by Cara Elliott
Gryff quieted the laughter with a tap, tap to his glass. “I trust that our friend knows that he is a very lucky dog. But all jesting aside, let us raise a heartfelt toast—To Sophie! To Cameron!”
Sophie smiled, watching the candlelight dance in her husband’s eyes. No more shadows, no more darkness.
Rising, she lifted her own goblet of sparkling wine.
“And to Love. That wondrous, magical force which binds us all—husbands and wives, families and friends—together.”
“To love,” echoed Georgiana, who came over to enfold her in a sisterly hug. “Didn’t I tell you that Cam would turn out to be a titled nabob and carry you away?” she added in a whisper quivering with mirth. “But where is he hiding the white tiger?”
There was no white tiger, no exotic elephant, no castle made of rubies and emeralds.
There was just Cameron. Dangerous, dashing Cameron…which was all that her heart had ever desired.
Alexa Hendrie is happiest in the quiet of the country. But when her brother’s recklessness forces her to London, a chance encounter with the ton’s most wicked rake—and his searing kiss—awaken a longing for adventure…
*
Please turn this page for an excerpt from
Too Wicked to Wed
Prologue
So this is what a brothel looks like. It is not at all what I expected.”
“Good Lord in Heaven,” muttered Captain Harley Stiles as he blotted the sheen of sweat from his brow. “I would hope that you haven’t given the matter a great deal of thought.”
“Not a great deal,” replied Lady Alexa Hendrie. She turned for a closer look at the colored etching hung above the curio cabinet. “But one can’t help being mildly curious, seeing as you gentlemen take great delight in discussing such places among yourselves.”
Her brother’s friend quickly edged himself between her and the offending print. “How the devil do you know that?” he demanded.
Despite the gravity of their mission, Alexa felt her mouth twitch in momentary amusement. “I take it you don’t have any sisters, Captain Stiles. Otherwise you would not be asking such a naive question.”
“No, by the grace of God, I do not.” Though a decorated veteran of the Peninsular Wars, he was still looking a little shell-shocked over the fact that she had outmaneuvered his objections to her accompanying him into the stews of Southwark. “Otherwise, I might have known better than to offer my help to Sebastian, no matter how dire the threat to his family.”
Alexa bit her lip…
“I, too, am curious.” A deep growl, dark and smoky as the dimly lit corridor, broke the awkward silence. “Just what did you expect?”
She spun around. Within an instant of entering The Wolf’s Lair, she and Stiles had been sequestered in a small side parlor to await an answer to the captain’s whispered message. The door had now reopened, and though shadows obscured the figure who was leaning against its molding, the flickering wall sconce illuminated the highlights in his carelessly curling hair.
Steel on steel.
Alexa froze as a prickling, sharp as daggerpoints, danced down her spine. “Oh, something a bit less…subtle,” she replied, somehow mustering a show of outward composure. She would not—could not—allow herself to be intimidated. After taking a moment to study the muted colors and rather tasteful furnishings of the room, she returned her gaze to the lewd etching on the wall. “By the by, is this a Frangelli?”
“Yes.” Straightening from his slouch, the man slowly sauntered into the room. “Do you find his style to your liking?”
She leaned in closer. “His technique is flawless.” After regarding the graphic twining of naked bodies and oversized erections for another few heartbeats, she lifted her chin. “But as for the subject matter, it’s a trifle repetitive, don’t you think?”
A low bark of laughter sounded, and then tightened to a gruff snarl as the man turned to her companion. “Are your brains in your bum, Stiles? What the devil do you mean by bringing a respectable young lady here? Your message mentioned Becton, not—”
“It’s not the captain’s fault. I gave him no choice,” she interrupted. “I am Alexa Hendrie, Lord Becton’s sister. And you are?”
“This isn’t a damn dowager’s drawing room, Lady Alexa Hendrie. We don’t observe the formalities of polite introductions here.” The sardonic sneer grew more pronounced. “Most of our patrons would rather remain anonymous. But if you wish a name, I am called the Irish Wolfhound.”
