Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Leslie Dicken

  “I am amazed how well our mothers are getting along.”

  Charles laughed. “Yes, my mother can act a bit superior at first, but your mother’s kindness warmed her up quite readily.”

  Vivian swallowed. There were still secrets between them. Despite their vows, neither of them had revealed their full truths. They had apologized, proclaimed their love, but they had not laid themselves completely bare.

  She would change that now. “Walk with me.”

  She took his hand and led him down the rear patio steps and into the yard. The sweetness of roses guided them to an iron bench among the swaying trees.

  Charles sat next to her, his powerful legs pressing against her skirt. The sharp cut of his cloth emphasized his strength. Her mouth dried, anticipating tonight. Their wedding night.

  But first, she would tell him everything.

  “Did you notice my mother’s face?”

  Charles tensed, shifted. “I saw her scars, of course. Having such a face myself, I know what pain it might cause to be reminded of it.”

  Vivian peeled the glove from her hand and traced the line down his cheek. “Don’t you see? This makes you who you are. Do you think you would still be the same man had that night never occurred? Do you think you would feel the same sensitivity and compassion if you had not been marked?”

  “All I know is that it brought you to me.”

  She looked into his gray eyes, seeing tenderness and love. “And my mother’s scars brought me to you, as well.”

  Vivian pulled her hand away and leaned her head upon his shoulder. His scent of sandalwood mingled with the heady perfume of roses. “When my mother came from France to marry my father, she was already pregnant. She had hoped she could hide it from her new husband, but he found out soon enough.”

  She watched a bird dart through the shadowed underbrush. “In his fury, he threw hot water at her, scalding her face.”

  “Oh, Vivian.” Charles pulled her close.

  “For some reason he stayed married to her, even claiming to all outsiders that I was his daughter. But we always knew he never truly loved me. And he proved it the day Martin Crawford came into our lives.”

  “You don’t need to discuss this…not tonight.”

  “No, I must. I want you to know everything. Martin discovered my father in a compromising position. With another man. Bribery and blackmail led to me being exchanged for silence.”

  She tilted her head to look up at him. “And when I overheard some girls talking about an eccentric viscount in need of a wife, I thought nothing of it. Until Martin, drunk and unbearable, mentioned how much he despised you.”

  “We don’t need to worry about him any longer.”

  “I know. I’m so very sorry I led him to you.”

  His silver eyes glowed in the moonlight. “It’s all for the best. I am no longer half-dead, hiding myself behind my nightmares and my scar. And Harry is safe, happily being spoiled by two grandmothers.”

  She brushed her finger across his chin, hoping, waiting. “Yes, your son is safe and that’s all that matters.”

  He sighed. “Harry is not my blood son. I truly believe he is Martin’s son, but the fool was too blinded by jealousy and anger to realize it. You knew all this already, didn’t you?”

  Warmth filled her heart. “I figured it out the night you told me about Mary’s death. You said it was the first time you’d seen her and yet mentioned Harry being there.”

  His lips curled. “You are most clever, my love.”

  “But not clever enough to unravel this mystery: why I had such sensual dreams from the night I entered the manor. Were they real? Did you sneak through the hidden passageways and lie in bed with me?”

  “Perhaps.” His eyes lowered. “I awoke several nights in dark hallways, my mind filled with lustful thoughts, my flesh aroused for you.”

  “But you don’t know if you actually visited me.”

  “I am not certain, but I believe I must have. Everything I remembered from dream felt so real.”

  Vivian smiled. “Yes, for me, as well. So have we shared every secret lurking in our souls?”

  Charles pulled her around to straddle his legs. Tingles raced to her toes. “There are a few we have left to investigate.”

  “Oh?”

  He nuzzled his lips against her neck, trailed his tongue along the length of her shoulder. “Tonight will be the night we take it slow. Tonight I cherish you.”

  Vivian bit her lip, heat blazing through her bloodstream. They had not been together since that evening in the wine cellar. Her nipples ached, core tightened.

