send me? Release from this earthly body in the form of a Protestant? Oh, yes! Like Jesus being condemned by a Roman!”

“You cannot hang her, Curan. You must not.”

Every head turned to look at Jemma. She had her hands pressed against the floor to hold her body up, but she lacked the strength to get to her feet.

“I surely can, Jemma. It is something I do not expect women to understand, but it is a necessary thing. Her crime is grave.”

Kerry wiped a hand over his mouth, but the captain nodded as did Gordon.

“She is mad, Gordon. Even the King cannot order the execution of an insane person without special permission.”

“No . . . No!” Imogen pointed a finger at her. “You whore! You cannot take yet more from me! Release me from this life! Hang me! That is God’s will . . .”

Synclair reached out and hooked her upper arm with his hand. She shrieked and turned to look at him.

“I will take you away from here, madam.”

Imogen instantly complied, smiling once more like a child. Synclair looked over her head at his lord. “I will secure her so she can cause no more harm.”

“But ye should listen to God’s will . . .” Imogen’s words trailed off as Synclair pulled her down the hallway.

“Kerry, go and tell the priest.”

“Aye, Laird.”

The captain left with the youths following him.

Gordon crossed the space between them and scooped Jemma up off the floor. His body was so warm it made her shiver and realize how cold she had become. Her hands reached for him, desperately seeking out his strength. He kissed her forehead gently.

“Easy, lass. ’Tis finished now.”

Finished. A beautiful word, one that promised a new beginning. Hope flowed through her, soothing the aches that assaulted her. There was no more reason to struggle, so she let her head rest on the shoulder of the man she loved.

It was astounding the way relief brought peace to a soul.

Jemma slept soundly, truly resting throughout the night because she believed that the threat to her life and her remaining at Gordon’s side was indeed over. It was not that she was English, and that left her with the sound belief that the future held acceptance for her as mistress of Barras Castle.

But did it hold love?

That was the thought that she awoke to. The place beside her was empty, but the sheet was wrinkled, hinting that her husband had slept there.

Does that mean he loves me?

She couldn’t put the thought from her mind. So she sat up, finding the task much more achievable than it had been yesterday. Her belly only gave the briefest twinge that she couldn’t truly label pain. The floor was cool beneath her feet, but she smiled when she stood up and her knees didn’t wobble.

Strength felt like it was flowing out from her heart to every inch of her body. She walked to the side of the room in search of her clothing, smiling when she realized she was alone in the chamber. Relief surged through her, and it gave her plenty of strength to dress. A low rumble from her stomach made her giggle.

Hungry—now there was something she had missed.

A riding dress constructed to be simple and useful awaited. She tugged on her hip roll and then lifted her skirts high over her head to put on the dress. Once the waistband was tied securely, she slipped into her stays and laced them up the front like a bodice. The corset fit looser than it had the last time she wore it. Another rumble from within made her reach for her doublet and shrug into it. With how hungry she felt, the few pounds she had lost would not be hard to find.

Once her doublet was buttoned, she reached for the comb and straightened out her hair. She hummed a tune, eagerly anticipating a meal outside her bed. The bells began to ring, announcing the first meal of the day, and Jemma went to join the rest of her household.

“Mistress.”

The first maid she passed looked at her in surprise, but the girl smiled. “ ’Tis right well to see ye up.”

“Thank you.”

People were hurrying into the great hall, but several younger retainers skidded to a halt when they noticed her. They jostled one another in an attempt to offer her their hand as escort.

“I believe that is my duty.”

Her brother spoke from behind her, his voice deep and rich. “Something that I missed the opportunity to do when you took your wedding vows.”

Curan swept her from head to toe with that keen stare that had once annoyed her.

“I am well, Brother.”

He tilted his head slightly to one side in question.

“I can see that, Sister.” He offered her his arm, and she placed her hand on it with a smile. “However, I am going to stay a few more days to ensure that everything is settled. You are, after all, my only sister.”

“A fortunate fact.”

Curan offered her a soft chuckle before escorting her into the hall. Word had already spread of her arrival, and every soul was on their feet. They turned to watch her come down the aisle, and the men tugged on their hats while the girls nodded their heads. Tears stung her eyes because it was the respect that she had dreamed of, longed for, but could only earn.

Somehow, she had.

But her attention settled on the man waiting for her. Gordon stood at the head table, every one of his captains beside him. But they did not sit next to him today. There were two chairs for her and Curan.

The look in Gordon’s eyes sent two tears down her cheeks. Joy shimmered there, so much of it that there was no way to mistake it. He pulled the “X” chair back for her, and no one sat down until he had pushed it back toward the table.

The rest of the hall became noisy once more as the meal was served.

“Ye are a fine sight, lass, even if I find myself wanting to carry ye back above stairs because I want to make sure ye are truly rested.”

“Really, Gordon, I am not sure that you should declare so boldly that you want to carry me off with my brother listening.”

One of his eyebrows arched at the suggestive tone of her voice. A hint of passion flickered in his eyes. Jemma lowered her eyelashes, shielding her own emotions from him. A second later she jumped when his hand landed on top of her thigh and gave it a squeeze.

