The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress

by Anna Campbell

  The Highlander’s Forbidden Mistress: The Lairds Most Likely Book 7

  By

  Anna Campbell

  Copyright © 2020 by Anna Campbell

  annacampbell.com

  ISBN 978-1925980011

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Anna Campbell.

  Cover art by Hang Le

  E-book Formatting by Web Crafters

  www.webcraftersdesign.com

  Dedication:

  To my dear friend Vanessa Barneveld

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Laird's Willful Lass

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Derwent Hall, Essex, December 1823

  "You will arrive at Mowbray Place on Christmas Eve, and not too late either. Mamma likes her dinner at five o’clock on the dot."

  Selina Martin struggled not to wince at her fiancé’s hectoring tone. Was it her imagination that the walls of Derwent Hall’s library with their Etruscan decorations closed in on her? Whether they did or not, she felt suffocated. "Yes, Cecil."

  She and Cecil Canley-Smythe had been guests at this luxurious manor in Essex all week, while Cecil and Lord Derwent discussed business matters. But the visit had not proven a success. The other guests had been a disreputable selection, however blue their blood, and Cecil hadn’t approved of the way they’d carried on with one another. Nor had the disreputable gathering approved of Cecil, with his propensity for laying down the law, even while in someone else’s house. Tonight at dinner when Cecil announced that he and his betrothed were leaving in the morning, Selina had noted a general air of relief.

  "You will also speak to the boy about restraining any excessive high spirits over the Festive Season. Mamma cannot abide undue noise."

  "The boy" was her nine-year-old son, Gerald. Sometimes she doubted whether Cecil even remembered Gerald’s name. A problem when he was about to become Gerald’s stepfather.

  Selina told herself she could bear this. She could bear anything for her son’s sake. "Yes, Cecil."

  "And I hope you’re not doing anything silly with your wedding dress. Mamma expects the ceremony to proceed with suitable dignity. You’re a widow, and I’m a respectable man of mature years. Any unseemly frivolity won’t reflect well on a person of my standing."

  Mature years? He had that right. Despite how tightly he was tied to his mother’s apron strings, he was fifty-five. Selina was only twenty-seven, even if right now she might feel like she was a hundred and seven.

  Curling her fingers at her sides until her nails bit into her palms, she kept her voice calm. "I’ve chosen a plain cream frock without a train, Cecil. Nobody will accuse me of extravagance or vanity."

  Selina hadn’t selected her modest gown entirely because of Cecil’s dislike for frivolity. Even purchasing such a plain dress had stretched her meager financial resources.

  "I’m pleased to hear it. Now after I leave tomorrow, I’ll be busy every day with my mills in Northumberland. Don’t look for any letters. I won’t have time to write to you."

  "I understand. I won’t trouble you either, unless something urgent comes up."

  "Urgent?" He frowned in displeasure. "I’m not expecting anything urgent."

  Well, the bride might yet jump off Westminster Bridge to avoid her nuptials, but that probably wouldn’t count as urgent in Cecil’s estimation. Whereas if Selina sewed a scrap of lace onto her wedding gown, he was sure to class that as an emergency.

  "I can’t imagine anything untoward will turn up," she said, with the meekness she’d learned to use during her first marriage to soothe her husband’s erratic temper.

  A log popped in the hearth, making her glance past her hulking fiancé with his wet lips and balding head to where a long, high-backed settle faced the fire. The imposing piece of furniture with its solid mahogany back dominated the room.

  "See that there isn’t." Cecil regarded her with a disapproval that she was sure she didn’t deserve. "Mamma has always been worried that your youth makes you unreliable. I told her that you’re a sensible woman, and that marriage to a rich man won’t turn your head. Don’t make me a liar."

  Selina wanted to tell Cecil’s mamma to button her wrinkled lip, but defiance served no purpose. She chose this path with her eyes wide open. A show of spirit now would only toss her back to the wolves. Her and her son. "You can rely on me, Cecil."

  His manner softened, and he gave her a smile. "I know I can, my dear. That’s why I asked you to be my bride."

  He no longer sounded like a sergeant dressing down a tardy recruit, but somehow that was worse than a scolding. The "my dear" made her hide a shudder. Because while Cecil was determined that in public she behaved like a sober widow, she suspected his private intentions weren’t nearly so circumspect.

  He wanted her in his bed. She’d known it from the first.

  Lucky her.

  "I’ll make you a good wife."

  "If I had the slightest doubt, I’d never have proposed. The world has always praised your devoted care of your late husband, despite his unfortunate wildness, and your comportment in widowhood has been exemplary." He stepped closer. "Now it grows late, and we both have a long journey in the morning."

  While Cecil headed north, she returned to her humble lodgings in Marylebone to wait out the fortnight before the wedding on Boxing Day. The second week of that period at least offered Gerald’s company, once his school closed for Christmas. But while she loved her son, she wasn’t entirely looking forward to that either. Gerald had only met Cecil once, and he hadn’t liked him. He wouldn’t be slow to make his resentment of his future stepfather felt.

