A Viking For The Viscountess

by Michelle Willingham

  Juliana kissed him lightly, then turned back toward Harry. “You do realize that he’s going to keep searching for more treasures, now that he’s found gold.”

  “Do you desire more gold, my wife?” Arik asked, teasing her. “Shall I go a-viking to bring it back for you?”

  “I don’t need any treasures at all,” Juliana answered. “I have everything I ever dreamed of, right here.”

  If you enjoyed A Viking for the Viscountess, look for its sequel, A Maiden for the Marquess, coming in 2015. Also, reviews are always appreciated if you want to let others know what you thought of the book.

  Would you like me to e-mail you when I have a new book out? You may sign up for my newsletter. I only send e-mails when I have a new release, and you may unsubscribe at any time. Your e-mail address will never be shared with third parties or sold.

  A Viking for the Viscountess is part of the mini-series, A Most Peculiar Season. Arik and Juliana make special appearances in other books, beginning with Scandal on His Doorstep, by Deborah Hale (available in December of 2014).

  A baby is left on Jack Warwick’s doorstep. And the notorious rake doesn’t know if the child is his.

  Jack shares a Mayfair town house with two friends, and a note left with the baby suggests one of the three bachelors is the father…but which one? And who will care for the child until they can locate her mother?

  Jack can think of only one woman he would trust with such a delicate task. Annabelle Robb, the penniless widow of his cousin, has been too proud to accept his financial support. Enlisting her help with the baby is the perfect excuse to provide for the woman who was once his dearest friend.

  Annabelle agrees, with great reluctance. She cannot turn her back on an abandoned child, for both she and Jack know the pain of being unwanted. Yet she’s afraid of spending more time with the man who broke her heart so long ago, when he never even knew of her infatuation.

  Jack doesn’t know if he is the baby’s father, but he vows to reform his ways. Yet the more time he spends with Annabelle, the more he is torn between a sense of duty to find and marry the child’s mother…and his growing desire for Annabelle!

  Visit http://www.deborahhale.com for more details.

  Would you like to know whether Margaret Andrews ever found a husband with all of his teeth? Enjoy a free sample of Unlaced by the Outlaw by Michelle Willingham, available December 2, 2014.

  Excerpt from

  Unlaced by the Outlaw

  by Michelle Willingham

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, 1815

  Her sister was missing.

  Most older sisters would leave such a terrible problem in the hands of their parents. Or possibly alert the authorities. Margaret Andrews did neither.

  For one, she knew exactly who had kidnapped Amelia. Second, she knew that the blackguard intended to force her sister to wed him. And third, Margaret had suffered untold humiliation when that same awful man had abandoned her only days before their wedding three years ago. Lord Lisford might have shattered her girlish dreams, humiliating her in the face of society, but Margaret would never let the same thing happen to her baby sister. This was more than a dangerous situation—this was her opportunity for vengeance.

  It didn’t matter that it was the middle of the night or that she was the daughter of a baron. The man who had wronged her was about to destroy Amelia’s life, and Margaret was not about to stand aside and let it happen. She’d beg the devil himself, if she thought he could help her.

  Cain Sinclair was the next best thing.

  A flutter of nerves caught her stomach as her coach pulled to a stop in front of the inn where he was staying. It was nearly midnight, and she’d left Lady Rumford’s ball the moment she’d learned of Amelia’s disappearance. Margaret was still wearing the sage-green silk gown with white gloves, for she’d not taken the time to change.

  This was a very bad idea. What was she thinking, venturing into a public inn while wearing a ball gown?

  But it couldn’t be helped. Please let him be there, she prayed. The Highlander was a man she’d known for nine years. From the moment she’d laid eyes on him, she’d sensed that he was the sort of man her mother had warned her about.

  Taller than most men, he had broad shoulders and lean muscles. His piercing blue eyes and black hair gave him the look of a fallen angel. He wasn’t a gentleman and he didn’t care what anyone thought of him.