Curan chuckled once more. “Careful, Barras, I did warn you that my sister is not meek.”

“Was that a warning then?” Gordon reached out to pick an apple off the table. He cut into it with a small knife, splitting it with a sharp sound. He placed one-half on her plate before taking a bite out of the firm fruit and chewing it while contemplating her brother. “And here I thought ye were bragging to me. Ye know, polishing up yer sister’s image so that I’d be hungry for a match with her.”

Gordon’s captains laughed, but her husband watched her pick up the apple and take a small bite from it. The flesh was sweet, and the smell filled her nose as she swallowed slowly.

“Maybe I was.” Curan answered Gordon, but Jemma discovered that her brother was watching her as well. She took another bite and chewed it faster, shooting both men a warning look.

“I, for one, am grateful that things are settled now and no one shall feel the need to look after me.”

The table quieted, several frowns appearing. Jemma looked to Gordon for an explanation.

“It seems that the Church shelters its own. Imogen was smuggled away by her fellow sisters, and none of them will tell me where she is.”

“The priest told us to trust the Church and pray for her.”

It was a disheartening thought but one that didn’t hold up against the greeting that she had received from the castle’s inhabitants. Her hope was burning brightly, and it was even balm for her heart to know that she would not have to endure the guilt of Imogen suffering somewhere in a cell, or worse yet, her execution.

“I wish her well.”

There were plenty of raised eyebrows in response, but her husband considered her from behind a frown.

“I do.”

“Well then, ye may wish Anyon well, too, for she has taken leave of the castle to join her cousin on McIre land.”

Jemma swallowed again and noticed everyone at the head table watching her.

“Another bit of glad tidings.”

“I agree, wife.”

Jemma heard the tone in her husband’s voice that often sent her temper to heating. He’d sent Anyon away, and he was not sorry.

She wasn’t, either.

Her pride might ache, but her heart applauded the action. She reached beneath the table and pinched his thigh.

His hand captured hers, the feeling of his fingers wrapping around hers awakening more desire in her. She suddenly needed to be touched. It began to take command of her attention as her belly filled. She turned her hand beneath his and began to stroke his fingers, one after the other. Their skin sliding against each other was intoxicating; even the bright sunlight didn’t make her shy away from the desire inside her.

It made her feel even more alive, and that was something that she had missed too sorely to feel guilty over.

“Since ye claimed the duty of escorting me wife in, I believe I’ll take my chance to have her on my arm now.”

They made it halfway down the aisle before Gordon laughed low and deep and scooped her off her feet. Those still eating erupted with amusement. Many of them slapping the tabletop while their laird carried her off.

“You enjoy that too much.”

Gordon tossed her into the air and caught her. “Aye, I do, lass.” He carried her up the stairs to their chamber, never stopping to catch his breath.

“But I confess that I enjoy being inside ye more.” He laid her down on the bed, his gaze moving over her as though he was attempting to memorize her. “However bold or blunt ye might find that, lass.”

“I find it pleasing. Very pleasing.”

“Is that so?” He reached out and flipped her skirt up to expose one leg. He clamped his hand around her knee and slid it up to her thigh. “How pleasing?”

“So pleasing that I wouldn’t mind if you ripped this dress off me, so long as you lay with me, no clothing between us.”

He drew in a stiff breath, a muscle twitching on the side of his jaw. The fingers on her thigh tightened.

“No just yet, lass. Ye need to rest.”

Jemma hissed and sat up. She slid her own hand across the sheet and beneath his kilt to smooth along his thigh, but she did not stop there. She continued on until she felt the sac that hung beneath his member and then the hard rod itself.

“I need to feel you inside me, Gordon. I need to be your wife.”

“Sweet lass.” His voice was hoarse, but he captured the sides of her face between his hands and kissed her. She lost her grip on his cock but happily reached for him as he pushed her back while his lips teased hers. He didn’t rush to open her mouth, the tip of his tongue flicking along her lower lip in a slow motion before he pressed a harder kiss against her lips. Slowly, steadily, he increased the pressure until she opened her mouth and allowed his tongue to penetrate. Liquid fire pooled inside her, like molten metal going into a mold. His tongue stabbed down into her mouth, stroking along her own, and she eagerly accepted it, closing her lips around it to suck it.

“Sweet wife.”

He released her and stood. She ached for him, rolling up to follow him until she heard his belt open. He pulled on the thick leather with a hard motion and tossed the open belt aside. His tartan received only enough attention to keep his colors from landing on the floor. He gathered up the loosened pleats and tossed them in a heap on top of a table.

Jemma reached for the top button on her doublet and flicked it open.

“No.” He barked the command at her while ripping open the ties at the neck of his shirt.

“I want to undress ye.”

His eyes glowed with excitement, and he pulled his shirt up and over his head to finish baring himself. He climbed onto the bed, his knees digging into the soft mattress.

“I want to kiss every inch of ye.” His voice was hoarse again and his eyes bright with emotion. He released the buttons on her doublet with soft motions before gently easing the garment down her arms. His touch was the complete opposite of the way he had stripped his own clothing aside. Now he was tender and almost hesitant. He seemed to be savoring every movement, and she moaned softly as he stroked his hands back up her arms with only her chemise interfering.

