by Tarah Scott
Sophie had promised Imogen she could visit soon, and she saw no reason to delay. She, Imogen, and Beatrice could find plenty to do in Inverness. Sophie paused in writing. She hadn’t seen Beatrice since after breakfast. Where was the girl? Sophie would go in search of her once she finished her letter.
Sophie had just signed her name when bootfalls sounded outside in the hall. She looked up as Adam entered. He still wore no jacket, and he still had his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing tanned arms.
He halted inside the room and regarded her. “Do I overstep my bounds when I say I have never seen a more beautiful woman?” he asked.
Sophie’s pulse quickened, but she kept a neutral expression and arched a brow. “I would say you live up to your reputation as a rogue, sir.”
He crossed the room, and she remained motionless when he stopped in front of her, grasped her hand, and lifted it to his lips. “On the contrary. I have never said that to another woman.”
He brushed his mouth against her fingers, and a shiver slid down her shoulders. The man’s reputation was well-deserved. He was desire incarnate. Adam released her—though she had the feeling he was reluctant.
“I have invited Imogen to visit next month,” she said. “I hope you do not mind.”
He nodded slowly. “As you wish.”
Though he sounded cordial, she had the distinct impression he wasn’t pleased.
She regarded him. “If you prefer she not come here, I could go to Edinburgh.”
“I think not,” he replied with such alacrity that she blinked.
“I beg your pardon? Why not?”
“Forgive me, my dear, but the last time you went to Edinburgh, you kept following a certain gentleman all over kingdom come and back.”
Her mouth fell open. “I-I beg your pardon. That gentleman was you—though you did not act like a gentleman.”
“Then we are even,” he said. “For you did not act like a lady.”
She stiffened. “You are no gentleman to keep reminding a lady of that, sir.
A devilish light gleamed in his eyes. “A lady—”
“Would not have followed a gentleman.” She rolled her eyes. “Aye, so you have said a dozen times.”
“I do not think I have said it quite a dozen times.”
He sounded genuinely affronted.
“So, I shall go to Edinburgh to visit Imogen,” Sophie said, more out of the sudden desire to bother him than anything else.
He threw himself onto the small couch to her left and shook his head. “I believe I said I prefer you not go to Edinburgh.”
Sophie leveled her gaze onto him. “You cannot honestly believe I will follow any other gentleman around. After all, the only reason I followed you was to keep from marrying you, and look where that got me.”
“Married?” he said.
She dropped her gaze to the letter before her. “In name only.”
“Whose fault is that?” he murmured.
Sophie yanked her head in his direction. “I-I… That is, it is your fault.”
“Contrary to what you believe, my dear, I am a gentleman, and a gentleman does not force his way into a woman’s bed. Even if that woman is his wife.”
Sophie stared. “Do you mean to say that— I mean, you have not consummated our marriage because you believe I do not want to consummate our marriage?”
“You did tell me on our wedding night that our marriage would not be consummated.”
“But that is ridiculous,” she cried. “You could not expect to agree to consummate a marriage you tricked me into.”
He shrugged. “As I said, a gentleman does not force a lady.”
Sophie shook her head. “Nae, you misunderstand. You could not have expected me to agree to consummate the marriage that night.”
“True,” he replied. “But you have no indication you had changed your mind.”
She stared. “I shot a man to save you.”
“For which I have thanked you.”
Sophie jumped to her feet. “I would not do that for just anyone.”
“Nae?” he asked in a too-casual voice.
“That is, I would help someone in need, but I specifically set out to save you because….”
“Because….”
“Oh,” she said on the rush of a frustrated breath. “You are odious.”
He regarded her. “I did not marry you for your money, Sophie.”
She threw her hands into the air. “But you did.”
“You were not the only heiress thrown in my path. In fact, there was one young heiress who would have been much less trouble than you.”
Sophie narrowed her eyes. “Then why did you not marry her?”
He pushed to his feet and took two steps, then stopped so close she could feel his warmth. “Because she did not shove me out of a carriage—nor did she defy my instructions and save my life.” He smiled. “Though, if I recall, you did that after I married you.”
Her heart fell. “Then you feel obligated to me.”
He laughed. “God help me, no.”
The man was a bundle of contradictions.
He grasped her arms, and she stared up at him. “Are you inviting me into your bed, Sophie?”
The timbre of his voice made her stomach do a somersault. Part of her wanted to run away and hide under the bed, but she nodded. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her so close he crushed her breasts against his hard chest.
“We do not have to have children right away,” he said.
Sophie blinked. “I-I beg your pardon?”
“I do not want you to think that I am after the money your father promised for each child you give me.”
“Oh, that is right,” she said in a small voice.
“I care nothing for the money, Sophie.” He released her and stepped back.
Sophie grasped his arm. “You do not want me?”
His eyes darkened. “I want you more than life itself.”
“Oh,” she said again. “But why? I am nothing like Lady Fleming.”
“Good God, no.” He paused. “I told your father I will not accept the money for the births of our children.”
“You did?” She frowned. “You need not have done that.”
“It is done.”