“Ah.” Alexa refused to be cowed by his deliberate rudeness. “And this is your Lair?”
“You could say that.”
“Excellent. Then I imagine you can tell me straight off whether Sebastian is here. It is very important that I find him.”
“I can.” His lip curled up to bare a flash of teeth. “But whether I will is quite another matter. The place would not remain in business very long were I to freely dispense such information to every outraged wife or sister who happens to barge through the door.”
“Is it profitable?” she asked after a fraction of a pause.
“The business?” The question seemed to take him aback, but only for an instant. “I manage to…make ends meet. So to speak.”
“Now see here, Wolf—” sputtered Stiles.
“How very clever of you,” went on Alexa, ignoring her companion’s effort to cut off any more risqué innuendoes. Smiling sweetly, she shot a long, lingering glance at the Wolfhound’s gray-flecked hair. “I do hope the effort isn’t too taxing on your stamina.”
“I assure you,” he replied softly, “I am quite up to the task.”
“Bloody hell.” Stiles added another oath through his gritted teeth. “Need I remind you that the lady is a gently bred female?”
The quicksilver eyes swung around and fixed him with an unblinking stare. “Need I remind you that I am not the arse who brought her here?”
“Would that I could forget this whole cursed nightmare of an evening.” The captain grimaced. “Trust me, neither of us would be trespassing on your hospitality if it were not a matter of the utmost urgency to find Becton—”
“Our younger brother is in grave danger,” interrupted Alexa. “I must find Sebastian.”
“We have reason to think he might be coming to see you,” continued Stiles. “Is he here?”
The Wolfhound merely shrugged.
Alexa refused to accept the beastly man’s silence. Not with her younger brother’s life hanging in the balance. “You heard what the Wolfhound said, Captain Stiles. He is running a business and doesn’t give away his precious information for free.”
Sensing that neither tears nor appeals to his better nature—if he had one—would have any effect, she took pains to match his sarcasm. “So, how much will the information cost me?” she went on. “And be forewarned that I don’t have much blunt, so don’t bother trying to claw an exorbitant sum out of me.”
“I am willing to negotiate the price.” Despite the drawl, a tiny tic of his jaw marred his mask of jaded cynicism. “Kindly step outside, Stiles, so that the lady and I may have some privacy in which to strike a deal.”
“I’m not sure, er, that is…”
“What do you think? That I intend to toss up her skirts and feast on her virginity?” The Wolfhound looked back at her with a sardonic smile. “You are, I presume, a virgin?”
“Presume whatever you wish,” she replied evenly. “I don’t give a damn what some flea-bitten cur chooses to think, as long as I get the information I need.”
“Ye gods, Lady Alexa, bite your tongue,” warned Stiles in a low whisper. “You are not dealing with some lapdog. It’s dangerous to goad the Irish Wolfhound into baring his fangs.”
Dangerous. Another touch of ice-cold steel tickled against her flesh. Or was it fire? Something about the lean, lithe Wolfhound had her feeling both hot and cold.
Stiles tried to take her arm, but she slipped out of reach.
“I really must insist—” began the ca
ptain.
“Out, Stiles,” ordered the Wolfhound as he moved a step closer to her.
Alexa stood firm in the face of his approach. Oh, yes, beneath the finely tailored evening clothes was a dangerous predator, all sleek muscle and coiled power. And ready to pounce. But she was not afraid.
“You may do as he says, Captain. I am quite capable of fending for myself.”
Stiles hesitated, and then reluctantly turned for the hallway. “Very well. But I will be right outside, in case you need me,” he muttered. “You have five minutes. Then, come hell or high water, we are leaving.”
“Do you always ignore sensible advice, Lady Alexa?” asked the Wolfhound, once the latch had clicked shut.
“I often ignore what men consider to be sensible advice.” The gray-flecked hair was deceiving, she decided. Up close, it was plain that the Wolfhound was a man not much above thirty. “There is a difference between the two, though someone as arrogant as you would undoubtedly fail to recognize it.”
