The Scarred Heir

by Denise Patrick

  He turned toward her, laying his arm along the back of the settee. “And now all is well, except you are stuck with me.” His fingers toyed with a lock of pale hair.

  She sucked in a breath, anxiety surfacing in her eyes.

  “I think,” she ventured slowly, “that you might be the one who is stuck.”

  He was struck by her vulnerability. What was she thinking? Now that her father had returned, did she regret their hasty nuptials? Although she insisted she wouldn’t, was she worried now about their future?

  “I have never considered myself anything but fortunate since I met you.” His other hand lifted to her cheek, stroking the softness with his fingertips. “The pain of being shot pales in comparison to the possibility of never having met you. Of never knowing you.” He paused, his eyes growing soft. “Of never loving you.”

  Understanding blossomed in her eyes and tears formed. “Truly?”

  He smiled. “Yes.”

  Then she was in his arms, her face buried in his coat. “I never thought—”

  “I don’t know why. I was certain you knew, that you pushed for us to marry because you already knew and were giving me an out.”

  “An out for what?”

  “To salvage my poor pride.”

  She raised her head. Shining, watery eyes looked up at him, her smile blinding. “Your pride?”

  “I kept telling myself that I wouldn’t marry you because everyone would assume I was after your fortune. I refused to subject you to the pitying looks you would get if that’s what everyone thought. Then I discovered my mother’s deception and suddenly my pride wouldn’t let me tell you. I suppose I wanted to know if you really would marry me thinking I was still a second son. I even told the vicar to only use my name, not my title, in the marriage ceremony.” He brushed his lips across her forehead. “I hope you can forgive me for doubting.”

  She laughed, a sound of pure delight that made him lightheaded. “Only if you will forgive me for not telling you sooner that I love you too.”

  “Ahh, Sarah. What a pair we are.”

  She met him halfway when he bent his head, their mouths merging, tongues tangling as they tasted each other. His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer as the blood surged in his veins.

  “There’s something you need to know,” she said when he raised his head. The distress in her eyes worried him. “If I hadn’t overheard David and my uncle talking, I would have married him.” She took a deep breath, and continued, “I was attracted to him and, although there were small things that put me off, I had convinced myself I only imagined them. So when I met you and began to have feelings for you, I told myself I was deceiving myself. But you were so different and when you told me who you were, I knew then that you were the one I thought David was before.”

  “There is no need to explain, love.” He pulled her close again and she rested her head on his chest. “When we were younger, David and I could—and often did—exchange places easily. Until I purchased my commission, I doubt there were more than a handful of people who might have been able to tell us apart.”

  “You understand? Truly?” Her voice was muffled, but the wonder came through.

  “I understand that the heart sees what the eyes can’t. Your eyes found a face and form pleasing to you, but your heart knew he was the wrong one. Just as my heart knew you were meant for me the first moment I saw you.”

  “But I was horrid to you.” Her face was still hidden against his chest, but he heard the words anyway.

  “My penance for allowing you to believe I was David.”

  “I still wasn’t very nice,” she mumbled.

  He put two fingers under her chin and tilted her face to his. “You can make it up to me.” He leaned in and kissed her again. “We still haven’t had a wedding night, Lady Royden,” he murmured when he raised his head. “And with David gone, there is no longer a spare.”

  Heat blossomed in her cheeks, the color deepening as he watched. Her face was so expressive, he knew he could watch her all day. Right now, however, he was only interested peeling the black fabric away from the rest of her body to uncover the soft white skin he knew lay underneath.

  She surprised him by sliding her arms up around his neck and staring boldly into his eyes. “I suppose you have something in mind, my lord?”

  He nearly groaned aloud as his body tightened in response. Surging to his feet, he lifted her in his arms and headed for his bedroom.

  “I most certainly do.”

  About the Author

  A well-traveled military brat, Denise developed a love of history and other cultures during her formative years. Reading came as naturally as breathing and once hooked on romances, she determined to write one herself. Historicals are her first love when it comes to romances, especially the Regency period. She and her husband live in the western U.S. and have two grown children. They love to travel and their current destination of choice is Germany. Someday she hopes to make it to England to see firsthand the places she has studied and writes about.

  Visit Denise on the Web at: www.denisepatrickauthor.com

  Or on her blog at: denisesden.blogspot.com

  Look for these titles by Denise Patrick

  Now Available:

  The Importance of Almack’s

  Gypsy Legacy

  The Marquis

  The Duke

  The Earl

  Coming Soon:

  The Scarred Heart

  Banished and disowned for saving a stranger’s life…

  The Importance of Almack’s

  © 2008 Denise Patrick

  In Regency England, lineage and vouchers to Almack's are everything, but Pamela Clarkdale has neither. After her father casts her out, she considers herself fortunate to have obtained a position as a companion to an elderly widow.

  Kitt Covington has sworn off Almack's and marriage. Why attend one when he has no interest in the other? Guilt, however, is a powerful motivator. Knowing he caused Pamela to be thrown out of her home, he proposes a sham betrothal between them to ease his conscience.

