Cowboys and Highlanders

by Scott, Tarah

  Allison turned in his arms. “We both have to let go of the past.” She brushed her lips against his. His tongue tasted cool. Then his mouth slanted, her head tilted, and heat fused them together. Passion ignited. His fists tangled in her hair. He pulled her onto his lap. His cock pressed against her bottom. She wiggled trying to align her sex with the solid length of his erection.

  “What about your rule? You said I can’t plow into you until after the wedding.”

  “I didn’t realize what would happen if the fields were neglected. I’m not the farmer.” Her hands quickly worked the buttons of his shirt. “Besides, I decided I like your rules.” Finally, she had his shirt open. Her hands ran along the contours of his chest. She tried to lie down, but instead TJ lifted her up until she straddled him. He moved the folds of her skirt until she felt his heat slide against her, parting the moist lips of her sex.

  “You’ve spent enough time on Sugar to know how to ride.” TJ put his hands behind his head.

  Allison reached between her legs, gripped TJ’s shaft with her hand, and positioned him at the entrance of her body. Slowly, letting him fill her, she lowered onto his cock. “Ahh.” Impaled completely, she put her hands on his torso and rocked her hips.

  TJ closed his eyes, and clamped his teeth together. He growled, clutched her hips, and surged into her body. Her breathy gasps gusted past her lips. “Will it always be like this?” Her body pulsed around his.

  “It gets better.”

  “I guess I know why Marion enjoys her job.”

  TJ chuckled.

  Her fingers dug into his flesh. Her body raced toward release. “It’s coming,” she hissed.

  “No sweetheart, you are.” He groaned, squeezing her hips. Back arched, jaw clenched, every muscles in his body visibly tensed. Hot fluids bathed her clenching womb. Each rhythmic pulse sent frissons of fire scorching through her body.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  “I love you, too,” she said, collapsing onto his chest.

  The End

  Dear Reader,

  I took liberties with history in writing To Bed a Montana Man. Allison would have had to take the stage into Butte from Salt Lake City. The draw of a bustling copper boom motivated my decision to create Copper City, a fictional town.

  The Dumas brothel closed in 1982 in Butte, Montana. It was the longest operating brothel before closing its doors having served over one million satisfied customers. It served as my inspiration for the Dusty Rose.

  Come back to Copper City in To Wed a Wanton Woman. Marion has always wanted to ride a Train. Maybe she’ll finally get her chance.

  For other titles visit www.KyAnnWaters.com

  My Highland Lord

  Highland Lords Series Boook Two

  Tarah Scott

  Broken Arm Publishing

  Copyright © 2013 by Tarah Scott

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Acknowledgements

  My deepest thanks to Nikki at Close Encounters with the Night Kind for being my first official beta reader. You rock, girl!

  My undying gratitude goes to Evan Trevane, my good friend and critique partner, who read this book with an eagle eye.My hero wears a kilt, and you made sure no one mistook it for a skirt.

  Thank you to Kimberly Comeau, who brainstormed with me and read the tough sections—many times over!

  No book is complete without a spectacular cover. Thanks to Melissa Alvarez at Book Covers Galore for another beautiful cover.

  Reviews

  Welcome to the Majesty that can only be Tarah Scott. Be prepared to be swept up in the intrigue and wonder of her newest addition to the Highland Lords Series. This books was completely engrossing and enraptured you from start to finish, and what an ending indeed!! A must read for all Historical Romance lovers. This book is sure to capture your heart and leave you in breathless anticipation for the next edition!! Close Encounters with the Night Kind

  My Highland Lord is a hilarious and intriguing adventure in which all kinds of mysteries and romance surround our heroine. I give My Highland Lord five Stars out of five because it was supremely interesting and captivating. The Romance Reviews Top Pick

  Chapter One

  London, September 1837

  “Please, Frederick,” John Stafford rasped. He lifted his trembling hand from the bed’s coverlet. Light from the candle on the nightstand flickered with the small disturbance. “Bring me that chest.” John pointed at the desk in the corner of the bedchamber before his hand dropped back down beside him. He dragged in a heavy breath.

  Frederick's mouth thinned in concern. “John, you must—”

  “The chest,” John cut in with a small measure of his old vigor.

  His friend sighed, turned, and crossed the room. He lifted the small chest from its two-decade-long resting place. When last the chest had been moved, John was Sheriff of Bow Street and supervisor of the Home Office spies. The chest's contents proved the innocence of one of the conspirators in the most daring assassination attempts of their time.

  Frederick returned to the bed, set the chest on the nightstand, and gave John a questioning look.

  “Remove the documents,” John said.

  John closed his eyes in anticipation of the familiar creak of hinges as Frederick opened the chest. How many times had he raised that lid only to slam it shut again without touching the contents? The rustling of papers ceased and Frederick gave a low cry of surprise.

  John opened his eyes. “Yes,” he said as Frederick laid the stack of envelopes on the bed. “That is, indeed, Lord Mallory of the House of Lords.” John pushed aside envelopes until he uncovered the one he wanted. He tapped it and whispered, “Read this aloud.”