“I spent too many hours dreading the possibility that I might not ever get to feel yer warm skin next to mine in this life again.” He grasped the tie that held her stays closed and pulled the knot loose. Her breasts felt heavy and swollen. Gordon worked the lace free and pushed the corset over her shoulders so that it fell onto the bed behind her.

His hands trailed over the curves of her breasts, unleashing sweet sensation that rippled along her skin. She wanted to fall back onto the bed and simply enjoy being touched.

Gordon slid his hands down to her waistband and opened the tie there. With a few motions of his fingers he had it open and was pulling her skirts up and over her head. Her arms were stretched high above her head, and then the garment was finally free.

“Stay like that, lass.”

The position pushed her breasts out, and her chemise fell in soft waves over her thighs. She was kneeling on the bed, and Gordon sent her hip roll onto the floor in one swift motion, leaving her in nothing but the thin linen shift.

He slid his hands down her arms and onto the sides of her body. Moving them inward, he cupped each breast, sending a shiver down her back. His hands kept moving, down across her midsection and then over the curves of her hips and still farther along her thighs until he found the hem of her last garment. He drew it up slowly, and she felt the air touching her bare skin. A soft murmur of delight whispered past her lips as he drew it higher, up until her breasts felt the morning air kiss them. Her nipples tingled, beginning to contract. And the skin on her arms felt the linen brushing over them until it was drawn completely away.

“Ye are a vision, lass. One that I swear I dreamed of every moment that we were separated.”

Jemma reached for her hair and began to comb her fingers through the strands. Gordon settled on his knees in front of her, his gaze centered on her fingers as they slid through her hair. His cock stood erect with its ruby head swollen, and her passage felt wet for it, but there was no pressing urgency. Instead there was an enjoyment of the building heat.

Jemma finished freeing her hair, and he reached out to grasp a handful. He allowed the strands to rest in his palm for a long moment before leaning forward to inhale their fragrance.

“I adore the way ye smell, lass.”

He pushed her back, nuzzling and kissing the tender skin at her neck.

“Everywhere.”

His lips traveled to her collarbone and then down to her chest. His hands smoothed up from her waist to cup her breasts, and his lips captured one nipple. She gasped, stretching out across the bed. Pleasure streamed through her, feeding the heat that flickered in her passage. His tongue flicked across the hard point her nipple had become before he began licking his way toward her opposite point. He didn’t hurry, and the hard nipple tightened with excitement as she felt his warm lips nearing it. She whimpered when he closed his lips around her breast, her back arching to offer it to his mouth. He sucked harder, and she gasped when need speared through her.

But he left the tender spot soon and trailed his kisses across her stomach.

Jemma shivered, unable to control the urge to spread her thighs. She craved the pleasure she knew he could give her with his lips. There was no thought given to right or wrong, there was only the yearning burning inside her.

“Ah, and the sweetest place of all.”

Gordon pushed her thighs farther apart, the folds of her sex opening to expose her clitoris. His thumb brushed across the little point, drawing a sharp sound from her lips. The next contact was slightly firmer and longer, his thumb rubbing in several tiny circles before it traced the center of her sex down to the opening of her passage. He toyed with it, inserting his thumb for several long seconds and sending need racing through her.

“I could spend hours listening to the sound ye make when I’m pleasuring ye.”

Her cheeks pinkened slightly, and he chuckled because he was watching her from between her open thighs. He moved his thumb back up to her clitoris and began rubbing it again.

“I confess that I could listen to ye whimper like that for hours.”

Jemma hissed at him. His lips twitched up into a mischievous grin.

“But I agree that what we both crave isn’t exactly this.”

He rose up from between her legs, and her attention lowered to the length of his member. Her passage craved it, the walls feeling empty and needy. She lifted her arms in invitation, and his lips thinned, his expression becoming intense.

“I’ve dreamed of seeing ye issue that invitation, sweet lass.” He settled his weight over her, the head of his cock pressing against the opening to her passage. “But the reality is far better than anything my mind teased me with.”

His mouth claimed hers in a hard kiss. Urgency fueled his lips, and she met him with equal longing. His hips pressed forward, his hard flesh tunneling into her sheath. She clasped her hands around his neck, whimpering again with the sheer amount of sensation that filled her. He pushed deeply into her passage, and her hips lifted to meet him. They worked together perfectly, passion commanding them both. Pleasure was building inside her, tightening and threatening to release far too soon. She could see the passion on his face, too, and she watched his eyes battle to hold it back, but to no avail. His thrusts became harder and faster, and she kept pace with him, as eager for the release as he. The pleasure built until it broke, and the moment that it took control of her she felt his cock begin spurting its hot seed against the mouth of her womb.

Her lungs froze between breaths, and every muscle drew taut while the pleasure ruled her. It ran from her belly out to her toes and fingertips and then back to her belly without stopping. Only when it landed deep inside her did she draw breath again, gasping to fill her burning lungs. Gordon shuddered on top of her, his arms holding just enough of his weight to keep her from being crushed.