“I may be arrogant but I’m not a naive little fool,” he retorted with a menacing snarl. “At the risk of further offending your maidenly sensibilities, allow me to point out that when trying to strike a bargain with someone, it is not overly wise to begin by hurling insults at his head.”
Alexa felt a flush of heat creep across her cheekbones. “Actually, I am well aware of that. Just as I am well aware that any attempt at negotiations with you is probably a waste of breath. It is quite clear you have a low opinion of females and aren’t going to consider my request seriously.”
Beneath his obvious irritation, Alexa detected a glimmer of curiosity. “Then why did you agree to see me alone?” he asked.
“To show you not everyone turns tail and runs whenever you flash your fangs.” She squared her shoulders. “By the by, why is everyone so afraid of your bark?”
“Because I am reputed to be a vicious, unpredictable beast,” he replied. “You see, I tend to bite when I get annoyed. And my teeth are sharper than most.”
Lamplight played over the erotic etching, its flickering gleam mirroring the devilish spark in his quicksilver eyes. It seemed to tease her. Taunt her.
Alexa wasn’t about to back away from the challenge. “Do you chew up the unfortunate young women who work here, then spit them out when they are no longer of any use to you?”
For an instant, it appeared she had gone a step too far in baiting him. His jaw tightened and as the Wolfhound leaned forward, anger bristled from every pore of his long, lean face.
But just as quickly, he seemed to get a leash on his emotions and replied with a cynical sneer. “You know nothing of real life, so do not presume to think you understand what goes on under my roof,” he snapped.
“Perhaps you would care to explain it to me.”
The Wolfhound gave a harsh laugh. “Nosy little kitten, aren’t you? Seb ought to lock you in your room, before you stray into real trouble.”
Alexa fisted her hands and set them on her hips. “Ha! Let him try.”
“You have spirit, I’ll grant you that.” He paused for a moment. “Still interested in making a deal?”
“What is your price?”
“A kiss.”
Her face must have betrayed her surprise, for he flashed a rakish smile. “Haven’t you ever been kissed before?”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “O-of course I have.”
“Oh, I think not,” drawled the Wolfhound. “I’d be willing to wager a fortune that no man has ever slid his tongue deep into your mouth and made you moan with pleasure.”
“Why, you impudent whelp—”
Her words were cut off by the ruthless press of his mouth. He tasted of smoke and spirits—and a raw, randy need that singed her to her very core. She swayed and suddenly the Wolfhound swept her into his arms. With several swift strides, he crossed the carpet and pinned her up against the wall, setting off a wicked whisper of crushed silk and flame-kissed flesh.
Alexa meant to cry out, but as he urged her lips apart and delved inside her, outrage gave way to a strange, shivering heat. Her protest melted, turning to naught but a whispered sigh. As did her body. Against all reason, it yielded to his touch, molding to every contour of his muscled frame. Broad shoulders, lean waist, corded thighs—Alexa was acutely aware of his overpowering masculinity. The scent of brandy and bay rum filled her lungs, and the rasp of his stubbled jaw was like a lick of fire against her cheek.
She knew that she should push him away. Bite, scratch, scream for help.
And yet. And yet…
And yet, as his hands moved boldly over her bodice and cupped her breasts, she could not resist threading her fingers through his silky gray-threaded hair. Like the rest of him, the sensation was sinfully sensuous.
A moment later—or was it far, far longer?—the Wolfhound finally ceased his shameless embrace and leaned back.
“A man could do far worse on the Marriage Mart than to choose you,” he said softly. “For at least he will likely not be bored in bed. Indeed, I might even be tempted to swive you myself, if innocence was at all to my taste.”
The crude comment finally roused Alexa from the seductive spell that had held her in thrall. Gasping through kiss-swollen lips, she jerked free of his hold and all of her wordless, nameless, girlish longings took force in a lashing slap.
It connected with a resounding crack.
His head snapped back, the angry red imprint of her palm quickly darkening his cheek.
