A shaky smile curved her soft lips. "Well, you should have. The awful thing is if I had no principles, I’d leap to accept your offer and rush you off to the altar this very minute."
"Feel free," he said, meaning it.
She released one of his hands to wipe her overflowing eyes. "You know, I’m not sure a fallen woman can afford principles."
"What are you trying to say?"
Her throat moved as she swallowed. "You’re attempting to rescue me from the price of my folly."
"I’m not trying to rescue you, Selina," he said with some heat.
"Yes, you are. And I honor you for it." She broke away and backed toward the fire. "You’re an earl, Brock. I’m an impecunious widow of no particular distinction. Even before I lost my reputation and we set off what promises to be an almighty scandal, you could look much higher than an obscure doctor’s daughter for a bride."
The gallant, great-hearted fool. She was trying to shield him from the consequences of misguided chivalry. When they both knew her only hope for restoring her good name and keeping her son was to wed the man who had ruined her.
"I could look no higher than you, Selina."
Her smile threatened to shatter his heart, it was so utterly without hope. "I’ll treasure hearing you say that, Brock. But I’ll manage."
He stepped forward and seized her hands again. "Don’t you want more from life than just managing?"
Wide eyes studied his face. "I don’t want another marriage without love."
"Is that what ours would be?"
She looked confused. "Well, you know that I love you. I haven’t tried to hide it, and you’re so experienced with women, you can’t have missed it."
She’d given him so much joy over this last week, yet of all the gifts she’d granted him, this was the greatest. "I’d hoped."
She looked startled. "Did you?"
"Of course, my darling." His heart raced with excitement. For a few minutes there, he’d feared that she meant to reject him. He never wanted to feel like that again. "You see, it’s always so much better if, when a fellow loves a woman as much as I love you, the woman in question loves him back."
Brock watched her expression change. Such happiness illuminated her features that he was dazzled. But the elation only lasted a moment before doubt darkened her eyes once more. "You’re not just saying this because we’re in the most awful fix?"
"My darling, let me convince you." He swept her into his arms for a passionate kiss. He’d expected her to hesitate, but she melted into his embrace as though she ached for their sublime connection just as much as he did.
Over these last glorious days, they’d kissed so often. Now he shared his soul with her, as his lips explored hers – gently, because she’d been hurt.
When he returned to the real world, he was in the chair in front of the fire and Selina was draped across his lap with her hands linked behind his neck.
"Do you believe I love you?" he asked, not needing the answer anymore, because every star in the heavens had come down to shine in her eyes.
"Yes, Brock," she said. He had a sudden poignant memory of overhearing her in the Derwents’ library. How far they’d come since that night.
He gave her a quick kiss. "And you love me?"
"Oh, yes, so much." A frown drew her fine brows together. "But you still don’t have to marry me."
He caught her unbruised cheek in one hand, tilting her face until she met his gaze. "Yes, I do. Do you think I’d allow a dangerous woman like you to wander around unclaimed? I need to take you into my keeping. It’s my civic duty."
She gave a husky laugh. "They should give you a medal."
He nodded and spoke in a solemn voice. "They should indeed." He paused. "Anyway, I’ve wanted to marry you for a long time. It’s not just because our misdeeds have been exposed."
"A long time?" The wry smile he loved lengthened her lips. "We’ve only known each other a week."
"Two actually."
"Well, two."
"In fact, I was in the middle of phrasing my proposal, when we suffered the inconvenience of crashing into a ditch."
"Oh, Brock…" He watched her struggle to recall the conversation. So much had happened since, he couldn’t blame her for being a little fuzzy on the details.
"I asked you to stay with me."
"You did. I thought…"
"That I was talking about more of what we’d already done."
"But that was so wonderful."
"Yes, it was. But I’d already decided that I want more. I want to sleep beside you every night for the rest of my life. I want to see you grow large as you carry my baby. I want to share life’s sorrows and joys with you. I want to see how you change through the years ahead. I want you to go through those changes at my side. In short, I want you as my wife, not my mistress, however exquisite a mistress you make." He frowned. "Now what the devil have I said to make you cry, you lunatic woman?"
With another choked laugh, she wiped her eyes. "If I didn’t already love you, Brock, I’d love you after that beautiful speech."
His hold tightened. "Do you love me enough to call me husband? I haven’t led a conventional life. I’m a wild and wicked reprobate. I’ve committed more sins than I could list in a month of Sundays. But through all that, for what it’s worth, I’ve remained a man of my word. I give you my word, Selina, that from now on, you’re the only woman in my life. You’ll hold my heart forever."
She drew his head down for another kiss that felt like a silent pledge of fealty to match the spoken one he’d just given her. "I love you, Brock," she whispered when they drew apart.
"So does that mean you’ll take me on?"
She smiled, and her voice emerged with an immovable certainty that seized hold of his longing heart and opened a vista to the golden future ahead. "I’d be honored, my lord."
Epilogue
Bruard Castle, Western Highlands of Scotland, June 1824
Selina stirred from a light doze. She was warm and comfortable – and something seemed to be tickling her nose. She opened heavy-lidded eyes to see that Brock teased her with a buttercup.