“Too fast.”

He rolled over and pulled her along with him. “ ’Twas too quickly done, lass.”

He gathered her close, and she laid her head on his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat.

“We have plenty of time to perfect our timing.”

But did they have enough time for love to grow? Many men never loved; it was a cruel fact. Tears stung her eyes and he shifted, placing a finger beneath her chin to raise it when he felt the wetness against his chest. Jemma resisted, keeping her head lowered.

“Why do ye cry, lass?” There was emotion in his voice, such deep caring that more tears spilled from her eyes and she felt guilty for them, but that did not grant her the ability to contain them.

He cupped her chin and raised it. “For I can nae bear it, those tears. Nae from the woman I love.”

She stiffened, sitting up to slap a hand over her mouth to contain the sound that erupted from her lips. Gordon followed her, reaching out to grasp her with one solid arm around her waist. Her temper suddenly lit, and she balled up one fist and hit him. But she was so close she did little damage to his shoulder, so she lifted her hand and hit him again.

“You never spoke of love, not when I declared myself to you.” She struggled, but he held her tight. “Beast. Was three words so much to ask for when my life might have ended before I heard them from your lips?”

“That is why I didna tell ye.”

“Ohh . . . Toad! Release me.”

He rolled onto his back, his amusement bouncing off the canopy above the bed. His hands captured her and pulled her down on top of him. But he rolled over to pin her down where he could clasp the sides of her head and keep her face where his gaze might connect with hers.

“I didna tell ye because I could nae bear the thought that ye might consider yer life complete. I wanted ye to have something to fight for, something to wake up for, lass. Ye have a spirit that refuses to surrender, and I was willing to use that to gain ye back.”

She hit him again, but he only smiled.

“But ’twas the sweetest thing that I ever heard, those words from yer lips.”

“I may never repeat them. It would be your just reward for allowing me to worry about your feelings. You miserable toad.”

“I was miserable.” Deep emotion flickered in his eyes, and it touched her heart. There was no missing the tenderness there, looking straight into her eyes like a bolt of lightning between them. It was warm and impossible not to love.

“So damn miserable that I believe I would have died if ye did. I never thought it possible that one woman might bring a man to his knees, but ye did, lass. I prayed in the church for hours on my knees, and I’d do it again for ye because I love ye more than I even like myself.”

“Oh, Gordon, you are a fine man.” She reached up to place her hands on his cheeks and he closed his eyes with a soft sound of male enjoyment. “You are the man I love, love so much I cry with it.”

He opened his eyes, and they shimmered with unshed tears, betraying just how sincere he was.

“So are ye saying that ye love toads, lass? Well now, I’ve nae heard that before.”

Jemma scoffed at him. “Good. I like knowing that I am the only woman who loves you.”

“Well I can nae swear to that—” He snorted when she moved her knee and knocked his cock with it. He rolled over and tucked her along his body once again, pressing her head onto his shoulder with a tender hand.

“But I can swear that ye are the only woman that I love.”

A week later . . .

“You look much better.” Justina spoke the words, but her heart was not in them. The woman’s eyes kept shifting to the windows and the clouds darkening the horizon.

“And you appear unhappy.” Jemma stood up and walked across the room. She swore that she was never going to take such a thing for granted again. A week of rest and eating was restoring her strength quite rapidly.

“The last time I was happy was years ago, when I was with my son.” Justina’s blue eyes filled with joy, but she nibbled on her lip when she looked at the dark sky. “Brandon is seven now.”

And it had been a long time since the lady had set eyes upon her child, much less held him.

“Do not pity me. I have spent all of my time in your company with that pity lurking in your eyes. There is nothing perfect about this life. Except for our children. You do not yet know the gift that feeling a life growing inside you is. It is even more precious to know that I can keep my son away from the worries of this world. There is nothing more that I may expect or ask for.”

“There can be.” Jemma walked toward the other woman and placed a hand on her arm. “I have discovered happiness that I never believed could be. You need to open your heart to the possibilities that surround you.”

“You mean Synclair? Oh, yes, that is the worst kept secret at Amber Hill.”

“Must it remain a secret?”

Justina shook off her hand and folded her hands in front of her. It was a perfect pose, one that could have been an oil portrait instead of a living person. Justina reminded her too often of a painting with her delicate motions and polished manners. It was impossible to see into her feelings because she hid them behind a serene expression that never betrayed what she was truly thinking.

“My son enjoys a simple life now. On his father’s estate because I obey Chancellor Wriothesley. If I do not, my son will be brought to court.” Justina’s face drained of color. “With its poisons and lusts. Such a fate would destroy everything good inside him.”

Jemma felt her heart ache. Curan had refused to allow Justina to depart from Amber Hill, hoping to draw out the man who had sent her to betray him. Her brother was a man of strategy, but at the moment, Jemma discovered that she felt more kinship with Justina because they were women who sought to survive in a male-dominated world.

“I need to return to court, Jemma. Curan is married with a child on the way. He cannot shelter me, and I do not want him to. Can you understand that?” She looked out the window again. “Winter is creeping down from the north and I feel like it is strangling my ability to protect Brandon.”