  She found his mouth and pressed her lips up it, his warm breath an intoxicating elixir. “I don’t believe I can wait that long, my lord. You’ll have to cherish me another night.”

  “Any night, anywhere.”

  She captured his jaw in her hands. “Perhaps now you’ll take more kindly to strangers.”

  Her husband grinned, a devilish gleam in his eyes. “Only if she is an unconquerable baron’s daughter, from a day’s journey away.”

  Vivian grinned and captured his lips with her own.

  About the Author

  Leslie tends to obsess about the things she enjoys: writing, Gerry Butler, gardening, beading, Gerry Butler. She’s been writing since high school, when Wuthering Heights inspired her to create worlds of dark heroes, brave heroines and stormy nights. Since then she’s written tales of history and stories of the future (as pseudonym Jordanna Kay).

  When she’s not writing, gardening or beading, Leslie can be found either at her day job or being a slave to her three children. In her dreams, she is alone on a white-sand beach with only Gerry as her cabana boy.

  To learn more about Leslie:

  Visit www.lesliedicken.com

  Send an email to leslie@lesliedicken.com

  Follow her on Twitter: www.twitter.com/LeslieDicken

  Friend her on Facebook: www.new.facebook.com/profile.php?id=555317012

  Friend her on MySpace: www.myspace.com/jordannakay

  To capture love, sometimes you have to grab it by the horns…

  The Legend of the Werestag

  © 2009 Tessa Dare

  If a woman could die of humiliation, Cecily Hale would have perished three hours ago. Luke Trenton had finally returned to Swinford Manor, only to cruelly spurn her long-held love. But she couldn’t conveniently die of shame on the spot—oh, no. Instead she joined her friends on this ridiculous search for a legendary man-beast. Now she’ll die here—alone in the woods, at the tusks of a snarling boar.

  Luke left for war a dashing youth and returned a man—just not the same man Cecily fell in love with. His passion for her is stronger than ever, but the ravages of battle changed him in ways she wouldn’t understand. Pushing her away was supposed to save her, not throw her into the path of another inhuman creature…or into the arms of another man.

  For it is a man who rescues Cecily, just as the boar attacks. A mysterious, silent man who disappears into the woods, leaving her with just a glimpse—of a fleeing white deer. Could her rescuer be the man-beast of local lore?

  A dangerous myth has captured Cecily’s imagination, putting Luke on the horns of a dilemma. Unless he summons the passion and tenderness to win her back, he could lose her forever…to the Werestag.

  Warning: This is a humorous, passionate historical romance, not a paranormal shifter story. However, it does feature a harrowing encounter with a wild beast, a tortured hero who feels half-human, and the unleashing of animal urges. In other words: explicit sex, mild language

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Legend of the Werestag:

  At last, Cecily had him cornered.

  The party had dispersed to prepare for their impromptu hunting excursion. Brooke and Denny had gone to see about footmen and torches. Cecily was supposed to be fetching a cloak and sturdier boots from her chambers, as Portia had done, but she’d tarried purposely until the three of them had left. Until she was alone with Luk
e. It was time to end this…this foolish dream she’d been living for years.

  She cleared her throat. “Will you come with us, out to the woods?”

  “Are you going to marry Denny?” He spoke in an easy, conversational tone. As though his answer depended on hers.

  She briefly considered chastising his impudence, refusing to answer. But why not give an honest reply? He’d already made her humiliation complete, by virtue of his perfect indifference. She could sink no lower by revealing it. “There is no formal understanding between us. But everyone assumes I will marry him, yes.”

  “Because you are so madly in love?”

  Cecily gave a despairing sniff. “Please. Because we are cousins of some vague sort, and we can reunite the ancestral fortune.” She stared up at the gilt ceiling trim. “What else would people assume? For what other earthly reason would I have remained unmarried through four seasons? Certainly not because I’ve been clinging to a ridiculous infatuation all this time. Certainly not because I’ve wasted the best years of my youth and spurned innumerable suitors, pining after a man who had long forgotten me. No, no one would ever credit that reasoning. They could never think me such a ninny as that.”