"Wake up, sleepyhead," he murmured, discarding the flower. He was stretched out beside her and leaning on one elbow so he could watch her.
"I’m sorry. I must have dropped off."
They were high on a hillside, overlooking the medieval splendors of Bruard Castle in the glen below. The summer sun shone down with almost Mediterranean heat, and the remains of a lavish picnic surrounded them.
Below, she could see figures moving around the massive keep as the household readied itself for tonight’s visitors. The Laird of Achnasheen, his lady, and their three children were traveling from the coast to spend the next week at Bruard.
As Selina drowsily surveyed the activity, two people in particular captured her attention. Plaistow now worked at Bruard and trained to take over the steward’s position when the current man retired at the end of the year. Since his arrival, Plaistow and Kitty had developed an understanding. At this distance, it was hard to tell, but she thought they just might be holding hands.
Brock bent his head toward her, then paused as she gave a great yawn. Followed by the sort of giggle Roderick Martin’s downtrodden wife would never have permitted herself.
Expressive eyebrows arched. "You’re dropping off a lot in recent days."
It was true. She was revoltingly somnolent. Most of the time, she found it almost impossible to keep her eyes open. "I’m sorry. It can’t be very entertaining for you."
A wicked light entered his dark green eyes, turned them gleaming emerald. "You’re entertaining enough when you’re awake to make up for any amount of sleeping."
"That’s a relief," she murmured and tunneled her hand through his hair, bringing him down for the kiss she’d been so rude to delay.
By the time he raised his head, they were both breathing unsteadily.
"Do you have something to tell me, Selina?" he murmured.
&n
bsp; Shocked, she stared up into his striking features. After six months of marriage, his handsomeness still made her heart perform somersaults. "I might have."
One hand slid over her hip to rest on her midriff. "Perhaps news of a happy event?"
Her laugh held a hint of chagrin. "I don’t know how I imagined I’d keep it from you. I wanted it to be a surprise."
"It is. A lovely surprise." He leaned over to kiss her stomach. "A son or daughter around Christmas, I think."
He rested his head on her pretty yellow and white muslin skirts, above the place where her body sheltered his child.
Emotion roughened her voice, as she stroked the thick silk of his hair, warmed with the sun. "Yes. That’s what Betty says, anyway."
Betty, the estate healer and midwife, had pronounced her as healthy as a horse. Selina had great faith in Betty. Her skills had brought Erskine’s broken arm back into full working order.
"How did you know?"
Brock raised his head and sent her a knowing look.
"I’m a silly goose." Selina blushed. "How could you not know?"
"Apart from that, you’ve developed a new habit of snoring at the drop of a hat and you’ve been unwell several mornings." He cast a sly glance at the empty picnic basket. "And over recent weeks, you seem to want to eat for England."
She gave an uncomfortable laugh and struggled to sit up. "I fear I’m going to get horribly fat."
He slid his arm around her and drew her into his side. "I rather fancy a plump little pigeon in my bed."
She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "There won’t be any ‘little’ about it, I fear." She snuggled closer. "Are you pleased?"
"I’m the happiest man in Scotland, my love."
"I’m glad. I’m pleased, too. Gerald is getting a little too spoiled here in the castle. A baby to divert everyone’s attention will do him no harm at all."
"He’s happy, my darling. As am I. So very happy. I couldn’t have imagined being so happy." He tilted her head up and kissed her with the tenderness that never failed to make her melt. "Thank you."
Settling into his arms, she stared down at the fairytale view below, as her memory sifted through the changes these last rapturous months had wrought. On Christmas Eve, she and Brock had married by special license, and he’d brought her up to Scotland straight afterward. She had no doubt that tongues had wagged about the scandalous start to the Earl of Bruard’s marriage. But here in Scotland, London society and its trivial concerns seemed a million miles away. She and Brock established their own kingdom where the only rule was love.
Selina had worried that Gerald might resent Brock the way he’d resented Cecil. But the two males she loved had soon established a strong rapport. When she’d expressed how pleased she was that her misgivings proved unfounded, Brock had laughed. Apparently, Gerald had confessed that he was so relieved to escape Cecil as a stepfather, he’d decided to like Brock from the outset.
Gerald’s pleasure in his new life was one of her joys. He had a tutor and a band of rough-and-tumble friends on the estate. When Brock presented him with a horse for his birthday, that only cemented his affection for his new stepfather.
But her greatest joy in her new life was the bond she shared with her husband. He’d never shown any sign of restlessness with their quiet country life, and he looked ten years younger than the cynical rake she’d sighed after at the Derwents’ house party last winter.
"You’ve made my life complete, my bonny wife," Brock said quietly, as though he, too, had been contemplating their time together. "I’d always felt like a boat drifting in a storm. With you, I’ve reached safe harbor. Now we have a new baby to add to our family. It’s almost too much. I love you, Selina."
She tipped her chin until she met his eyes. They glowed with such adoration, she blinked away tears. "And I love you, Brock."
Tender amusement filled his smile. "Over these last weeks, you’ve also been more inclined to cry."