“I am not sure I can understand it.”

Justina drew in a stiff breath, but Jemma continued. “You told me not to pity you, Justina, but it is a truth that when I do, I notice how unfair it is for you to be kept here.”

Justina stood silent for a long moment, her gaze returning to the windows.

“Then pity me, but force your brother to give me my freedom.”

Her voice was low and rough, betraying how little liking she had for the manner in which she might gain what she desired.

“That would achieve naught.”

Justina turned an angry look toward her. “Are you playing with me?”

“Nay, merely stating what we both know, even if you are asking for me to try reasoning with my brother because you are desperate.”

“I am desperate.” Justina sounded hollow now, and she laid a hand on the glass, looking as though she might actually will herself to where her son was.

“I only know of one way to offer you something different from what Curan plans for you, but you would have to be desperate to attempt it.”

Justina turned to stare at her. The look was full of longing and need so strong, Jemma felt it. Jemma cast a look toward the doors of the chamber to ensure that no one was there but them.

“If you still have the boy clothing that you came here in, my mare is in the back of the stable. My brother would never listen to me when it comes to something he considers a point of honor, and I doubt my husband will allow you to risk yourself on the road with the English knights, but I will give my mare to you, Justina.”

Justina’s eyes lit with joy. She clasped her hands together and pressed them against her lips to remain silent. For a moment she appeared as though she might burst with her happiness.

“It is more risk than any person should take.”

“But I will and gladly so.” She reached out and clasped one of Jemma’s hands. “Never regret what you do for me, for I consider it the finest of gifts, no matter what befalls me.”

“Are you certain, Justina? Life is a precious thing as I have learned recently.”

Justina shook her head. “But you have also noticed that being without a place is no true life.”

Jemma nodded for it was a truth if ever she had heard one. “I will pray for you.”

And herself because her husband was very much like her brother when it came to his honor. However, she would not take back the gift of the mare for one simple reason. She trusted Gordon to understand why she did it and not hate her for it.

Jemma awoke early, and her husband was already gone. She rubbed her eyes and sought out her clothing. Dawn was turning the edge of the horizon pink when she made her way down the steps to discover her brother and her husband frowning. Kerry stood with one hand stroking his chin, but Synclair offered the most fierce expression. The knight looked ready to kill, with his bare hands, no less.

They all turned when she came into sight. Her brother looked pensive, and she knew what that meant.

He knew. It was as simple as that. Justina must have taken her chance immediately.

“You are correct, Brother. Lady Justina did leave on my mare.”

Curan drew in a stiff breath, but it was Synclair who scowled at her. Jemma leveled a firm look back at the knight.

“She asked for my help in convincing you to release her, but I knew that would not happen, so I gave her the only thing I had. My mare.”

“She needed protection.” Synclair growled out the words before lowering his head in apology for the outburst. “I feel that she still needs it.”

“Well I can nae hold with any woman riding out at night. ’Twas foolish when ye did it, my wife, and it is still so.” There was hard reprimand in her husband’s voice, some of it deserved, but Jemma kept her chin steady.

“There is no member of your household here, so I shall speak my mind.”

Gordon stiffened, his expression becoming tight.

“I know you do not agree with me giving her the mare, but it was my horse and I wanted to help her. She did me a great service by coming here and placing herself at risk for me. Besides, none of us can truly understand the torment it is for her to be kept from seeing to the welfare of her son. I gave her the mare, and I only pray that she makes good use of the animal.”

“Which means she has stolen nothing except clothing.” It was Synclair who spoke again, the knight appearing to lose interest in everyone in the room while he glanced toward the window. “I understand why she left the armor behind now.”

Jemma felt her eyes rounding.

Of course Justina had left the armor behind. Armor was very expensive, and to steal it was a high crime.

“Then she is away and that is the end of it.” Curan spoke in an oddly light tone considering his past position on keeping Justina under his protection. “I will not begrudge her the clothing. Synclair, ready the men. We shall return to Amber Hill.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The knight spoke through clenched teeth but not from anger. He seemed abnormally pleased with his lord’s order and turned in a quick motion before moving out of the tower at a fast pace.

Her brother actually chuckled, drawing her attention. Curan lifted one dark eyebrow.

“Ah, perhaps you do not realize that Synclair has only this day left of his service to me.”

Jemma felt her eyes round. “This day?”

“Indeed, and then he shall have completed his service as his father made him swear to do. I will miss him, of course, but he has an estate to take in hand as well as the title that his father inherited from his uncle. The Baron Harrow died recently without issue. Synclair has much to do at court.”

“At court.” Jemma nibbled on her lower lip, contemplating what Lady Justina was about to have surprising her.

Curan offered her one of his rare grins. “Yes, Sister, recently I have become more tolerant of fate and her need to insist on gaining her way.”

“So have I.” She took a deep breath and allowed her worry to subside. Maybe Justina needed fate just as much as she had. In fact, Jemma was more sure of it when she considered the way the lady had looked the last time she saw her. She needed Synclair, and it appeared that fate was about to thrust them together again.

Her brother shared a long look with her and then aimed another at her husband. He offered his hand, and Gordon took it, clasping his hand around Curan’s wrist in a gesture that was considered as binding as written contract between knights.