Sophie looked at the carpet. “Imogen will not visit until next month.”
“Is that so?”
“I would not want to lie to her.”
“Lie to her about what?” he asked softly.
“About being a married woman.”
“Then you are saying you now want to consummate our marriage?”
“It is the right thing to do.”
“Do you want me?” he asked.
“A lady does not admit to such things,” she said.
“My dear, a gentleman does not want a lady in his bed.”
Sophie snapped her head up and met his gaze. Desire burned in his eyes. Sophie cried out and threw her arms around his neck. He swept her into his arms and fell with her onto the sofa. His body crushed her into the cushion, and she was enveloped by his musky scent. His hard length dug into her belly like a hungry beast, and she longed to feel his maleness slide in and out of her.
He covered her mouth with his, and before she realized her own intent, Sophie sucked his tongue inside her mouth. He groaned and covered her breast with one large, warm palm. Her nipple tightened in pleasurable discomfort as he kneaded her breast. The juncture between her legs throbbed, and she was reminded of the dream she’d had of him the night after they’d gone to the oyster cellars. Sophie arched her hips and rubbed against his erection. Adam abruptly broke the kiss, and she seized his shoulders and tried to drag his mouth back to hers.
He laughed low. “Easy, my sweet.”
Adam pushed up into a sitting position and pulled her onto his thighs, so she straddled him. He made quick work of the ties on his breeches, and Sophie drew a sharp breath when his cock sprang free, hard and oddly beautiful. Adam pulled her close
and yanked down one sleeve of her dress to reveal her breasts. He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. Matthew had never done this! When Adam sucked, a bead of desire stretched from her breast to her sex.
“Adam…”
He reached beneath her dress and cupped her buttocks. Sophie wanted to touch him. She fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and yanked the shirt so several buttons flew into the air.
Adam lifted his head and grinned. “Cannot wait to ride me, love?”
No, she could not!
Gaze locked with hers, Adam lifted her up and onto his erection. She braced her hands on his shoulders, and as she settled slowly onto him, the muscles in his shoulders tensed.
“You intend to tease me, sweet?” he asked in a hoarse voice.
Sophie wasn’t sure what that meant, but she liked the way the question made her feel. Adam’s fingers tightened on her buttocks as he gently lifted her, then brought her back down again. He lifted then lowered her several more times, then Sophie braced her knees on each side of him and lifted herself up then down.
“By God,” he muttered.
She lifted again, and when she lowered, he drove into her. Sophie cried out.
He stilled. “Did I hurt you?”
She gasped. “Lord, no. Please do that again.”
He did. Then again and again.
Sophie had a sudden, horrifying thought. “Oh no.”
Adam drove into her. “Is something amiss?”
She looked over her shoulder, and as she had remembered, Adam had left the parlor door open.
She faced him. “The door, we left it open.”
He flashed a wicked smile. “Beatrice already streaked past. Never fear. She will tell everyone we are occupied, and we will not be disturbed.”
Sophie gasped. “My lord, we must go upstairs.”
He drove into her again.
“Sophie, I couldn’t walk if the devil were on my heels.”
She started to lift off him, but he slammed her hilt deep onto his erection, then reached between her legs and slipped a finger between the folds that hid her sex.
“Adam,” she squeaked.
“Ride me,” he ordered.
She hesitated, then began a rhythm he copied with the long digit that massaged her. This was far beyond anything she’d dreamed of. Need coursed through her, and the pleasure point between her legs abruptly burst with pleasure. Sophie cried out and allowed her head to fall forward on Adam’s shoulder. He hugged her close as pleasure rolled over her in waves. With each thrust, the pleasure seemed to reach deeper and deeper. He drove so deep that she felt he must have touched her soul.
“I didn’t quite know it then, but I believe I fell in love with you that night,” he said in a strangled whisper.
Sophie tried to shake herself from the murk of pleasure. He gave a final thrust and groaned. He hugged her so tight all the air seemed to leave her lungs.
She realized what he’d said and lifted her head to look at his face. “Fell in love with me?” Her heart skipped a beat. “What night?”
His chest lifted with the deep breath he took. “The night you kicked Emerson and me out of his carriage.”
Sophie shook her head. “I do not understand.”
He smoothed back from her face locks of hair that had come loose from her chignon. “You are an honest woman, Sophie.”
“But I lied to you and pretended to be someone else.”
He smiled. “You lied about your name, but you never pretended to be anyone but who you are.”
She frowned. “But that’s silly. A person cannot be anyone but who they truly are.”
“Well, you cannot, at any rate.” His expression turned speculative. “Perhaps one day you will find you love me, as well.”
“Oh, I already love you.”
He blinked. “When did that happen?”
She lifted herself off him. He righted himself and closed his britches as she got to her feet and smoothed her dress.
“When did you know?” he asked.
Sophie looked up. “Know what?”
“Know that you love me.”
“Oh, well, that is my secret, is it not?”
His gaze sharpened. “Indeed?”
She nodded, then rose and started for the door. “I suppose you will have to find a way to get me to tell you.”
