The Scot Beds His Wife

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “Well, aye, but it’s still nice to hear the words.”

  His answering impudence was so charming, her heart ached with the love it evoked. But she still rolled her eyes, more for effect than out of ire. “Well, obviously I’ll marry you. I love you too much not to.”

  He rose up and kissed her, his breath still elevated. “Do ye know when I realized how much I loved ye?” he asked soberly.

  She shook her head.

  “When I had the deed to Erradale in my hand, and I realized that I’d give it away only to have ye back.”

  Her fingers pressed against her mouth, stemming a sob that had arisen there. “Truly?”

  “Aye.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Erradale is what I wanted most in my life, until ye came along. Ye were what taught me the difference between a desire, and a necessity. Ye are necessary to me, as I am not a whole man without ye by my side.”

  Unable to conjure words to properly express what she felt, she pulled him down to her, pressing her mouth and body against his. Using the language they’d always spoken so well.

  The kiss lasted until they both broke it, more than a little breathless.

  “Let me take ye home, and make ye my wife.” He smoothed a hand over her heavy hair, disheveled now by their lovemaking. “Let me make ye my life. Let me make my keep the home of yer heart.”

  “Yes,” she finally answered, beaming at her very own magnificent Highlander. “Take me home. To Inverthorne. Only … I have just one question…”

  “What is that, my love?”

  “Do we have to go by boat?”

  He smirked down at her. “Unless ye’ve devised a way to fly over the Channel.”

  She winced, plopping her forehead against his hard shoulder. “I was afraid of that.”

  EPILOGUE

  “It says here the press only just got wind of the Rook’s escape from Newgate as the prison did its best to cover it up.”

  Gavin looked up from his ledgers to where his lovely wife read the paper while she nursed their baby girl in the plush chaise by the study fire.

  “Canna say the news surprises me,” he remarked. “He didna seem very worried about his status as a prisoner. Nor did he seem the kind to surrender his freedom for any altruistic purposes.” He couldn’t help but watch his wee family smile and coo at each other for a moment.

  How precious they were.

  It was as though an inner luminescence glowed through both of them, and beckoned to him to take part.

  Pushing himself up from his desk, he went to them, lowering onto the chaise and pulling his wife toward him, enticing her to rest against his chest as he encircled them both with protective arms.

  Eleanor Alison St. James, or Ellie, as her mother kept referring to her, took a precious moment away from her lunch to smile up at him with eyes that had become a deep, auburn brown.

  Gavin offered her flailing hand his finger to clutch, as every time her wee fingers wrapped around his larger one, she gripped his heart, as well.

  Had he not known better, he’d say she looked exactly like a Mackenzie.

  And a Mackenzie she was, because a Mackenzie he remained.

  A light knock on the door gave his Bonny a chance to adjust her blouse and shift Ellie to her shoulder to pat her vigorously on the back.

  “Come in,” Gavin called.

  Eammon poked his head into the room, still wary of a newly wedded couple behind closed doors, even after all these months.

  Gavin beckoned to the man who’d been like a father to him in more ways than he could count. Thinking that Eammon’s own wedding would be upon them before long, as he’d engaged himself to Eleanor not two months ago.

  “The post arrived,” Eammon informed them, conveying a bundle of letters and such to the chaise. “There’s one from America, addressed to you, my lady.”

  Bonny’s eyes clashed with his. This was the letter she’d been waiting for. The response for her confession to Alison Ross.

  Gavin took it, and with her permission, he broke the seal and ripped it open, tilting it so she could read over his shoulder.

  Dearest Lady Thorne,

  I confess I knew of your actions before word had reached me. I garnered this knowledge when applying for a marriage license, where I was denied for reasons of bigamy. The paperwork has subsequently been sorted, but not in time to retain my fiancé. It’s all for the best, I suppose, as I realized that we are not suited to each other.

  I have decided to return to the Highlands, and I believe that the enclosed pages from my late mother’s journal will explain why.

  It was preposterous to attempt to keep Erradale from Mackenzie hands, as it was owned by a Mackenzie all along.

  I’ve sent word to Ravencroft, and will be arriving there in time for Christmas. I’d like to see you and your new husband as soon as possible.

  All my love,

  Alison Ross

  “What a relief.” His Bonny breathed out a great sigh. “She doesn’t sound angry, does she? That’s so good. It’ll be lovely to see her again.”

  Gavin barely heard her, as his eyes scanned the subsequent journal entry with a growing sense of alarm and disbelief.

  Erradale was owned by a Mackenzie all along.

  That night … The night his mother was blinded. The night Liam conducted the unfortunate Tessa McGrath home. The night his father had gone to the village to claim a woman he’d had his eyes on for a long time.

  The woman had been the delicately pretty Mrs. Ross. According to her journal, Hamish Mackenzie hadn’t taken no for an answer that night. And nine months later, Mrs. Ross had given birth to a baby girl.

  Alison.

  Gavin thought about what Callum had said. That Mrs. Ross had never recovered, and Alison had grown up practically without a mother. James Ross had eventually called Hamish Mackenzie out, challenging him to a duel which he inevitably lost.