“I place my trust in you, Barras. Take care of my sister, for the times are soon to become more turbulent.”

“Aye, that’s for sure with two children on the thrones of both our countries. In a way, ’tis a pity that they can nae be allowed to rule. There would be less bloodshed for they’d spend their time ordering their armies on adventures through the woods.”

“A charming thought, Brother. I can see you dancing with fairies and forest sprites even now.”

Curan offered her a frown, but it did not reach his eyes. “You have a husband now, Jemma, to deal with that tongue.”

He turned and walked through the doors that led to the yard. His men waited, the sound of horses and leather filling the morning air. Eagerness floated on the breeze, and a man brought her brother’s horse to him the moment he appeared. They were Englishmen who longed to return to England, but beneath that they were men who wanted to lay their heads beside their families. That wasn’t unique to Scot or English; it was a desire all men had.

Curan gained the saddle and placed his helmet on his head before raising one fist into the air.

“Ride!”

The group surged forward in a symphony of motion. Their action gave testimony to the years of training every man down to the squires had taken in the art of being who they were. A knight was not trained in a week; he began his toil at a young age and faced many years of obstacles before gaining the golden chain that would declare his rank. The days were long and the tasks too many to count, but they forged a man who was unbendable in spirit.

Jemma spotted Synclair; the helmet he wore sported two white feathers. The morning light shone off his knight chain that was perfectly polished in spite of the many things that he did to serve her brother. The reason was simple; it represented what he had dedicated his life to.

“Will ye miss yer brother very much, lass?”

Gordon stepped up beside her, standing just enough away from her body to maintain his position as head of the house. She turned and lowered herself, making the appearance of the perfect wife, but she lifted her eyes and shot him a look that was full of passion.

“Only if you prove to be boring, toad.”

His lips parted to show her a flash of his teeth a moment before he spread his arms wide and captured her. He tossed her up and over his shoulder and turned toward the stairs that led to their chamber.

“I swear to do my toady best, lass.”

IMPROPER GENTLEMEN are a lot more fun! Go get this sexy anthology from Diane Whiteside, Mia Marlowe, and Maggie Robinson, available now. Turn the page for a sample of Diane’s story, “Talbot’s Ace” . . .

Wolf Laurel, Colorado,

High Rockies, September 1875

Silver and black spun through the man’s fingers in deadly pinwheels of steel under the lead-grey skies.

Charlotte Moreland froze in front of the Silver King Hotel, unable to take another step even though the young man was more than a dozen paces away.

Three years of playing poker in the West’s worst gambling dens had taught her much about the narrow margin between great shootists and the dead. She had no desire to join the latter in front of an establishment named Hair Trigger Palace.

Handsome and harsh as a Renaissance angel, he was utterly absorbed in weaving patterns of light as he spun his revolvers. His black broadcloth frockcoat, black trousers, and black boots were as finely made as if they too bore homage to the death-dealing implements he worshipped.

Her fellow stagecoach passengers streamed into the closest saloon to warm themselves with beer or whiskey. One headed swiftly into the hotel to claim his clean lodging, more priceless than a good meal in this hastily built town. A few pedestrians glanced at the effortless display of gun tricks, then walked swiftly past.

He flipped the heavy guns between his hands and they smacked into his palms like a warrior’s salute. He immediately tossed them high and spun them back into the holsters at his hips.

Last spring in Denver, she’d seen a shootist testing his pistols. He’d shot a can of peaches until it had exploded its innards across a wall, just like a person would. She’d been wretchedly sick in her hotel room afterward.

He slapped the leather holsters and, an instant later on a ragged beat, death looked out of the guns’ barrels.

His expression hardened to that of an angry fallen angel leading armies of destruction. He shoved his guns back into place, clearly ready to teach them another lesson.

Charlotte gave a little squeak and trotted onto the boardwalk in front of the hotel. No matter how flimsy its roof and planks were, it still offered more protection than the open street. Men, equipped with guns and a temper, were dangerous to both themselves and everyone nearby.

The shootist whirled to face her and his gaze drilled into her.

Heaven help her, it was the same man she’d seen in Denver—Justin Talbot, the fastest gun in Colorado.

Recognition flashed across his face. But not greed, thank God. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her photo, flaunted by those skulking Pinkerton’s men throughout the mining towns.

Why had she dreamed about him for so many months?

He bowed to her with a flourish and she froze. Her heart drummed in her throat, too fast to let her breathe or think.

How should she acknowledge him—formally, with a bow or a curtsy? Heartily, with a wave inviting affection or perhaps intimacy? Or coldly, with an averted shoulder and gaze, as befitted such an experienced death-dealer, no matter what living in this town required?

He frowned and anguish slipped into his eyes. A man whistled from behind him.

Talbot’s mouth tightened and he bowed to her again, far more coldly. She gave him the barest of nods in return, all her drumming pulse would support.

He disappeared into the Hair Trigger Palace an instant later, his expression still harsher than an ice-etched granite mountain.

Truly, she should not feel bereft, as if she’d lost a potential friend.