"I know." She gave a watery giggle. "Isn’t it terrible?"
He kissed her again. "It’s going to be an interesting six months."
"I hope I’m awake to see them," she said, which made him laugh.
"I can think of something that always wakes you up. We don’t have to be back at the castle to get ready for Fergus and Marina for hours yet. May I interest you in some open-air dalliance, my Lady Bruard? I believe there’s a convenient summerhouse over the next rise."
Selina brought Brock’s head down for a more thorough kiss. "My Lord Bruard, I thought you’d never ask."
***
I hope you’ve enjoyed the latest installment in The Lairds Most Likely. If you’ve missed out on any of them, the first six books in the series are The Laird’s Willful Lass, The Laird’s Christmas Kiss, The Highlander’s Lost Lady, The Highlander’s Defiant Captive, The Highlander’s Christmas Quest, and The Highlander’s English Bride. Like all my books, each story can be read as a stand-alone. Continue reading for an introduction to all six stories, and a short excerpt from The Laird’s Willful Lass.
The Laird's Willful Lass: The Lairds Most Likely Book One
An untamed man as immovable as a Highland mountain…
Fergus Mackinnon, autocratic Laird of Achnasheen, likes to be in charge. When he was little more than a lad, he became master of his Scottish estate, and he’s learned to rely on his unfailing judgment. So has everyone else in his corner of the world. He sees no reason for his bride—when he finds her—to be any different.
A headstrong woman from the warm and passionate south…
Marina Lucchetti knows all about fighting her way through a wall of masculine arrogance. In her native Florence, she’s become a successful artist, no easy feat for a woman. Now a commission to paint a series of Highland scenes promises to spread her fame far and wide. When a carriage accident strands her at Achnasheen for a few weeks, it’s a mixed blessing. The magnificent landscape offers everything her artistic soul could desire. If only she can resist the impulse to smash her easel across the laird’s obstinate head.
When two fiery souls come together, a conflagration flares.
Marina is Fergus’s worst nightmare—a woman who defies a man’s guidance. Fergus challenges everything Marina believes about a woman’s right to choose her path. No two people could be less suited. But when irresistible passion enters the equation, good sense soon jumps into the loch.
Will the desire between Fergus and Marina blaze hot, then fade to ashes? Or will the imperious laird and his willful lass discover that their differences aren’t insurmountable after all, but the spice that will flavor a lifetime of happiness?
Chapter One
Achnasheen, Western Highlands of Scotland, September 1817
The smart yellow carriage careered wildly along the steep, rutted track that snaked down into the glen. Fergus hauled Banshee to a stop on the bend of the road. Horror churned in his gut, as he watched the vehicle speeding toward the burn, swollen to river size after the rainy summer.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, digging his heels into Banshee’s sides. The mare set off through the twilight at a gallop, while his dogs Macushla and Brecon ran barking at her heels.
The coach horses were running in a blind panic, out of control. As the carriage veered closer, he saw that the coachman had lost his grip on the reins. There was no way that the driver would negotiate the sharp corner at the base of the mountainside to keep the vehicle on the bridge and clear of the water.
Fergus had reached the stone bridge when the inevitable happened. The horses swerved at the sudden appearance of the burn in front of them. There was a crack as an axle broke, then another louder crack followed by the tinkle of shattered glass as the carriage rammed into the sturdy pillar supporting the end of the bridge.
The coachman screamed as he hurtled through the air to land on the grassy verge of the road. For a sickening moment, Fergus was sure not only that the driver was dead, but that the carriage must overturn into the burn. His heart l
odged in his throat, as the vehicle teetered on the crumbling bank above the rushing brown water.
Fergus flung himself from the saddle and rushed over to the prostrate man. Banshee shifted uneasily, agitated by the other horses’ terrified whinnying, but bless her, she stayed put. As if things weren’t bad enough already, it started to rain.
“Are ye all right, laddie?”
Praise heaven, the man already started to stir. By the time Fergus got to him, he was sitting up and groggily rubbing his skull. His high-crowned hat lay upside down on the wet grass beside him. “Ma heed, ma heed.”
Even through the shrill neighs of the carriage horses and the thunder of the rushing burn, Fergus noted the Glasgow accent. “Can you move?”
The man’s resentful look told Fergus that any injuries he’d sustained weren’t too serious. What a miracle. “Aye, if I must.”
“Then do something about the horses.” They’d both broken free and shied all over the bridge, trailing tack on the ground and showing the whites of their eyes. “Before they kill themselves or someone else.”
Fergus helped the man up, made sure he was in fact unhurt, then turned his attention to the wrecked carriage. With each second, it appeared more unstable, Fergus guessed because the passengers moved around inside it.
“For God’s sake, stay still,” he called out, as he dashed toward the vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the coachman stagger across to the jittery horses.
When Fergus reached to tug the door, a woman in a rich crimson cape poked her head out of the shattered window. “Good. You can help.”
Could he indeed? He bristled at her imperious tone, while common sense insisted that he had no time for pique, if he meant to save these travelers from a dousing. “Are you hurt?”
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