The Prospect: The Malloy Family, Book 10

by Beth Williamson

  He leaned down and kissed her. Her mouth was hot against his, sweet and delicious as only Josephine could be. He deepened the kiss, his tongue diving into her, dancing, rasping and lapping. She moaned in her throat and tightened her grip. And he loved it. He loved her.

  “I love you, lass.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He bent to kiss her again when they heard John calling them.

  “Declan? Jo? Are you two all right?”

  She smiled at Declan, her teeth a flash of white in the early dawn light. “We are better than ever.” She took his hand and tugged him toward the house. “John, wait until you hear the news!”

  Declan lost himself in her, enchanted by what he had convinced himself was impossible. She was perfect, more so than any woman in the world. And she was his, body, heart and soul. He hadn’t expected to find paradise in the arms of a bespectacled governess, but he had. His future was written in the pages of her life. Together. Forever.

  About the Author

  Beth Williamson, who also writes as Emma Lang, is an award-winning, bestselling author of both historical and contemporary romances. Her books range from sensual to scorching hot. She is a Career Achievement Award Nominee in Erotic Romance by Romantic Times Magazine, in both 2009 and 2010.

  Beth has always been a dreamer, never able to escape her imagination. It led her to the craft of writing romance novels. She’s passionate about purple, books and her family. She has a weakness for shoes and purses, as well as bookstores. Her path in life has taken several right turns, but she’s been with the man of her dreams for more than 20 years.

  Beth works full-time and writes romance novels evenings, weekends, early mornings and whenever there is a break in the madness. She is compassionate, funny, a bit reserved at times, tenacious and a little quirky. Her cowboys and Western romances speak of a bygone era, bringing her readers to an age where men were honest, hard and packing heat. For a change of pace, she also dives into some smokin’ hot contemporaries, bringing you heat, romance and snappy dialogue.

  Life might be chaotic, as life usually is, but Beth always keeps a smile on her face, a song in her heart, and a cowboy on her mind. ;)

  www.bethwilliamson.com

  Look for these titles by Beth Williamson

  Now Available:

  Marielle’s Marshal

  Branded

  Endless Heart (as Emma Lang)

  The Malloy Family

  The Bounty

  The Prize

  The Reward

  The Treasure

  The Gift

  The Tribute

  The Legacy

  Hell for Leather

  The Fortune

  Devils on Horseback

  Nate

  Jake

  Zeke

  Lee

  Gideon

  Private Lives

  On His Knees

  Running from the past…and running out of time.

  The Fortune

  © 2013 Beth Williamson

  The Malloy Family, Book 9

  French-born Francesca Chastain came to New York with her family to find a better life. Now she is fleeing a nightmare. Her past chases her from New York and she must run, and run hard.

  Her journey to the land of milk and honey is interrupted by the accidental squeeze of a trigger. And the man on the other end of her blunder is a man like none other she’s ever met.

  After three years working Oregon-bound wagon trains, John Malloy has almost saved enough money to start his own horse ranch. And almost met the end of his life at the hands of fiery, green-eyed Frankie, a confusing, frustrating woman who responds to his flirting—then disappears.

  No one is more relieved than Frankie when John races to her rescue, but now they’re trapped in the wild. And the shadows of both their pasts are closing in…

  Warning: Inside you’ll find sexy heat, danger, Old West violence, gun-toting bad guys and an emotional roller coaster. Prepare to fall in love with the Malloys all over again with witty, strong women, stubborn, heroic men and a love that launched a legacy.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Fortune:

  John could hardly believe his ears. Frankie, the spunky little thing, wanted him to help her wash her hair. He didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss her, because sure as hell he’d wanted to kiss her since she landed in the mud under him. Those flashing green eyes, that heart-shaped face, the soft, pillowy breasts that made his hands itch. She was sin incarnate, even covered in mud.

  Now here she sat on the bank of the frigid creek, her hair undone. Although muddy, she had gorgeous hair, thick and wavy with the colors of sunset sparkling in the early morning sun. He’d be a fool to touch her.

  John was obviously a complete fool.

  “Then come closer and lean forward.”

  She did as she was bade, coming close enough he could see the small hairs at the nape of her neck, tiny wisps that moved slightly in the breeze. He wanted to kiss them, breathe in the scent of Frankie, then kiss his way across the pink shell of her ear, her jaw, until he reached the full, ruby lips. Damn. He wasn’t one to get caught up in a woman’s looks, but something about this little French woman set his blood to boil.

  John scooped up water with his hands, running it through her hair, working out the clumps of mud. Her hair was at least three feet long, rich and thick. He could well imagine what it would feel like clean and spread across the sheets.

  Damn, but he’d been too long without a woman. He did not need to get involved with any of the folks from the wagon train, especially virginal young ladies.

  “My neck is beginning to cramp.” She knew how to complain, that was for sure.

  “I got the clumps out. Let me give it a good scrub.”