  He was too young to understand why his mother gave herself into Cecil’s keeping, and she’d done her best to hide how desperate things were in the Martin household. Selina had so many doubts about her forthcoming marriage, but the tragic truth was that if she didn’t marry Cecil, she might end up on the streets. And if she did, she’d lose Gerald.

  So she raised her chin and summoned a smile and battled to ignore how her stomach knotted with revulsion when Cecil kissed her cheek. In their eight weeks of betrothal, he’d never kissed her on the lips. But the reprieve was only temporary. She had no illusions that he’d keep his distance, once his ring was on her finger.

  Damp lips skimmed her skin, and the overpowering scent of Pomade de Nerole made her dizzy. He stepped back before she could gag, thank heavens. "Shall I escort you to the staircase?"

  She shook her head. "Thank you, but I need to choose a book, or I’ll never sleep. You go ahead, and I’ll see you in a fortnight."

  Cecil was leaving early, so they wouldn’t meet in the morning. The prospect of two weeks of freedom both exhilarated and troubled her. Fourteen days without her fiancé shouldn’t feel like she dodged a death sentence. She had to reconcile herself to this marriage, or the years ahead would be too wretched to contemplate.

  "Very well. It’s not long now. I know the wa
iting grows wearisome, but you’ll soon be my wife."

  "Yes, Cecil." She hoped he didn’t hear the dullness in her tone.

  The heady sensation of freedom had lasted a mere second. Now she was back to sitting inside the condemned woman’s cell, waiting for sentence to be carried out.

  Once Cecil left, she moved across to one of the bookcases. Cecil liked women to read improving sermons, full of strictures on obedience and modesty. A spirit of rebellion had her pulling Tom Jones from the shelf.

  "That was a remarkable demonstration of unbridled passion, if I ever heard one. When I listened to the two of you making such wanton promises to each other, you put me to the blush. My word, you did."

  Oh, no. The deep sardonic drawl made Selina drop the book and whirl around with a horrified gasp. Cold hands reached out of nowhere to wring her stomach with a painful mixture of embarrassment and fear.

  What on earth? The room was empty.

  Then her glance fell on the solid-backed settle she’d already noticed. "You should rather blush at being exposed as a sneak and an eavesdropper, Lord Bruard," she said, too upset to guard her tongue.

  Instead of the apology he owed her, the response was a soft chuckle that played forbidden music up and down her spine. "You recognize my voice. I’m flattered."

  "You’re the only Scotsman in the party," she said stiffly, bending to pick up the book. It was a first edition. It deserved better than her flinging it to the floor.

  In fact, she was the one blushing. Because while it was true that a trace of the earl’s northern roots was audible in his speech, she didn’t recognize his voice because of his accent. She recognized his voice because ever since she’d arrived at this house, she’d dreamed of him. In her fantasies, that insolent baritone whispered wicked suggestions that turned her nights to fire.

  "Cruel beauty. I hoped you’d noticed me, yet now you depress my pretensions."

  "I couldn’t miss noticing you," she said in an even icier tone. "You’re notorious."

  "I am indeed." He didn’t sound like he considered that any cause for remorse. "Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Mrs. Martin? For fear my reputation might corrupt your upstanding morals?"

  Oh, dear. She had been avoiding him. But the knowledge that he’d noticed her skittishness was somehow threatening.

  "There’s nothing wrong with my morals," she said hotly, before she reminded herself that a silent and immediate departure from the library was the wisest path.

  "More is the pity."

  It seemed she was in no mood to be wise. Clutching the book, she marched around the settle to confront him. "Lord Bruard, you…"

  "Yes?" He was stretched full-length against the cushions, as relaxed and dangerous as a big cat. Not a lion or a tiger. There was nothing golden about his saturnine beauty. A panther, perhaps.

  "A gentleman would have made his presence known." She hated how prim and stuffy she sounded.

  A lazy smile curled his long, rather cruel mouth and set his dark eyes glittering. "I’m sure a gentleman would."

  He paused for her to make the connection that he wasn’t a gentleman. She didn’t need reminding, God help her.

  As the smile deepened, a jolt of unwelcome attraction struck her like lightning. But how could she help it? He was almost sinfully beautiful, with his thick black hair and thin face, all cheekbones and jaw and long, aquiline nose. He looked like a fallen angel. She had no doubt that he’d sinned enough to merit damnation.

  Without any conviction, Selina told herself that her response to his presence was no great matter. Any woman with blood in her veins would thrill to the way he looked. It was a natural reaction.

  But the woeful truth was that she’d been responding for a week. She’d never felt like this before, like she was a stand of dry timber – and Lord Bruard was a blazing torch, primed to send her up in roaring flames. She’d reminded herself over and over that too many other women felt exactly the same, and if she had any pride she’d stifle this unwilling fascination. Good heavens, even Lady Derwent’s eighty-year-old maiden aunt went all silly and giggly at the sight of this infamous rake.