  Kitt's offer is tempting and Pamela agrees, with the caveat that the betrothal will disappear at the end of the season. But not only is Pamela refused vouchers to Almack's, her family is scheming to destroy her to protect a secret she doesn't realize she knows. When the twenty-year-old web of lies and deceit begins to unravel, will Pamela and Kitt discover that Almack's isn't really that important after all?

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Importance of Almack’s:

  Frowning, she left the kitchen. Her father rarely sent for her or Sheila. If he had news, he usually waited until a meal time to pass it along, as he had last night. As she crossed the front hall, the butler was receiving the post from the local postboy.

  “Sorry I didn’t get it here yesterday,” the boy said. “The coach didn’t get in ‘til late.”

  She waited until the door was closed, then approached the butler. “I’ll take that, Dobbs. I’m headed for the library and I’ll give it to Papa.”

  The butler handed over the small bundle and she turned toward the library. Flipping through the small stack, she noticed a letter addressed to Mrs. Creal from someplace in Devon. It must be for Kitt, she thought. Slipping it into a pocket, she continued on to the library and knocked at the door.

  Entering at her father’s call, she found him sitting at the large oak desk answering correspondence. The day outside was overcast, the light coming in through the windows not enough to work by. A lamp on the desk was lit, casting a pool of yellow light over the letter he was writing.

  Pamela’s eyes wandered the room fondly. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were crammed full, but she knew her father read very little. The combined smells of leather and polish wafted around her and she breathed deeply. She loved the library. Unfortunately, she rarely spent time in here, so busy was she with her mother and the rest of the household.

  Her father finished his letter and sanded it.

  “Y
ou sent for me, Papa?”

  He looked up and brown eyes met hers but he did not answer.

  “The post just arrived.” She put the letters on the desk. “I thought to save Dobbs the trip.”

  Her father gave her a hard look. He didn’t invite her to sit, so she remained standing before the desk, feeling like she was eight again and had been summoned for being naughty.

  “I understand you’ve been dallying with a young man in the stables.”

  The statement out of the blue, in an accusatory tone, stunned her.

  “I have not.” Her retort was automatically defensive.

  “Are you saying Sheila made it up?”

  “Sheila? What does she have to do with this?”

  “She said she saw you allow a young man take indecent liberties with your person in the stables. Was she lying?”

  Pamela felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her. “What was Sheila doing in the stables? And when?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “But she never goes out to the stables.”

  “Is that why you felt free to conduct yourself indecently there?”

  “It depends upon what you consider indecent.” She knew she was stalling.

  Her father reddened and blustered a bit. “Are you saying Sheila lied about seeing you kissing a young man in the stables?”

  Pamela stared at the surface of the desk, unable to meet her father’s eyes. It would be so easy to say yes. Sheila only told the truth when it suited her, and was not adverse to twisting it or outright lying. But Pamela refused to stoop to her level. “No.”

  There was a long silence during which Pamela could feel his eyes boring into her. “I see,” was all he said before rising to his feet. She looked up warily. “I suppose I should have a talk with this young man. Which one of the stable hands is he?”

  “Why?”

  “To see that he does the proper thing by you, of course.”

  “What?” Baffled, she stared at her father.

  “Pay attention, girl! If you’ve been dallying with one of the stable hands, then he’d best be prepared to marry you.”

  “I haven’t.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he narrowed his eyes at her. Fear rose in her throat at the look before she quashed it. She’d never been afraid of her father before. Why should she start now?

  He came around his desk. She stepped back from him, but he walked past her toward the door. “We’ll just see about that. Which one of the stable hands is he?”

  She panicked. “He isn’t one of the stable hands. “He’s not from here. I-I found him down by the stream.” The truth was the only thing that came to mind at the moment.

  He turned. “What?” His roar caused her to jump.

  “He…he was injured. S-someone had shot him and left him to die. I-I couldn’t just…just leave him.”

  Pamela shrank back against the desk as he returned to her. “You brought a stranger into my house?” His voice seemed to vibrate around the room.

  “I-I didn’t bring him into the house.” A blacksmith set up shop in her head, the pounding muddling her thoughts.

  His hand shot out and fastened around her upper arm, pulling her toward him. “We shall just go out and see this young man. Is he still in the stables?”

  Pamela nodded dumbly. Trying desperately to make sense of what was happening, she allowed her father to nearly drag her out of the house.

  As they went out the rear door, the cold air jolted her and she realized where they were headed. She began to struggle.

  “Let me go. Please, Papa, let me go. I haven’t done anything wrong.” They reached the stables and he dragged her inside. Struggling futilely, Pamela tried to pull away, but his hand on her arm only gripped tighter. “Papa, you’re hurting me.”

  He didn’t answer as Seth hurried toward them.

  “Where is he?”

  “Where is who?” Seth asked.

  “Don’t play the fool with me, boy. Where’s the young man you’ve got hidden in here?”

  Kitt came down the aisle between the stalls. “Are you looking for me?”

  Pamela looked to Kitt. Embarrassment heated her cheeks as she continued to struggle to free herself.

  “And just who are you?”

  “Kitt—”

  “From?”