  Ruthless was the best word to describe him. And when he wanted something, he never stopped until he got it.

  Unfortunately, what he wanted was her.

  She took a deep breath and stepped out of the coach. Her footman eyed the inn and shook his head. “Miss Andrews, I think you should wait inside the coach. I’ll go and find Mr. Sinclair on your behalf.”

  That was the sensible thing to do. It was what her mother would want. But she knew, without a single doubt, that Sinclair would ignore the footman and do whatever he wanted to. Whereas if she pleaded with him, there was a chance he might help her.

  With every moment she sat in this coach, Lord Lisford was taking her sister farther north, toward Scotland. Time was critical, and what did she care if it was not an establishment a lady would dare to enter? She was already ruined. After five Seasons, Margaret knew what the ton thought of her. They believed she was to blame for Lord Lisford abandoning her on her wedding day.

  The familiar ache of bitterness stiffened her spine. It was high time the viscount paid the price for what he’d done to her. And if he thought he could hurt her sister without serious consequences, he was sadly mistaken.

  Margaret ignored her servant and marched straight toward the door. For a moment, she paused with her hand upon the doorknob. Go back, her conscience ordered. But instead, she gathered her courage and opened the door.

  The haze of tobacco cloaked the room, while the scent of ale filled the space. Men were playing cards in one corner, while others busied themselves with getting drunk as soon as possible.

  She stared at each of the men until at last she located Sinclair. He didn’t move, but his mouth tightened when she stepped closer. Her presence was as out of place as a pig in a ballroom, and every male eye fastened upon her.

  Her conscience was still screeching at the idea. Get out of here! Ladies do not associate with men at an inn. You cannot be here.

  Cain Sinclair’s icy blue eyes regarded her as if she’d lost her mind. And perhaps she had, since she’d gone to such lengths to seek his help.

  “You don’t belong here, lass,” he said.

  “Amelia’s been taken by Lord Lisford. You have to help me find her.” Margaret crossed her arms, staring coolly at a drunkard whose attention was fixed upon her bosom.

  How did you think these men would react to your presence? her common sense chided. They’re nothing but rogues and vagrants. Any one of them would attack you, and then where would you be?

  The Highlander leaned back in his chair, his long black hair falling past his shoulders. He wore a brown-and-green tartan, and his white shirtsleeves were rolled against his forearms. A faint scar edged his lower arm, a reminder that he’d been in many fights. Somehow, it made her feel somewhat safer, knowing that Sinclair could protect her far better than the elderly footman who had accompanied her.

  “Come with me, and I’ll tell you more about what happened,” Margaret urged. The sooner she left this place, the better she would feel. The question was whether or not he would help her.

  “Do your parents know?” he asked softly.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t tell them. I want to find Amelia before any harm is done.”

  They would find out soon enough. But more than that, she felt a sense of responsibility. She was supposed to have chaperoned Amelia at the ball. If she’d remained at her sister’s side at every moment, this wouldn’t have happened.

  Her guilt was a hair shirt against her conscience. This was her fault, without question. And she had to atone for it, no matter the cost to her own reputation.<
br />
  Sinclair took a slow drink of his ale, studying her. She couldn’t guess what he was thinking, but he needed to hurry up.

  “Why did you come to me, lass, instead of the police?” His lazy tone held a hint of wickedness, and she faltered.

  “Because I—”

  Because I know you’ll find her. I know you won’t let any harm come to her, and I trust you more than any man.

  She drew closer and reached for his hand. It felt as if she’d thrown out every shred of decent behavior. A wildness thrummed in her blood as her fingers laced in his.

  “Because I need your help,” she whispered.

  His thumb brushed the edge of her palm in a silent caress that echoed deep inside. His rough hands were callused, but his touch was light enough to set her senses on fire. What did that say about her, that she would be so attracted to a man so inappropriate?