Don’t miss DEAD ALERT by Bianca D’Arc, new this month from Brava.

Fort Bragg, North Carolina

“I’ve got a special project for you, Sam.” The commander, a former Navy SEAL named Matt Sykes, began talking before Sam was through the door to Matt’s private office. “Sit down and shut the door.”

Sam sat in a wooden chair across the cluttered desk from his commanding officer. Lt. Sam Archer, US Army Green Beret, was currently assigned to a top secret, mixed team of Special Forces soldiers and elite scientists. There were also a few others from different organizations, including one former cop and a CIA black ops guy. It was an extremely specialized group, recruited to work on a classified project of the highest order.

“I understand you’re a pilot.” Matt flipped through a file as he spoke.

“Yes, sir.” Sam could have said more but he didn’t doubt Matt had access to every last bit of Sam’s file, even the top secret parts. He had probably known before even sending for him that Sam could fly anything with wings. Another member of his old unit was a blade pilot who flew all kinds of choppers, but fixed wing aircraft were Sam’s specialty.

“How do you like the idea of going undercover as a charter pilot?”

“Sir?” Sam sat forward in the chair, intrigued.

“The name of a certain charter airline keeps popping up.” Matt put down the file and faced Sam as his gaze hardened. “Too often for my comfort. Ever heard of a company called Praxis Air?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“It’s a small outfit, based out of Wichita—at least that’s where they repair and maintain their aircraft in a company-owned hangar. They have branch offices at most of the major airports and cater mostly to an elite business clientele. They do the odd private cargo flight and who knows what else. They keep their business very hush-hush, ‘providing the ultimate in privacy for their corporate clients,’ or so their brochure advertises.” Matt pushed a glossy tri-fold across the desk toward Sam.

“Looks pretty slick.”

“That they are,” Matt agreed. “So slick that even John Petit, with his multitude of CIA connections, can’t get a bead on exactly what they’ve been up to of late. I’ve been piecing together bits here and there. Admiral Chester, the traitor, accepted more than a few free flights from them in the past few months, as did Ensign Bartles, who it turns out, was killed in a Praxis Air jet that crashed the night we took down Dr. Rodriguez and his friends. She wasn’t listed on the manifest and only the pilot was claimed by the company, but on a hunch I asked a friend on the National Transportation Safety Board to allow us to do some DNA testing. Sure enough, we found remnants of Beverly Bartles’s DNA at the crash site, though her body had to have been moved sometime prior to the NTSB getting there. The locals were either paid off or preempted. Either option is troubling, to say the least.”

“You think they’re mixed up with our undead friends?” They were still seeking members of the science team that had created the formula that killed and then turned its victims into the walking dead. Nobody had figured out exactly how they were traveling so freely around the country when they were on every watch list possible.

“It’s a very real possibility. Which is why I want to send you in undercover. I don’t need to remind you, time is of the essence. We have a narrow window to stuff this genie back into its bottle. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is the technology will be sold to the highest bidder and then, God help us.”

Sam shivered. The idea of the zombie technology in the hands of a hostile government or psycho terrorists—especially after seeing what he’d seen of these past months—was unthinkable.

“If my going undercover will help end this, I’m your man.” He’d do anything to stop the contagion from killing any more people.

Sam opened the flyer and noted the different kinds of jets the company offered. The majority of the planes looked like Lear 35’s in different configurations. Some were equipped for cargo. Some had all the bells and whistles any corporate executive could wish for and a few were basically miniature luxury liners set up for spoiled celebrities and their friends.

“I hoped you’d say that. I’ve arranged a little extra training for you at Flight Safety in Houston. They’ve got Level D flight simulators that have full motion and full visual. They can give you the Type Rating you’ll need on your license to work for Praxis Air legitimately.”

“I’ve been to Flight Safety before. It’s a good outfit.” Sam put the brochure back on Matt’s desk.

“We’ll give you a suitable job history and cover, which you will commit to memory. You’ll also have regular check-ins while in the field, but for the most part you’ll be on your own. I want you to discover who, if any, of their personnel are involved and to what extent.” Matt paused briefly before continuing. “Just to be clear, this isn’t a regular job I’m asking you to do, Sam. It’s not even close to what you signed on for when we were assigned as zombie hunters. I won’t order you to do this. It’s a total immersion mission. Chances are, there will be no immediate backup if you get into trouble. You’ll be completely on your own most of the time.”

“Understood, sir. I’m still up for it. I like a challenge.”

Matt cracked a smile. “I hear that. And I appreciate the enthusiasm. Here’s the preliminary packet to get you started.” He handed a bulging envelope across the desk. “We’ll get the rest set up while you’re in flight training. It’ll be ready by the time you are. You leave tomorrow for Houston.”

“Yes, sir.” Sam stood, hearing the tone of dismissal in the commander’s voice.

“You can call this whole thing off up until the end of your flight training. After that, wheels will have been set in motion and can’t be easily stopped. If you change your mind, let me know as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, sir.” Unspoken was the certainty that Sam wouldn’t be changing his mind any time soon.

And keep an eye out for SEVEN YEARS TO SIN by Sylvia Day, coming next month!