  “London.”

  “Well, then,” he snapped dismissively. “You can return there.”

  “Papa, he’s only waiting—” Pamela was cut off in mid-sentence as he flung her at Kitt.

  “And take her with you!”

  Pamela would have stumbled and fallen against one of the upright beams had Kitt not caught her. The momentary fear she’d felt in the library returned as Kitt steadied her.

  “And why would I want to do that?” Kitt’s voice was mild, but she heard the steel in it.

  “As you are the reason her reputation is now in ruins, it would seem obvious that I expect you to repair it.”

  Flabbergasted, Pamela stared at her father.

  “What do you mean, my reputation is in ruins? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “I suppose your admission in the library means nothing?”

  “It was only a kiss!” Pamela stepped toward her father to emphasize her point.

  For someone his size, he moved quicker than she expected. Pain exploded in her head, sending her stumbling back into Kitt. Only Kitt’s grip on her shoulders as he caught her kept her from blacking out.

  “Wanton baggage! How dare you try—” Her father was cut short by Kitt who, after confirming that she was still conscious and able to stand, grabbed him by his shirtfront and cravat, nearly lifting him off the floor—not an easy feat, considering his girth.

  Pamela watched in awe as her father’s face turned first red, then bright purple, as he struggled to breathe and free himself from Kitt’s grip.

  A deadly silence ensued that was broken by Kitt’s voice, each word falling ominously. “Touch her again and you’ll regret it.” Then he let go and her father fell to the hay-strewn dirt floor as Kitt turned back to her. “Are you all right?” His gentle voice calmed the furious hammering in her head.

  Pamela nodded and he put his uninjured arm around her, pressing her against his chest.

  Behind them, she heard her father scramble to his feet. Kitt turned to watch him. “Get out! Get out of this house and never come back!” His voice rose and Pamela didn’t bother to turn back to face him. Even with her face buried against Kitt’s warm chest, she could hear him quite clearly. “I should have known you’d be no better than your mother. Well, I won’t have it. You will leave this house today!”

  In a daze, she turned in the circle of Kitt’s arms as her father continued.

  “I have tolerated you long enough. No longer. I wash my hands of you once and for all!” Having finished his tirade, he turned on his heel to leave, throwing over his shoulder as he left, “The servants will be instructed that you are no longer a member of this household. Anyone who admits you to the house will be dismissed on the spot!”

  Then he was gone, leaving her bewildered, slumped against Kitt’s hard frame with only one thought in her head. Why?

  The long way home could be the shortest road to ruin…

  The King’s Mistress

  © 2011 Sandy Blair

  The king of Scotland is in a snit. Which means Britt MacKinnon, proud captain of the king’s guard, has an onerous task: fetch Alexander’s favorite paramour back to the royal bed—now. Never mind that the crown should be about the business of getting a legitimate heir. Especially since England’s Edward I would love nothing more than to seize an empty Scottish throne.

  When the handsome soldier appears on her doorstep, Geneen Armstrong has to think quickly. Her twin lies abed in her cottage, pregnant with the king’s bastard. If the barren queen learns the truth, the foolish girl’s life won’t be worth a farthing.

  She must somehow transform her graceless, plain-spoken self into her viv
acious, talented sister. Then, after the court is convinced she carries no child, use her herbal knowledge to sour the king’s taste for her sister’s company—for good.

  By the time Britt realizes this unusually articulate, ungodly stubborn woman is the wrong woman, tendrils of attraction have already tightened into a bond. A bond that will be tested when the king’s unexpected death puts Scotland’s very destiny at stake—and unleashes an ever-tangling web of court intrigues, secrets…and lies.

  Warning: This title contains men in kilts, Scottish accents and a feisty heroine contained herein. A more perfect historical romance doesnae exist.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The King’s Mistress:

  Hearing a cock crow, Britt opened his eyes and found Lady Greer just as he’d spied her most of the night, sitting upright on her pallet with her legs pulled close to her chest, her arms wrapped tightly about them, her chin on her knees as she stared at the dying embers. Had he not known better, he’d think her a woman on route to her doom.

  “Good morn’.”

  At the sound of his voice, she jerked upright and hastily rearranged herself, then glanced at the sleeping crofters who’d offered them a place before their hearth for the night. In a whisper, she said, “You sleep like the dead.”

  Grinning, he stretched and rolled to his feet, taking care not to crown himself on the low-slung ceiling beams. “One sleeps when and how one can, m’lady.”

  And last night—like any night whilst on the road, his sleep had amounted to only a few quick catnaps.

  He held out a hand. Ignoring it, she rose on her own.

  As she dusted bits of straw from her gown, he pulled two bodles from his sporran and placed the coins on the hearth where the crofter’s wife would find them when she awoke. He bent and whispered in Genny’s ear, “I’ll ready the horses whilst you seek what privacy there is to be had.”

  Outside, he found fog blanketing pasture and knoll, the sun gilding the distant mountains. Their ride would prove comfortable, unlike his charge. Lady Greer, normally a chattering and laughing wench, had been uncharacteristically reticent since leaving her cottage.