  Frederick removed the sheets of paper from their envelope, sat beside John on the edge of the mattress, and began.

  April 26, 1820

  In early February of this year word reached me, John Stafford, chief clerk at Bow Street, and head of the Bow Street officers, that Arthur Thistlewood, leader of the radical Spencean Philanthropists Society, planned on February 15 to assassinate the king's ministers. Thistlewood had been reported as saying he could raise fifteen thousand armed men in half an hour, so we feared riots would break out, which might allow him to carry out his assassinations.

  I sent one of my officers George Ruthven to infiltrate the Spenceans, and then recruited from within their ranks, John Williamson, John Shegoe, James Hanley, Thomas Dywer, and George Edwards. Edwards was such an adept spy that he became Thistlewood's aide-de-camp. Little did I know the terrible part Edwards would play in this operation.

  When I had investigated Arthur Thistlewood and the Spenceans in 1816 at Spa Fields, Home Secretary Lord Sidmouth sent me spies, and he was apprised of the men I now used—in fact, George Edwards reported not only to me, but to Lord Sidmouth. So I was surprised when Lord Mallory dispatched another spy from the Solicitor General's office, Mason Wallington, Viscount Albery.

  Oddly, Thistlewood unexpectedly abandoned the idea of the assassinations planned for February 15. We feared he would make an unexpected move to murder the Privy Council, so we quickly set a trap. Thistlewood snapped up the bait like a starving lion. He believed that Lord Harrowby was to entertain the Cabinet in his home at Grosvenor Square Wednesday, February 23, 1820, and, as we anticipated, decided to assassinate the entire Cabinet while they dined. The Spenceans chose the Horse and Groom, a public house on Cato Street that over
looks the stable, as their meeting place, so we dubbed the operation 'The Cato Street Conspiracy.'

  God help me, at the time, I felt no compunctions about entrapping Thistlewood and his men. Thistlewood was mad—he believed God had answered his prayers in finding a way to destroy the Cabinet—and his followers were, at best, murderers. The reform they claimed to be fighting for was nothing more than an excuse to seize power. However, given what I learned in the years since The Cato Street Conspiracy, I have questioned a thousand times our methods in bringing these men to justice.

  On the day of the intended assassinations, I positioned Bow Street officers near the Horse and Groom. I had readied my own pistol when, at the last moment, a message from the Home Office deterred my participation in the arrests. How many times I have wondered at this bit of 'providence.' It was all too convenient that I was absent during the arrests that day.

  I directed Richard Birnie, a Bow Street magistrate, to take charge, and left him with my officers to watch for the conspirators. Thistlewood’s men soon arrived and, at seven-thirty that night, Birnie ordered the arrests.

  A fight ensued and Thistlewood escaped. Several of the top conspirators were apprehended, but our spy Mason Wallington mysteriously disappeared. While making the arrests, Richard Smithers was run through by Thistlewood, and I was frantic at the possibility we had lost another good man. We arrested Thistlewood the next day, and eleven other conspirators were apprehended within days. Then, to my shock, Barry Doddard, a young officer from a neighboring magistrate, named Mason Wallington as the twelfth and only major conspirator to elude capture.

  Upon hearing Doddard’s accusations, I immediately wrote Lord Mallory informing him of the mistake. Mallory replied that Wallington had long been suspected of dissident actions and was believed to be in league with Thistlewood. I simply couldn't believe this. Wallington had a reputation as a devoted Englishman and spurned the tactics employed by the Spenceans.

  I informed Mallory of this, but he countered that Wallington had openly criticized the government and had even quoted Thistlewood’s philosophies concerning the lower classes and the rights of women. I couldn’t accept this, but Lord Sidmouth intervened, ordering me to desist. Wallington was a wanted criminal and if he was found, Sidmouth ordered me to turn Wallington over to him.

  I considered paying a visit to Thistlewood in Coldbath Fields Prison, but realized my visit would be reported to Sidmouth. Besides, Thistlewood was reported to have said that he had hoped it was me he killed instead of Smithers. I had no recourse but to obey Lord Sidmouth's orders. At the age of thirty-six, Mason Wallington became a fugitive.

  Frederick lowered the document and John pointed to the envelope farthest from him. “Now that one.”

  Frederick picked up the second envelope and removed the letter. He cleared his throat and began again.

  July, 1824

  Four years have passed since Mason Wallington was branded a traitor. Despite Sidmouth's orders that I forget the matter, my conscience demands I act. Whether guilt or innocence is the result of my findings, I shall, as always, record all matters true and faithfully. I begin with Wallington’s superior, Lord Niles Mallory.

  Frederick looked at John, the short letter finished.

  "Wallington has a daughter," John said. “She has been a victim of the lie too—" A heavy cough cut him off.

  “John!” Frederick leapt to his feet and filled the glass on the nightstand with water from the pitcher.

  Frederick slipped an arm beneath his back and lifted him forward until his mouth met the lip of the glass. John took several small sips. He breathed deeply, nodded he was finished, and Frederick settled him back onto the pillow.

  Frederick set the glass on the nightstand. “Rest. We will finish later.”