  Then Mrs. Ross had dragged her daughter away. Far away. As far away from her rapist as she could possibly get.

  San Francisco, California.

  “Jesus Jehosephat Christ,” his wife breathed, indicating that she’d read the journal page, as well. “You have a little sister.”

  “Aye,” he breathed, unable to wrap his mind around the revelation. He looked up to Eammon, who blinked rapidly at them both. “We … we need to tell Callum that she’s coming back. This is what he wanted.”

  “Agreed,” Eammon said seriously.

  Beside him his wife grunted, then snorted, then burst into laughter loud enough to startle poor Ellie to release the burp that Bonny had been trying to coax out of her.

  Both men glanced at her as though she’d gone mad, which seemed to feed her hysterics until she was holding her child with one hand, and clutching Gavin’s wrist with another.

  “You know what this means?” she managed through chortles and giggles.

  He scowled at her. “I know ye’d better tell me what’s gotten into ye.”

  “For a month … last year … you were married to your sister!” She dissolved into fits of hilarity once again.

  Gavin made a sound of distress and repulsion. Not for the first time, he thanked God that Samantha Masters, now Bonny St. James, had been the one in disguise. Because now, more than ever, her deception remained an utter blessing.

  Alison Ross. His sister …

  A sharp exhale of amusement escaped him, and then another, until he was laughing just as heartily as she.

  “My old heart can’t take many more of these revelations,” Eammon muttered.

  Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, Bonny said, “We’ll definitely have a lot to discuss with Liam and Mena when they arrive for dinner tonight.”

  Gavin blinked down at her. “Is that tonight?”

  “Yes, it’s our turn to host.”

  “So it is.” He pressed his forehead to hers, needing her closeness and her strength in the wake of such information.

  “It’s a bit of magic ye found, me Bonny,” he marveled.


  “How so?”

  “That ye robbed the train carrying my half sister which no one knew at the time, that ye saved her life, that she offered ye her name, and sanctuary, here in the Highlands…”

  “That I never actually shot you,” she added with a tender smile. “That is a miracle.”

  “Aye, Bonny,” he murmured, his heart so full he wondered if his chest would be able to contain it. “My family keeps growing because of ye. Ye gave me more than just a child, ye gave me back my brother, and now a sister I never knew I had.”

  “You’ll have to tell Dorian,” she said.

  “Aye,” he answered, thinking of all his bastard little brother had been through these past couple of months in regard to the Rook. “Aye, let’s hope he can handle the news, as well. It seems, this year is one for the return of the lost.”

  “Whatever this season brings, know that I love you,” his wife said with uncharacteristic sobriety. “We’ll face it together.”

  “As we face life together.” He nuzzled closer to her, brushing his lips across hers.

  “Always,” she whispered.

  “Always,” he vowed.

  Read on for an excerpt from Kerrigan Byrne’s next book

  THE DUKE WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO

  Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  Lorelai’s lantern trembled, turning shadows into sinister wraiths as she crept through the night, as best her foot would allow. Her heartbeats echoed off the walls of Southborne Grove’s east wing. Her breaths like rapid-fire pistol shots in the consuming silence. Loud enough for the ghosts to hear, surely.

  When the horrible sounds had first roused her, she’d thought maybe Cyrus and Joan were at it again. Howling and scuffling. The two hounds boasted only seven legs, three eyes, and one tail between them, but still they played like puppies. And sometimes their play turned serious.

  Never this late, though.

  The raw, animalistic cries beckoned her to his room.

  Urgently, she pressed the door open, hurling herself into his room.

  Lorelai didn’t know whether to be more relieved or distressed that his great body seemed to battle naught but the darkness.

  And whatever demons haunted his dreams.

  His voice sounded younger than it did when he was awake. A note of terror thrummed beneath the bravado.

  “Let me go,” he threatened.

  “Let me … go.” This time, he begged.

  Begged. And thrashed. Fighting a battle that it became more and more evident he was about to lose in some horrific way.

  She had to stop this. Somehow.

  A low groan decided it for her as she neared the bedside. His cheeks were wet with tears. His ebony hair matted with sweat.

  Someone was hurting him. She couldn’t bear it.

  Knuckles narrowly missed her throat as she ducked around them, and tentatively splayed the fingers of one hand over his chest above his bandaged ribs. “Wake up,” she admonished him, jostling him a little. “Come back.”

  Two monstrous hands shackled her arms like iron cuffs as he gasped awake, his entire body seizing, convulsing. He wrenched her hands away from his skin.

  She’d underestimated his strength.

  Fearing he might snap her bones in two, she couldn’t contain her own sob of pain as it cut through her.

  He stared up at her, his eyes two volcanic voids of unfocused wrath. His teeth bared, sharp and menacing. His breaths sawed in and out of him, as though he’d run a league at full tilt.

  This was not the man to whom she’d fed soup only two days prior.

  This man … might be a monster.

  “It’s me,” she whimpered. “It’s Lorelai.”

  As quickly as she’d been seized, she was released.

  A low groan tore from him as he regarded his hands like they’d betrayed him. Like he would rip them from their wrists.