A listair Caulfield’s back was to the door of his warehouse shipping office when it opened. A salt-tinged gust blew through the space, snatching the manifest he was about to file right out of his hand.

He caught it deftly, then looked over his shoulder. Startled recognition moved through him. “Michael.”

The new Lord Tarley’s eyes widened with equal surprise, then a weary half-smile curved his mouth. “Alistair, you scoundrel. You didn’t tell me you were in Town.”

“I’ve only just returned.” He slid the parchment into the appropriate folder and pushed the drawer closed. “How are you, my lord?”

Michael removed his hat and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. The assumption of the Tarley title appeared to weigh heavily on his broad shoulders, grounding him in a way Alistair had never seen before. He was dressed somberly in shades of brown, and he flexed his left hand, which bore the Tarley signet ring, as if he could not accustom himself to having it there. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

“My condolences to you and your family. Did you receive my letter?”

“I did. Thank you. I meant to reply, but time is stretched so thin. The last year has raced by so quickly; I’ve yet to catch my breath.”

“I understand.”

Michael nodded. “I’m pleased to see you again, my friend. You have been gone far too long.”

“The life of a merchant.” He could have delegated more, but staying in England meant crossing paths with both his father and Jessica. His father complained about Alistair’s success as a tradesman with as much virulence as he’d once complained about Alistair’s lack of purpose. It was a great stressor for his mother, which he was only able to alleviate by being absent as much as possible.

As for Jessica, she’d been careful to avoid him whenever they were in proximity. He had learned to reciprocate when he saw how marriage to Tarley changed her. While she remained as cool in deportment as ever, he’d seen the blossoming of her sensual nature in the languid way she moved and the knowledge in those big, gray eyes. Other men coveted the mystery of her, but Alistair had seen behind the veil and that was the woman he lusted for. Forever beyond his reach in reality, but a fixture in his mind. She was burned into his memory by the raging hungers and impressionableness of youth, and the years hadn’t lessened the vivid recollection one whit.

“I find myself grateful for your enterprising sensibilities,” Michael said. “Your captains are the only ones I would entrust with the safe passage of my sister-in-law to Jamaica.”

Alistair kept his face impassive by considerable practice, but the sudden awareness gripping him tensed his frame. “Lady Tarley intends to travel to Calypso?”

“Yes. This very morning, which is why I’m here. I intend to speak to the captain myself and see he looks after her until they arrive.”

“Who travels with her?”

“Only her maid. I should like to accompany her, but I can’t leave now.”

“And she will not delay?”

“No.” Michael’s mouth curved wryly. “And I cannot dissuade her.”

“You cannot say no to her,” Alistair corrected, moving to the window through which he could view the West India docks. Ships entered the Northern Dock to unload their precious imports, then sailed around to the Southern Dock to reload with cargo for export. Around the perimeter, a high brick wall deterred the rampant theft plaguing the London wharves, which increased his shipping company’s appeal to West Indian landowners requiring secure carriage of goods.

“Neither can Hester—forgive me, Lady Regmont.”

The last was said with difficulty. Alistair had long suspected his friend nursed deeper feelings for Jessica’s younger sister and had assumed Michael would pay his addresses. Instead, Hester had been presented at court then immediately betrothed, breaking the hearts of many hopeful would-be swains. “Why is she so determined to go?”

“Benedict bequeathed the property to her. She claims she must see to its sale personally. I fear the loss of my brother has affected her deeply and she seeks a purpose. I’ve attempted to anchor her, but duty has me stretched to wit’s end.”

Alistair’s reply was carefully neutral. “I can assist her in that endeavor. I can make the necessary introductions, as well as relay information it would take her months to find.”

“A generous offer.” Michael’s gaze was searching. “But you just returned. I can’t ask you to depart again so soon.”

Turning, Alistair said, “My plantation borders Calypso, and I could use the expansion. It’s my hope to position myself as the best purchaser of the property. I will pay her handsomely, of course.”

Relief swept over Michael’s expressive features. “That would ease my mind considerably. I’ll speak to her at once.”

“Perhaps you should leave that to me. If, as you say, she needs a purpose, then she’ll want to maintain control of the matter in all ways. She should be allowed to set the terms and pace of our association to suit her. I have all the time in the world, but you do not. See to your most pressing affairs, and entrust Lady Tarley to me.”

“You’ve always been a good friend,” Michael said. “I pray you return to England swiftly and settle for a time. I could use your ear and head for business. In the interim, please encourage Jessica to write often and keep me abreast of the situation. I should like to see her return before we retire to the country for the winter.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Alistair waited several minutes after Michael departed, then moved to the desk. He began a list of new provisions for the journey, determined to create the best possible captive environment. He also made some quick but costly adjustments to the passenger list, moving two additional travelers to another of his ships.

He and Jessica would be the only non-crewmen aboard the Acheron.

She would be within close proximity for weeks—it was an extraordinary opportunity Alistair was determined not to waste.

BRAVA BOOKS are published by

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Copyright © 2011 Mary Wine

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-4207-5

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Teaser chapter

Teaser chapter

Teaser chapter

Copyright Page