  That cold, empty silence again. A sob caught in her throat.

  “Was there anything in it?” she asked, not bothering to wipe the tear tracing the rim of her nose. “Our summer here, all those long walks and even longer conversations? When you kissed me that night, did it mean anything to you?”

  When he did not answer, she took three paces in his direction. “I know how proud you must be of those enigmatic silences, but I believe I deserve an answer.” She stood between his icy silence and the heated aura of the fire. Scorched on one side, bitterly cold on the other—like a slice of toast someone had forgotten to turn.

  “What sort of answer would you like to hear?”

  “An honest one.”

  “Are you certain? It’s my experience that young ladies vastly prefer fictions. Little stories, like Portia’s gothic novel.”

  “I am as fond of a good tale as anyone,” she replied, “but in this instance, I wish to know the truth.”

  “So you say. Let us try an experiment, shall we?” He rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, his expression one of jaded languor. His every movement a negotiation between aristocratic grace and sheer brute strength.

  Power. He radiated power in every form—physical, intellectual, sensual—and he knew it. He knew that she sensed it.

  The fire was unbearably warm now. Blistering, really. Sweat beaded at her hairline, but Cecily would not retreat.

  “I could tell you,” he said darkly, seductively, “that I kissed you that night because I was desperate with love for you, overcome with passion, and that the color of my ardor has only deepened with time and separation. And that when I lay on a battlefield bleeding my guts out, surrounded by meaningless death and destruction, I remembered that kiss and was able to believe that there was something of innocence and beauty in this world, and it was you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Almost. Warm breath caressed her fingertips. “Do you like that answer?”

  She gave a breathless nod. She was a fool; she couldn’t help it.

  “You see?” He kissed her fingers. “Young ladies prefer fictions.”

  “You are a cad.” Cecily wrenched her hand away and balled it into a fist. “An arrogant, insufferable cad.”

  “Yes, yes. Now we come to the truth. Shall I give you an honest answer, then? That I kissed you that night for no other reason than that you looked uncommonly pretty and fresh, and though I doubted my ability to vanquish Napoleon, it was some balm to my pride to conquer you, to feel you tremble under my touch? And that now I return from war, to find everything changed, myself most of all. I scarcely recognize my surroundings, except…” He cupped her chin in his hand and lightly framed her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Except Cecily Hale still looks at me with stars in her eyes, the same as she ever did. And when I touch her, she still trembles.”

  Oh. She was trembling. He swept his thumb across her cheek, and even her hair shivered.

  “And suddenly…” His voice cracked. Some unrehearsed emotion pitched his dispassionate drawl into a warm, expressive whisper. “Suddenly, I find myself determined to keep this one thing constant in my universe. Forever.”

  She swallowed hard. “Do you intend to propose to me?”

  “I don’t think so, no.” He caressed her cheek again. “I’ve no reason to.”

  “No reason?” Had she thought her humiliation complete? No, it seemed to be only beginning.

  “I’ll get my wish, Cecy, whether I propose to you or not. You can marry Denny, and I’ll still catch you stealing those starry looks at me across drawing rooms, ten years from now. You can share a bed with him, but I’ll still haunt your dreams. Perhaps once a year on your birthday—or perhaps on mine—I’ll contrive to brush a single fingertip oh-so-lightly between your shoulder blades, just to savor that delicious tremor.” He demonstrated, and she hated her body for responding just as he’d predicted.

  An ironic smile crooked his lips. “You see? You can marry anyone or no one. But you’ll always be mine.”

  “I will not,” she choked out, pulling away. “I will put you out of my mind forever. You are not so very handsome, you know, for all that.”

  “No, I’m not,” he said, chuckling. “And there’s the wonder of it. It’s nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you. I know you, Cecily. You may try to put me out of your mind. You may even succeed. But you’ve built a home for me in your heart, and you’re too generous a soul to cast me out now.”