  Her head felt so tiny in his hands, in contrast to the heavy hair she carried. He scrubbed at her scalp until her hair fairly squeaked. Then he kept at it a few minutes more, feeling perverse at keeping her on her knees in front of him. A lesser man would make a crude remark, but he kept his tongue. For a reason he couldn’t name, he liked her.

  “I would like to stand now, monsieur.”

  He chuckled and squeezed as much water from her hair as he could. “There you go, Frankie. Now toss me your dress and I’ll see what I can do.”

  She swung her hair to the right, which made a slap as it hit her back. Without the cloud of hair, Frankie looked damn young, vulnerable. Then she opened her mouth and the illusion was broken.

  “I do not believe I am the first woman to hear you say that.” She raised both brows. “Do you have experience as a laundress?”

  “I’ve had to wash my own duds for years. I’m sure I can manage to get your frock clean.” He held out his hand, enjoying the play of emotions across her face.

  “It is sturdy, but not canvas like your trousers. Please do not rip it.” She handed him the yellow dress with obvious reluctance.

  The fact she’d entrusted him with what was apparently her only other dress was unexpected. He did his best to get the mud off, using the sand at the bottom of the creek to scour it away. Without soap, it wasn’t going to be shiny clean, but at least it was cleaner.

  “Your sisters don’t have an accent like you.” He was curious about her, although he shouldn’t be.

  “I was ten when we moved from France. The two youngest lost most of their accent, and Josephine is a governess and tutor. She trained herself to lose any trace of France.” She squeezed out her hair. “Wealthy people prefer a French maid or dresser, not a French tutor.”

  John hadn’t had much contact with rich people, but her words had a ring of truth to them. There was a rich man on the wagon train and he was a jackass.

  “What brings you west?”

  She stopped and stared at him, her chin rising into a stubborn tilt. “Why do most settlers?”

  He shrugged. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wasn’t going to push. It wasn’t his business and truthfully, he’d heard too many stories in the last t
hree years. He wouldn’t miss another one.

  When he rose to wring out the dress, she gasped. His gaze flew to hers, noting she had been finger combing her hair and watching him. He wanted to puff out his chest and grin, but her expression stopped him.

  “Do not wring out my dress, monsieur. Bring it here and I will extract the water, si vous plais.”

  He frowned. “You sure are bossy.”

  “My sisters would likely agree with you.” She got to her feet and held out her hands. He noted her wet hair had turned the top of her blue dress almost see-through.

  John should have told her, but damn, he enjoyed the view too much. The devil inside him wanted to know the color of the nipples currently poking at her dress. They weren’t too dark, perhaps pink.

  “Monsieur Malloy, the dress?” She tapped her foot and swung her hair back.

  He couldn’t stop himself, his gaze dropped again to her chest. She followed his stare and gasped, her arms slamming over those tits in a flash.

  “I cannot believe you did not tell me.”

  “I can’t believe you expected me to.” He grinned, completely unrepentant and enjoying his time with Frankie Chastain immensely.

  “You, monsieur, are no gentleman.”

  “I never said I was.” He tossed the dress, enjoying the wet slap as it landed in her arms. Damn but he felt like laughing.

  Frankie spun on her heel and walked away. Too late John realized he still hadn’t had his hand doctored, so he needed to return to the Chastain wagon. A tiny bubble of excitement tickled his belly. Frankie had definitely put a twist in his tail in the short time he’d known her.

  Different worlds, one heart.

  Gray Hawk’s Lady

  © 2012 Karen Kay

  Blackfoot Warrior, Book 1

  When Lady Genevieve Rohan joins her father in the farthest reaches of the American West, she expects to bring a bit of genteel English charm to his dry, academic existence. Instead, she finds her father desperately ill, and it’s up to her to finish his study of the Indian and publish his work—or face the wrath of his creditors.

  Her troubles mount when the men hired to capture a member of the Blackfoot tribe don’t bring her a docile maid to study. They present her with a magnificent warrior—proud, outrageously handsome and simmering with fury at the loss of his freedom.

  The white woman is beautiful beyond compare, but Gray Hawk can’t think past his plan to exact revenge against this meddling foreigner. It’s ridiculously easy to escape, then turn the tables and take her captive. When anger turns to passion, then to love, he embarks on a new quest. To claim the stubborn, red-headed vixen as his own.

  Yet as their hearts strain toward each other, pride conspires to pull them apart…unless they can each find a way for their hearts to become one.

  Warning: Contains a raging, simmering love, consumed by its fire and destined to explode at any moment.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Gray Hawk’s Lady:

  Genevieve let out her breath and closed her eyes, feeling as though she might swoon at any moment. What was happening to her? Why did she suddenly feel so giddy, so light-headed?

  She would have to relight the candle, for her own sanity as well as for the more practical reasons. She would have to talk with this Indian. And that required light, since she would have to communicate to him via the Indian sign language she had been learning.

  She began to move her hand toward the table when—

  “If white woman had only let me know what she wished, she could have obtained what she required from me without abduction. I might have been willing…then—”

  “You speak English?”

  “Have I not proven just now that I do?”