  She was a good girl. She obeyed the rules, listened to her parents, and never wore a gown with a daring neckline. All her life, she’d been a model of proper behavior.

  And yet, right now, she realized that she was asking this man to come with her. To be alone with her in a coach for hours on end.

  Don’t do this, her sense of propriety begged. You cannot behave in this way. It’s not right.

  But she met his gaze steadily and said, “Please.”

  Enjoyed the sample? Read the rest of Unlaced by the Outlaw by ordering it at Amazon.

  Unlaced by the Outlaw is book four in the Secrets in Silk series. The books can be read in any order, but if you’d like to begin with book one, Undone by the Duke, here’s another excerpt for you to try.

  Excerpt from

  Undone by the Duke

  by Michelle Willingham

  PROLOGUE

  Ballaloch, Scotland

  December 1810

  Jonathan Nottoway, the fourth Duke of Worthingstone, was staring down the barrel of a gun.

  He supposed he ought to be feeling fear or even a sense of impending doom. Instead, Fate had a way of mocking him. His attacker wasn’t a seasoned killer or a disgruntled tenant. No, he had the damnably bad luck to be threatened by a boy who wasn’t even old enough to shave.

  “Put the weapon down,” he ordered. “You don’t want to shoot me.”

  “Yes, I do.” Anguish lined the boy’s face, along with a single-minded purpose. “It’s your fault. All of it.”

  The boy’s hands started shaking, and Jonathan tried to take a step back. The gun would go off if his finger tightened even a fraction.

  “And what, precisely, am I accused of?” He spoke softly, as if soothing a wounded animal. Glancing around, he saw none of his servants nearby. Not his groom or even a blessed footman. He supposed it was his own fault for snarling at them this morning to leave him the hell alone. They’d done just that.

  The outside temperature was growing colder, and a few fat snowflakes fluttered from the sky. Jonathan had tethered his horse back near the frozen stream, so he didn’t even have the option of riding away.

  “You know what you’ve done,” the boy spat. “Burned our homes and murdered the others.”

  Though Jonathan was aware of the Highland evictions, with landowners forcing the Scots out of their homes, he’d had nothing to do with that. His reasons for being in Scotland were purely financial. After purchasing this land a year ago, he’d come to inspect the crumbling house that went with it.

  Now it was perfectly clear why land stewards were meant to handle such details.

  “I’m not the one who set your home on fire,” Jonathan said. “And I’ve killed no one.”

  “Your men did,” the boy insisted. He raised the gun to Jonathan’s chest. “When you’re dead, the burnings will stop.”

  “I’m not certain who you think I am,” he said to the boy, “but I can assure you, you have the wrong man.”

  “You’re the Earl of Strathland,” the boy said, his eyes brimming up with tears. “And because of you, my mother was burned.”

  “I am not the earl,” Jonathan began. “You’ve made a mistake. I only came to—”

  His words broke off when the gun fired.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Three days earlier

  Victoria Andrews knelt at her sister’s feet, her mouth full of pins. With a careful eye, she judged that the hem was exactly the right length.

  “Is it finished yet?” Amelia complained. “I’ve been standing here for years.”

  Victoria pulled another pin from her mouth, ignoring her sister’s theatrics. “Hold still. Just a few more stitches.”

  The morning gown had belonged to their sister Margaret once, but with the help of some new fabric, Victoria had completely remade the skirt and bodice. She’d stitched delicate strips of blue silk to yards of white muslin, so as to give the illusion of a striped fabric. The fitted waist emphasized the girlish lines of Amelia’s figure in the latest style.

  “Should we lower the neckline?” Amelia suggested. “It seems a bit prim.”

  “It’s a day dress, not an evening gown.” The curved neckline exposed a good portion of Amelia’s throat, and the long sleeves with vandyked cuffs provided an air of modesty. As a last touch, Victoria had made pink roses from a tired pair of satin gloves and fastened the flowers to the waist.