  Ignoring her smarting arms, she ran tentative fingers over his fevered brow. It twitched with little shocks where they connected.

  “It was just a dream,” she crooned. “You’re safe.”

  Though he said nothing, tears leaked from the corners of his eyes in an endless river, running down his temple and joining the beads of sweat glistening at his hairline.

  His breath hitched and gasped. Deep grooves appeared between his brows, and his entire visage tightened.

  “You are in pain,” she realized aloud. Had he reinjured something? The bandages about his ribs were secure, as were the ones over his shoulder, neck, and right torso covering his rapidly healing burns. Oh no. Should she call the doctor? Did she dare check beneath the blanket twisted around his lean hips and tangled about his legs?

  “What can I do?” she asked frantically.

  He’d not wept the entire, agonizing time they’d treated him. Not once.

  If he did so now, he must be in absolute anguish.

  “Where does it hurt the most?”

  Black eyes rimmed in red searched her face, as though he might find answers to a question he didn’t know how to ask. The air shifted as threads of trust weaved through the space between them, adding a soft color to their tapestry.

  Silently, cautiously, he took her hand, his thumb pressed against her palm, as he placed it over his heart and left it there.

  His skin was warmer than she’d expected. Harder. His pulse kicked beneath her palm, the rhythm unsteady and frenzied, still waging the battle he’d carefully schooled out of his expression.

  He was as stoic as ever, except for the moisture still gathering his sooty lashes into wet spikes.

  She understood then.

  His body, strong, young, and virile, healed with incredible alacrity. But, what remedy was there for a lonely and broken heart?

  She could think of none.

  His eyes fluttered closed, forcing more tears from between the lids. She had the sense that he hid whatever … whomever should stare out from the darkness at her. His hands clenched tightly, burrowing into the sheets. Shadows played across his jaw as he worked it to the side, battling to regain control of himself.

  Instinct whispered that she must walk the line between compassion and pity most carefully here.

  Struck by impulsive sentiment, she lifted her hand, bent over him, and pressed her lips to his heart.

  He tensed. Froze. Not so much as drawing a breath until she pulled away.

  “I’ll heal that too,” she promised. If it was the last thing she did, she’d figure out how to stitch his broken heart back together.

  His eyes snapped open, regarding her like she’d taken his soul just then, or, maybe returned it to him.

  Nervously, she licked her lips. They tasted of soap and salt and … him.

  The air shifted again, dangerously this time, becoming heavy with the promise of something she couldn’t identify and didn’t understand.

  Lorelai did her best to ignore it. “Someone was hurting you … in your dream … did you recognize who it was?”

  He shook his head.

  “Anything I can do?” Driven to touch him again, she bent to place a hand back on his chest. The cold night air prickled dangerously through her thin nightshift, reminding her of the untied ribbons hanging loose at the collar.

  His tears had dried quite suddenly. His sweat had turned to salt. And the way he looked at her now …

  Lorelai swallowed, thinking of how she had always considered black a cold color, until this very moment.

  Banked obsidian fire danced in the meager light of her lantern.

  “Go.” The word seemed to strangle him as he plucked her hands away from him by her wrists, giving them back to her roughly.

  “Pardon?” She hugged her hands to her body.

  “Never visit me at night. Never again.”

  She didn’t understand. Wasn’t she helping him? Hadn’t she saved him from the assailants who hurt him in his sleep?

  “What if you have another nightmare?” she contended. “I can’t just let you—”


  “Leave me to it. Let it take me.” A feral, primitive warning lurked beneath the bleakness in his eyes.

  “But I—”

  “You can’t control them!” he snarled. “And I can’t control my—” His hands lifted toward her, then plunged into his hair, grabbing great handfuls of it. For some reason she couldn’t look at the parts still covered by the sheets. She feared him like this, because he feared himself. But … she ached for him, too. Ached in ways she didn’t yet comprehend.

  “Just get out. Please.”

  The plaintive note in his plea brooked no argument. Warned her away as sure as the hiss of a cornered cat.

  Perplexed, dejected, Lorelai limped to the sideboard as slowly as she could, waiting for him to call her back. To change his mind and realize he needed her company after all.

  When he didn’t, she lifted her lantern and shut the door behind her. Wishing with everything she had, that she could forget the bewitching taste of him lingering on her lips.

  THE HIGHWAYMAN

  by Kerrigan Byrne

  is the first book in the stunning Victorian Rebels series.

  Take a sneak peek at the book that started it all!

  Available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  Farah clutched the bodice of her dress, even though the buttons were still doing their job, and stared at the large, dark man in the chair.

  He met her look with a level one of his own. “Second thoughts already, my dear?” The endearment was not meant as such, and they both knew it. His words were a challenge, an answer to one that she’d issued initially. She’d offered him her body, almost demanded that he take it, and now he’d come to collect.

  It would be foolhardy to think that he might make this easy for her.

  Farah lifted her chin. “No. I merely thought that you might want to take it off, yourself.”

  She was playing a dangerous game, and she saw that danger flash in his eyes. “If that were the case, I’d have ripped it off you immediately. Stop stalling and take. Off. Your. Dress.”