  John grasped his friend’s hand. “The girl has a right to the truth. I cannot go to my peace knowing I leave her in turmoil.” John closed his eyes, remembering the day she had come to him. He couldn’t escape her questions or the pain in her eyes when he turned her away without answers. He looked at Frederick. “See that she gets the letters.” His voice weakened. “Swear.” He tightened his grip on Frederick’s hand in one final squeeze. “Swear.”

  “I swear,” Frederick promised, and John lay back on his pillow and slept.

  Chapter Two

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  The criminal was alive and well. Yet, the one man who could have exposed him was dead. Phoebe stared at the clipping of the obituary notice printed in the Times five days ago. The knowledge of his death settled around her as black as the darkness surrounding her carriage. The lantern flickered with the sway of the carriage as she slid her gaze over the paragraph that extolled Bow Street Sheriff John Stafford’s criminal expertise, and past the mention of his involvement in The Cato Street Conspiracy. A man’s life reduced to two paragraphs. For the hundredth time since she'd first read the obituary, she settled her gaze on the final line.

  September 1837, John Stafford died in his London home.

  Phoebe refolded the clipping, set it on her lap, and pulled another document from her reticule. She ran her fingers along the age-yellowed edges of the only letter her father had written to her mother, the letter she had shown John Stafford when she'd visited him in his home five years ago. She unfolded the foolscap and, with a deep breath, began reading. Her lips moved in tandem with the words she'd long ago memorized.

  May 20, 1820

  My Dearest Amelia,

  Please forgive this letter so long overdue. I am well and I have found safe haven—at least for the moment. You have, no doubt, heard the news that I am wanted for high treason, and now you know that my suspicions were correct. Amelia, you cannot know how my accusers make even the most abhorrent criminal look like one of God’s angels. I sorely underestimated the depth of their deceit. Fool that I am, I did not anticipate being branded a traitor in their stead.

  I know your heart is heavy, my love, but no more so than mine. It is shocking to learn that one’s leaders are willing to sacrifice their countrymen for money and power. Ironically, had I known then what I now know, I would be guilty of their accusations. Do not shudder. I know I speak treason, but you cannot comprehend the fine line between reason and desperation when all choices have been eliminated.

  Would it shock you to hear that I relish the day I shall destroy my accusers? They have taken all I hold dear: you, our darling Phoebe and, lastly, my freedom. While I cannot like Arthur Thistlewood—his motives are not pure as he would have us believe—in one thing he was right: those few rich and powerful men who rule supreme in our society have stolen our rights.

  I have a plan, which, of course, I cannot elaborate upon here, but I must uncover the truth. Otherwise…well, otherwise, I am no better than Thistlewood—or those men who brought him to justice.

  I do not know when I will have another opportunity to write. Give Phoebe my love, and do not despair. I have not.

  Your loving husband,

  Mason

  It wasn't until her mother's death ten years ago that Phoebe learned her father sent this letter. The letter, hidden amongst her mother's personal correspondence, had been folded with a newspaper clipping dated February 24, 1820, the day after the Spencean Society's planned assassination of the Cabinet. The newspaper clipping, a statement made by Lord Sidmouth to the London Gazette concerning the charge of high treason against Thistlewood and his murder of Bow Street runner Richard Smithers, also mentioned the bounty on Thistlewood's head. The paragraphs were framed by a note written in her father's hand on the sides.

  Sidmouth could not have yet known that Thistlewood killed Smithers. Here is proof positive the noose had been put around Thistlewood's neck before he even planned the assassinations.

  "Why?" Phoebe whispered. Why had her father been falsely accused and why had he cared that the government ensured Thistlewood's capture? Thistlewood was a known murderer, a man—A sharp sideways jostle yanked Phoebe back to the present. “What in—” Another jolt
cut short the exclamation.

  She yanked back the curtain and peered into the darkness. No lights dotted the countryside as they should have, and moonlight revealed open fields beyond the road.

  She quickly refolded the letter and clipping, stuffed them into her reticule, then opened the door an inch and called, “Where are we, Calders? I don’t recognize this road.”

  “Taking a shortcut, Miss,” came the muffled reply.

  “Wha—" The coach listed, and she slammed the door with the force of the movement, tumbling back against the cushion. "By heavens."

  Phoebe seized the handle again. The door was yanked from her grasp and flung open. A man filled the doorway. She jerked back as a rush of air guttered the lantern flame. Her heart jumped when she lost sight of the intruder for an instant, then the light flared to life again. The man gripped the side of the open doorway of the slowing carriage, one leg braced on the floor. She took in eyes bluer than any she'd ever seen, an angled face, and a fit body leaning forward on one powerful leg—a leg clad in finely cut trousers. Thievery paid well these days!

  She cut her gaze to his and he grinned. Phoebe pooled her strength. Understanding flickered in his eyes the instant before she kicked his shoulder with a slippered foot. With a loud grunt, he toppled from the coach. She lunged forward, caught hold of the flapping door, and hung her head out the doorway, scanning the road behind for the brigand. The coach was slowing even more, and her heart leapt higher in her throat when he jumped to his feet and starting toward them.