“That was for such an unspeakably rude insult.” She raised her hand again. “And this, you arrogant hellhound, is for—”
He caught her wrist. “Is for what? The fact that for the first—and likely only—time in your life, you have tasted a bit of real passion?”
She went very still. “Do you really take pleasure in causing pain?”
The Wolfhound allowed her hand to fall away, then turned from the light, his austere profile unreadable in the flicker of the oil lamps. “Most people think so,” he said evenly as he moved noiselessly to the sideboard.
“I—I don’t understand,” she began.
“Don’t bother trying,” he snapped. “All that should matter to you is the fact that I am a man of my word. You paid your forfeit, so in answer to your other question, your brother is not at present in The Wolf’s Lair. And if he were, it would not be for the usual reasons that gentlemen come here.” Glass clinked against glass. “Like you, he is seeking information and I’ve heard word that he thinks I may be able to help him. Should he come by tonight, I will inform him of your quest, and how desperate you are to find him.”
Alexa turned for the door, yet hesitated, awkward, unsure.
Taking up one of the bottles, the Wolfhound poured himself some brandy and tossed it back in one gulp. “Now get out of here, before one of my patrons recognizes you. Trust me, the tabbies of this Town are quick to pounce on any transgression. And their claws are far sharper than mine.”
“Th-thank you,” she said, hoping to show that her pride, if not her dignity, was still intact. “For showing a shred of decency in honoring our bargain.”
“Don’t wager on it happening again.”
Alexa stiffened her spine. “I am not afraid to take a gamble when the stakes are high.” She could not resist a parting shot. “And I’ll have you know, I am very good at cards.”
“Here at The Wolf’s Lair, we play a far different game than drawing room whist. You have tempted the odds once—I would advise you not to do it again.”
“How very kind of you to offer more counsel.”
The Wolfhound’s laugh was a brandy-roughened growl. “You mistake my sentiments, Lady Alexa. I am not being kind. I am simply trying to stack the deck in my favor. If I am lucky, the cards will fall in a way to ensure that our paths never cross again.”
THE DISH
Where authors give you the inside scoop!
From the desk of Kate Brady
Dear Reader,
People always ask: “Where
do you get your ideas for books?” Usually I don’t have a clue. But in the case of WHERE ANGELS REST, I actually recall the two seedlings of ideas that ultimately grew into this story. The first was a trailer on TV for an upcoming talk show. The interview was to be with a mother who had chased her child’s rapist from state to state for years, basically raising hell wherever he tried to surface.
I never saw the show, but I remember thinking, That would make a great heroine: a woman who has dedicated her life to exposing someone she knows is dangerous.
Dr. Erin Sims was born.
The second idea evolved more gradually, but I can still name it: It’s the town where I grew up. You see, I’m from Hopewell, Ohio. Well, not really, because there is no “Hopewell” in Ohio—at least not one I could find on a map. But I grew up in a Hopewell. Towns like my fictitious Hopewell are scattered all over the Midwest and, for that matter, the whole country. They’re chock-full of sleepy charm, and they provide the perfect haven for someone battered and beaten by the evils of the larger world.
Sheriff Nick Mann was born.
When the two ideas merged—a man protecting the sanctity of a town that appears peaceful, and a woman who knows that appearances can be deceiving—I knew I had the makings for a story.
In WHERE ANGELS REST, Erin Sims takes her hunt for a demented serial killer to a quaint town that couldn’t possibly harbor such evil. There she unearths secrets Nick Mann refuses to believe—after he’s spent years working to make Hopewell his refuge from a tortured past and a safe haven for his daughter’s future. Eventually he can’t deny the truth, no more than he can deny that the fire in Erin Sims has reignited not only his long-buried passion for police work but also his long-denied desire for love.
I hope you’ll enjoy the ride as Erin and Nick set out to unravel a demented villain’s compulsion to silence the angels who are privy to horrific, long-hidden truths. And while you’re at it, catch a glimpse of my next hero, Nick’s brother, who will hopefully whet your appetite for the second book in the series, coming soon!
