The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress (The Lairds Most Likely 7)

She shook her head. "Thank you, but I need to choose a book, or I’ll never sleep. You go ahead, and I’ll see you in a fortnight."

Cecil was leaving early, so they wouldn’t meet in the morning. The prospect of two weeks of freedom both exhilarated and troubled her. Fourteen days without her fiancé shouldn’t feel like she dodged a death sentence. She had to reconcile herself to this marriage, or the years ahead would be too wretched to contemplate.

"Very well. It’s not long now. I know the wa

iting grows wearisome, but you’ll soon be my wife."

"Yes, Cecil." She hoped he didn’t hear the dullness in her tone.

The heady sensation of freedom had lasted a mere second. Now she was back to sitting inside the condemned woman’s cell, waiting for sentence to be carried out.

Once Cecil left, she moved across to one of the bookcases. Cecil liked women to read improving sermons, full of strictures on obedience and modesty. A spirit of rebellion had her pulling Tom Jones from the shelf.

"That was a remarkable demonstration of unbridled passion, if I ever heard one. When I listened to the two of you making such wanton promises to each other, you put me to the blush. My word, you did."

Oh, no. The deep sardonic drawl made Selina drop the book and whirl around with a horrified gasp. Cold hands reached out of nowhere to wring her stomach with a painful mixture of embarrassment and fear.

What on earth? The room was empty.

Then her glance fell on the solid-backed settle she’d already noticed. "You should rather blush at being exposed as a sneak and an eavesdropper, Lord Bruard," she said, too upset to guard her tongue.

Instead of the apology he owed her, the response was a soft chuckle that played forbidden music up and down her spine. "You recognize my voice. I’m flattered."

"You’re the only Scotsman in the party," she said stiffly, bending to pick up the book. It was a first edition. It deserved better than her flinging it to the floor.

In fact, she was the one blushing. Because while it was true that a trace of the earl’s northern roots was audible in his speech, she didn’t recognize his voice because of his accent. She recognized his voice because ever since she’d arrived at this house, she’d dreamed of him. In her fantasies, that insolent baritone whispered wicked suggestions that turned her nights to fire.

"Cruel beauty. I hoped you’d noticed me, yet now you depress my pretensions."

"I couldn’t miss noticing you," she said in an even icier tone. "You’re notorious."

"I am indeed." He didn’t sound like he considered that any cause for remorse. "Is that why you’ve been avoiding me, Mrs. Martin? For fear my reputation might corrupt your upstanding morals?"

Oh, dear. She had been avoiding him. But the knowledge that he’d noticed her skittishness was somehow threatening.

"There’s nothing wrong with my morals," she said hotly, before she reminded herself that a silent and immediate departure from the library was the wisest path.

"More is the pity."

It seemed she was in no mood to be wise. Clutching the book, she marched around the settle to confront him. "Lord Bruard, you…"

"Yes?" He was stretched full-length against the cushions, as relaxed and dangerous as a big cat. Not a lion or a tiger. There was nothing golden about his saturnine beauty. A panther, perhaps.

"A gentleman would have made his presence known." She hated how prim and stuffy she sounded.

A lazy smile curled his long, rather cruel mouth and set his dark eyes glittering. "I’m sure a gentleman would."

He paused for her to make the connection that he wasn’t a gentleman. She didn’t need reminding, God help her.

As the smile deepened, a jolt of unwelcome attraction struck her like lightning. But how could she help it? He was almost sinfully beautiful, with his thick black hair and thin face, all cheekbones and jaw and long, aquiline nose. He looked like a fallen angel. She had no doubt that he’d sinned enough to merit damnation.

Without any conviction, Selina told herself that her response to his presence was no great matter. Any woman with blood in her veins would thrill to the way he looked. It was a natural reaction.

But the woeful truth was that she’d been responding for a week. She’d never felt like this before, like she was a stand of dry timber – and Lord Bruard was a blazing torch, primed to send her up in roaring flames. She’d reminded herself over and over that too many other women felt exactly the same, and if she had any pride she’d stifle this unwilling fascination. Good heavens, even Lady Derwent’s eighty-year-old maiden aunt went all silly and giggly at the sight of this infamous rake.

Selina’s existence had been grim and purposeful. The only happiness she’d ever known was founded in her love for her son. She’d never before fallen prey to an irresistible attraction. And to such an unworthy object, at that. She was disgusted with herself.

Although no amount of disgust changed the way the mere sound of the Scottish earl’s voice made her skin tighten in desire and her heart race with excitement.