  Her sister preened in front of the dressing mirror, scooping her brown curls into a more formal arrangement on her head. “Toria, it’s wonderful. I can’t believe how lovely it is.” With a delighted smile, Amelia threw her arms around her.

  Victoria basked in the warm hug. “Happy Birthday.”

  “I’ll wear it when I pay calls with Mother.” Amelia brimmed with excitement, twirling around. Her sister was more than eager to leave Scotland for London, even if it was only to visit Aunt Charlotte for Christmas.

  “And perhaps when I arrive, I’ll become best friends with the sister of a handsome earl or…even a duke! He might see me at a distance…and fall in love.”

  Her voice grew hushed, and Victoria hid her amusement at Amelia’s dramatics. “You’re sixteen and not old enough to marry.”

  “Oh, I know that.” Amelia shrugged. “But he can pine for a few years.” Her face brightened with a sudden thought. “You might find a husband, too.”

  When Victoria didn’t respond, her sister’s face fell. “You are coming to London, aren’t you?” To Amelia, the idea of remaining secluded at home was like cutting off all her hair—unthinkable.

  Truthfully, Victoria was perfectly content to remain within these four walls. Although they had lived in England for most of her life, the last five years had been spent in the western Highlands. Scotland had become her new home, although every time she looked out the window, the gnarled mountains reminded her of how stark and isolated this land was. In the distance, the snowcapped peak of Ben Nevis towered over the hills like a benevolent grandfather.

  “I can’t go with you,” she told Amelia. “But you’ll give Aunt Charlotte my best, won’t you?”

  “Toria.” Amelia held on to her, not bothering to hide her dismay. “You can’t stay inside this house forever. It’s not right.”

  “You needn’t worry about me.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle on Amelia’s gown. “Mrs. Larson and Mr. MacKinloch will keep me company while you’re away.”

  Her sister stepped back to look at her, a worried expression on her face. “Don’t you…want to find a husband?” she asked softly. “Or have children one day?”

  Victoria said nothing. The unbidden tears heated her eyelids, and she stared down at the floor. Of course she wanted that. She wanted a normal life, more than anything. But after so many years of living with fear, the possibility had stretched into an unreachable dream.

  “You never leave this house,” Amelia continued, “and I don’t know what you’re afraid of.”

  “I can’t explain it. But it’s impossible for me.” Each time she drew close to the front door, her insides twisted into knots. She couldn’t stop shaking, and the air choked off in h
er lungs, until she couldn’t breathe.

  “I wish I could go,” Victoria whispered. “But it’s better if you travel without me.” She couldn’t stop the physical overreaction, no matter how many times she’d tried to walk out into the garden.

  Their hundred-year-old house had cozy rooms and polished oak floors that creaked. Made of stone, it sat atop a small hillside, overlooking fields of gorse and heather. The road leading from the house curved down toward rows of makeshift tents erected by the Highland refugees. Dozens of men and women had been evicted a few weeks ago, and her mother had allowed them to take shelter here. Victoria often watched the people, wondering about how they lived and whether or not they were all right. But not once had she spoken with them. Though she loved her home, it was also her prison.

  For she hadn’t gone outside in five years.

  Victoria helped her sister out of the gown, and Amelia pleaded, “Will you unlace me, just a little? It itches dreadfully.”

  Her sister’s stays were drawn tight, and the chemise was made of a rough buckram that wasn’t entirely pleasant against the skin. Victoria loosened the laces, all the while studying the construction of the corset. It was functional, with no embroidery, and made from little more than whalebone, coarse fabric, and a steel busk.

  Amelia sighed with relief as she scratched her skin. “I’ve heard there are women in London who don’t wear stays at all. Can you imagine?”

  “No, I can’t.” Though her own figure was slender enough that she could wear short stays instead of the longer ones, the idea of wearing only a draped gown with nothing beneath the bodice was scandalizing. “Our mother would never allow it.”