  She shook her head. “I—”

  “Don’t.” With a sudden, powerful movement, he grasped her waist and brought her to him, holding her tight against his chest. “Don’t cast me out.”

  Love can blow even a true pirate off course.

  Eden’s Pass

  © 2008 Kimberly Nee

  Finn Eden will do anything to escape a life of slavery on a Barbados sugar plantation. Even risk her life disguised as a cabin boy aboard a pirate ship, putting up with the drunken captain’s slovenly habits. Then her patience nets her an unexpected opportunity: A ship of her own. Half the profits. And freedom. Too bad the captain conveniently left out a small detail; there’s a price on his head.

  Captain Inigo Sebastiano is a ruthless pirate with a years-long score to settle with the man who raped and murdered his wife. The truce he’s struck with the fiery Finn is uneasy in more ways than one, but his unsettling reaction to his new cabin “boy” is explained when he uncovers her true identity. Ever the gentleman pirate, he’ll help his lovely new bedmate keep her secret. For now. When the time is right, it’s a secret he’ll use to his advantage.

  But the spitfire in his bed rekindles something in his heart he thought had died. As Inigo closes in on his quarry, he begins to wonder if Finn’s freedom—and her trust—is a sacrifice he’s willing to make.

  Warning: this book may lead to fantasies containing gorgeous pirates with sexy accents.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Eden’s Pass:

  She was drawing the sheets up over the bed when footsteps sounded out in the corridor. Her chores were unfinished, as there were still clothes piled on the table, and a collection of wrinkled stockings on the floor beside the bed, but she was not worried. It would take but a second for her to scoop them up and deposit them in the large basket on the floor beside the armoire.

  The door swung open and Iñigo stepped into the room. His eyes were dark as they met hers, but that didn’t trouble her. Surely he’d not erupt over a few scattered clothes, would he? It seemed silly to her, to grow upset because his cabin was a bit on the messy side, but some people were rather fussy about such things. Mayhap he was one of them.

  She stood there, waiting for him to upbraid her, but he said nothing about the somewhat haphazard state of his cabin and still-rumpled bed. In fact, he said nothing at
all. Instead, his eyes continued to darken as he moved to the window to peer through it, staring out at the water.

  “Is something the matter?” she asked, turning around to see him staring out at the water. His arms were folded across his chest, his back and shoulders stiff, almost rigid, as he continued staring out, searching the sea behind the María.

  “We have company.” His voice was a low, humorless growl.

  Her ears perked up, and her belly fluttered at the same time. “Company, you say? I was looking out that window but moments ago and I saw nothing.”

  He gestured toward the open space. “Come, then. See for yourself, Finn.”

  She moved to stand beside him, peeking out the same window. Squeezing between him and the wall, she fought to ignore the musky, masculine scent teasing her nose. Instead, she concentrated on where there had been nothing but foamy, white-capped ocean earlier, now a lone ship loomed, and it grew larger by the minute. She squinted into the distance, wondering if it was the same ship she’d seen the day before. “I cannot see a flag.”

  “She is not flying one.” He twisted to face her, resting his elbow on the ledge below the window. “But I’ve an idea whom it might be.”

  This was a surprise and she couldn’t keep it from her voice as she glanced up at him. “You do?”

  He nodded. “It’s none other than the Magdalena.”

  Finn gaped at him. “Are you certain?”

  “I am.”

  She turned back to the window, a ripple of apprehension trickling through her. The Magdalena was known and feared by most who sailed the Caribbean waters. She was captained by Edward Kittles, a privateer under England’s protection. Beauregard would sneer and mock the English captain, but the one time the Smiling Jack crossed paths with the Magdalena, Beauregard couldn’t turn tail quick enough.

  Kittles’s reputation was the stuff of legends and even she—a lowly cabin boy—had heard of the Englishman’s cruel streak, his brutal treatment of both his crew and his prisoners alike. Her mouth went dry and her palms clammy.