  Selina’s existence had been grim and purposeful. The only happiness she’d ever known was founded in her love for her son. She’d never before fallen prey to an irresistible attraction. And to such an unworthy object, at that. She was disgusted with herself.

  Although no amount of disgust changed the way the mere sound of the Scottish earl’s voice made her skin tighten in desire and her heart race with excitement.

  He went on in a musing tone. "But if I had announced my presence, I’d have missed out on overhearing a very interesting conversation."

  Interesting? His definition of the word must differ from hers. "Your entertainment trumps good manners?"

  "Naturally my entertainment is paramount."

  She shouldn’t find his complete lack of shame appealing. But she’d spent her life overburdened with rules and restrictions, and Bruard’s contempt for social niceties was alluring.

  Devil take him, everything about him was alluring. She’d never met an out-and-out wrong ’un before. She’d never wasted her time thinking about handsome, idle, dissipated men. If she had, she would assume that her overdeveloped sense of right and wrong meant she’d abominate them. She’d certainly had no patience for her late husband’s attempts to ape the excesses of the upper classes.

  What an innocent she’d been until she met Lord Bruard. One dismissive glance from those fathomless dark green eyes under their sweep of thick lashes, and all she wanted to do was get closer.

  Much closer.

  If she had an ounce of principle, she should despise Bruard. Cecil certainly did. Alone with Selina, he’d spent hours railing against the Derwents for daring to pollute the pure air of their country house with the sinner’s presence.

  Selina didn’t despise Bruard. She wanted him. At night in her empty bed, she touched herself and imagined that the hands on her skin weren’t small and soft, but large and tanned and skilled, and that a deep, drawling voice murmured profane encouragement in her ears.

  Memory of those forbidden moments assailed her now and made her blush again. She was too aware that it was late and that she was alone with a man whose reputation was bad enough to send respectable virgins shrieking for their mammas. Lord Bruard’s company was the closest thing to satanic temptation that she was ever likely to experience.

  Selina swallowed to moisten a dry throat and set the book on the mantel with a shaking hand. "I must go," she said, and cursed the squeak in her voice.

  "Must you?" Bruard didn’t sound as if he cared whether she stayed or not. He continued as if they were in the middle of a friendly conversation. "You shouldn’t let him bully you, you know. If he bullies you now, before he gets his ring on your finger, he’ll turn into a domestic tyrant when you marry."

  She paused in the act of turning away toward the door. "This is none of your business, sir."

  Unfortunately, it was also an accurate assessment of her future. Selina was no fool, and she didn’t deceive herself about how life with Cecil would turn out. But what choice did she have?

  With a leisurely grace that made her foolish heart skip around inside her tight chest, Bruard sat up. She thought she’d committed her whole self to marrying Cecil, but now it turned out that her heart hadn’t signed up to the arrangement. Her heart cried out that she was still young and at last she had the chance to flirt with an attractive man. It insisted that if she ran away now, she was a filthy coward.

  "That’s true." Again no shame. "But I’m telling you this out of pure altruism. Stand up for yourself now, or he’ll crush every ounce of spirit out of you."

  "Pure altruism?" She gave a snort of amusement that would have shocked Cecil. "It seems the world is completely wrong about you, Lord Bruard."

  The half-smile reappeared, accentuating the creases around Bruard’s deep-set eyes. The breath jammed in her lungs. Lord above, no wonder the ladies went insane for hi
m. His appeal was extraordinary. He should have warning signs posted all over him.

  Because he was right about her avoiding him, this was closer than she’d ever ventured to the wicked Lord Bruard. This was certainly the longest she’d spent talking to him.

  And danger bristled in the air.

  So remaining in this room made no sense. Yet remain Selina did.

  He fixed a disturbingly assessing gaze on her. "No, my lovely little ghost, the world isn’t wrong about me."

  The power of his attraction made her stomach cramp with nerves, as she remembered all those depraved fantasies that had worn Lord Bruard’s intense dark face. Did he know she’d thought of him in the privacy of the night? She had a sick feeling that he must.

  "G-ghost?" she stammered.

  He shrugged. How could such a prosaic movement make her heart somersault? Except his shoulders were broad and hard, and she ached to run her hands along them and down those strong arms, displayed to advantage in the best of London tailoring.

  He wore black. But then didn’t the devil always come in black?

  "That’s how I think of you. With your neat little gray frocks, and the way you watch every word you say, and never miss anything that goes on around you."

  This time, genuine fear spurred her unsteady pulse. She hadn’t thought she’d be of the slightest interest to such a libertine. It turned out she was wrong. It seemed that just as she’d watched him, he’d watched her.

  She gulped for air to clear a swimming head and raised an unsteady hand to her bosom, before she realized how revealing the movement was. "You shouldn’t think of me at all."

  His gaze grew more focused, and she faltered back a step. She should flee, pride or no pride, but it was as if her feet were tacked to the parquetry floor.

  "Nor should you think of me, when you’re marrying that ponderous oaf in a fortnight, and you’re obviously a woman who guards her chastity the way a miser guards his gold."