  “But how is that possible?”

  The Indian didn’t reply, only looked away, and Genevieve was immediately presented with his profile: strong, foreign, handsome. She drew in her breath as a shiver raced over her skin, and she wondered, was she frightened, or…?

  Her breasts swelled against the chiffon material of the gown that she wore beneath her robe, and Genevieve was reminded that she was hardly dressed to receive a man—even if that man was American Indian.

  She gazed up at him, and at once a tremor swept over her, bringing with it with an unusual sensation all over her body, especially there in the junction between her legs.

  Genevieve shifted her weight uncomfortably. What was happening to her? Why did she feel this way? What was it about this man that brought on excitement, this feeling of…craving?

  Briefly she pondered such questions. None of this made any sense.

  This man was hardly what she would call a man, someone she could physically crave. He was an American Indian—a savage, a person reported by the best authorities to be more animal than human. Such “people” were beneath her. Weren’t they?

  Hadn’t the whole of her education so far taught her this? It was true, wasn’t it?

  Or was it?

  Her body didn’t seem to think so. Her body responded to the Indian as any other twenty-year-old woman might when in the presence of a handsome, half-naked and virile man. Genevieve felt her stomach twist. She whispered, “You are not hurt, are you?”

  The Indian swung his gaze back toward her. “Hurt?” he repeated, his stare, or rather his leer, never leaving her. “And where would I feel this hurt? In my heart, which weeps to learn that the white woman has no honor? Or in my spirit, which promises the white woman revenge? Or do you mean my flesh?” He paused. “It is nothing.”

  “You are hurt!” So that was the other scent she had smelled earlier…blood.

  The Indian lifted his chin, and though he stared at her as if she were small quarry he stalked, he said nothing.

  “If you are hurt,” she said, “I will attend to your wounds at once.”

  “You will not.” The Indian raised his chin another notch. “I will not have your touch upon me. The white woman’s medicine is tainted. I will have a medicine man, if I require anyone at all.” He paused; then, barely over a whisper, he ordered, “Now.”

  Lady Genevieve ignored the order. “There is no one else.” Her voice, too, seemed to be strangely quiet, though authoritative.

  He raised his wrists, the rope around them halting the movement halfway up. He stared down into her curious gaze. “Release me and I will find a medicine man.”

  “I can’t do that,” she murmured. “Where are you hurt?”

  The Indian looked away from her as though he could spare no further conversation with her, while she took a dangerous step forward.

  “I could help,” she said, her motion bringing her ever closer. “Please believe me. I intend you no harm. Truly.” She gained yet another step in his direction.

  He didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. He might have been as unmovable as stone.

  She paced forward, each step as treacherous as if she were crossing a swift stream.

  She gazed up at him, studying him while his attention was diverted. So close was she, she could smell the combination of sweat and blood mixed with the musk-sweet scent of sage. She could see the sweat upon his brow. She lowered her inspection of him to his chest, noting the moisture that covered him there, the blood all over his side. Blood?

  She surveyed his chest as best she could while standing here in the dim, silvery light. Vaguely she noted the strong chest and upper-arm muscles, the slim, tapering stomach, the gash to his side…gash? She stared at it. She reached out a hand toward it. “How did you get this?”

  She touched his skin above the wound, her fingertips seeking out the warmth of his skin. All at once he shivered, and she had no more than registered the fact when a heated charge tore up her arm.

  She pulled her hand back as though to escape, but it was too late. The damage had been done. She was more than aware of him, of his physical, male appeal, and the air fairly crackled with the knowledge.

  He swung his attention back toward her, eyeing her as if she were prey rather than a woman o
f flesh and blood. And though Genevieve knew she should move away from him as far as she could, she couldn’t make her body respond to the command to do so.

  Slowly, feeling caught in a trap, she positioned her body closer to his.

  “How is it,” he asked, his voice oddly soft, “that the white woman with no honor does not know how I came to be hurt? Was not she the one who commanded this? Was not she the one who wished me into this state? She who wanted to see me again, she who had me practically stripped, she who plans to use me for her own ends?”

  “No.”

  “White man lies easily. So do his women. Look at me when you deny this so that I might see the truth or lies of your words.”

  She sighed, though dutifully she brought her gaze up to meet his. “Truly,” she said after a moment, “I did not know something like this might happen. I only meant to take someone from your tribe for a short while. I would treat them well and return them to the tribe as soon as possible. No injury, no stripping, no degradation. None of that was commanded by me. I’m so very sorry.”

  He stared down at her, and Genevieve wondered how it seemed that his head had come so much closer to her own. She looked away.

  “Then set me free, white woman of no honor—”

  “Do not call me that.” She brought her gaze back to him. “And I cannot let you go. For all that I regret doing this to you, I need you. But I promise you that if you let me attend to you now, there will be no further harm to you.” She was more than aware, as she gazed back up at him, that during her speech his face was no more than a few inches from her.

  She should back away. She tried to make herself do it; she couldn’t. His head gradually descended toward her. And her reaction? She leaned in closer.