Sophie threw him a glance over her shoulder, then squealed and broke into a run when he leapt to his feet and started after her.
###
Lords of Chance
A Stranger’s Kiss
A Stranger’s Promise
A Stranger’s Gamble
Sneak peek of the first book in the Songs of Rebellion series
Ballad of Discord
If the man you love won’t trust you with the truth, how can you ever again trust him?
The pieces of Elizbeth McKinley’s world scatter when her father, in an act of pure madness, joins forces with a mysterious Frenchman in an attempt to claim the Scottish crown. Now, pawns in a game far vaster than they can imagine, Elizbeth and her sister must flee or be shipped off to France to wed strangers. To make matters worse, the one man who should most wish to help her, the man Elizbeth loves, refuses to believe she’s in danger. His betrayal will cut deeper than any sword.
Chapter One
Giggles and rapid footfalls sounded in the corridor outside the sunny parlor. Elizbeth smoothed a stitch in her needlework while she waited for the bittersweet prick of tears to subside. It had been two years since their mother died. Laughter and joy were long overdue in their household.
“You know we ought to chide her for running,” Aunt Davina said.
Elizbeth glanced at Davina, who sat across the parlor.
“She’s nineteen,” Davina went on. “A child no longer. When the two of you come out this autumn, we can hardly have her running about in company.”
Elizbeth nodded as her strawberry-haired little sister charged into the room. Elizbeth wouldn’t reprimand Margarette, and she doubted their aunt would, either. Only four years Elizbeth’s senior, Aunt Davina was more an older sister than a matronly aunt and was as apt to join in their schemes as curtail them.
“The mail came,” Margarette cried. She slid to a halt in the center of the Kidderminster carpet and waved a handful of letters.
Aunt Davina smiled down at her book, her bowlike lips pressed closed, her only censure to ignore the display.
“Oh?” Elizbeth looked up with feigned disinterest even as she tried to discern familiar handwriting on the flapping envelopes.
Her dear friend, Mister Robert McFarlan, was away on business for their father. Their three-week separation was the longest they’d been apart since…she fought down a blush…since he’d kissed her a month past. Although writing her was inappropriate—they weren’t officially engaged—she considered a letter far less scandalous than his single, decidedly unchaste, embrace. So, she’d wheedled from him a promise to write. Though he was due to return that evening and she’d searched the mail for such a letter every day, he had been remiss thus far.
Smile wide, Margarette twirled on her toes, letters held aloft. Somehow, she’d noticed Elizbeth’s recent interest in the mail and was determined to tease.
“Margarette, dear, shouldn’t you be at your lessons?” Aunt Davina asked sweetly.
With a final spin, Margarette twirled over to the settee and plunked down beside their aunt. “After I see who’s written.” She began shuffling the envelopes. “Father,” she said, and tossed two in a pile. “Father again.” Another followed. “And again.”
Elizbeth returned to her stitching. Attempts to contain her sister would only fuel her teasing. Perhaps Aunt Davina was correct and they should try to instill more decorum in Margarette. What man wanted a wife who ran giggling up and down the corridors of his home?
An intelligent one, she decided, who wanted a home full of joy. Not the same sort of man who would marry their aunt, but similar. She suppressed a grin. L
ittle did Aunt Davina know, but as Elizbeth had already settled on a suitor, she planned to use her delayed season to find a man for Davina. It wasn’t right that one disastrous romance, undertaken nearly a decade ago when Davina was just seventeen, should prejudice her against all gentlemen.
Margarette’s sudden silence caused Elizbeth to look up. Her sister’s blue eyes sparkled, her grin full of mischief. She’d finished her sorting and held two letters back from the pile for their father. Seeing she had captured Elizbeth’s attention, Margarette pried one open and unfolded the pages within.
“Now, this one is interesting,” Margarette drawled. “Great Aunt Saundra writes that she’s returned from Italy for another visit.”
“Has she?” Aunt Davina raised one delicate brow. “What is she now, eighty? I am surprised she made the journey.”
“She says she wishes to see us, when we can.” Some of the joy left Margarette. “She’s of the opinion this will be her final visit to Scotland.” Margarette blinked rapidly. “She means then to return, to die in Italy and be laid to rest there.”
Aunt Davina plucked the letter from Margarette and scanned the page. “I know she’s pious, but I will never understand how a good Scottish noblewoman grew so enamored of Italy.”
“She is not even our real great aunt,” Margarette said with a sniff. “It’s not as if we will lose a real family member.” Margarette’s unspoken words echoed through the room: as we did when mother died.
“True enough, but our families were close, and she has never forgotten that.” Aunt Davina folded the letter. “She’s been Great Aunt Saundra since before I was born, and we shall visit her as she asks.”
“Yes, of course, we shall,” Elizbeth said. “What is the final letter, Margarette?”
As hoped, her sister’s frown disappeared and mischief lit her eyes. “This?” Margarette held up the envelope, careful not to reveal the handwriting. “This letter must be an error. I shall have it returned. After all, only an engaged miss would receive a letter such as this one.”
