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Game for Trouble by Karen Erickson (Game for It #2)

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18282682He’ll play dirty to get what he wants…

Willow Cavanaugh would be happy if she never saw cocky football star Nick Hamilton again. Sure, their fling was the hottest she’d had, but he’s way too much of a playboy to settle down with one woman. Plus, she’s got her heart set on a piece of real estate for her catering business—and Nick owns that property.

Nick may be at the top of his game, but all he wants is a second chance with Willow. When he offers to sell her his commercial space if she agrees to a series of dates with him, their chemistry is so scintillating that jumping back into bed seems like an inevitability. But Willow’s decided all’s fair in sex and blackmail. Little does she know, Nick’s playing to win…and she’s the prize.

Game for Trouble can be purchased from Amazon

Why do you need to read this book? I just loved the character of Willow – she totally rocks!

My Scandalous Viscount by Gaelen Foley Book #5 in the Inferno Club Series

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5204146_origMeet the courageous men of the Inferno Club as they face their greatest challenge yet: marriage!

Sebastian, Viscount Beauchamp lives by a code of honor, and now honor dictates he must marry Miss Carissa Portland. He has no regrets over stealing a kiss from the adorable little busybody—a fitting punishment for putting her delectable nose where it didn’t belong. But now, caught in a compromising situation, he knows he must make her his bride. He’s faced danger before—but nothing like this! Carissa is not a gossip—she’s a “lady of information.” And all she was trying to do was warn the rakehell Beauchamp away from an irate husband. But even she can’t flaunt Society, and while her head tells her that Beau’s a notorious scoundrel, her heart–and her body–are captivated by his dangerous charm. But when Carissa next goes snooping, the secrets she uncovers about the Inferno Club may prove even more hazardous than falling in love with your own husband!
Why do you need to read this book? Carissa was totally delightful! The combination of Beau and Carissa had me laughing one moment and then reaching for tissues the next! Loved this book!
My Scandalous Viscount is available from Amazon
Excerpt:

Chapter One

Some people in this world (fools) were happy minding their own
business. Miss Carissa Portland wasn’t one of them.Seated between her cousins, the formidable Denbury Daughters, with their governess, Miss Trent, snoring softly on the end, she trailed her dainty opera glass slowly over the capacity audience of about a thousand souls in attendance
that Saturday night at Covent Garden Theatre.To be sure, the little dramas, comedies, and farces playing out among the Quality present were far more intriguing than anything happening on the stage.

Besides, knowing everybody else’s secrets in the ton seemed the safest way to guard her own.

Perusing the three gilded tiers of private boxes, she scanned along at a leisurely pace, while the lenses of other ladies’ opera glasses winked right back at her.

Fluent in fan language, as well, she watched for those coy signals a lady could discreetly send her lover.

Hmm, over there. Lady S–, sitting with her husband had just flicked her fan in an arc to Colonel W–, who had come with his fellow officers from his regiment. The uniformed coxcomb
smiled slyly in receipt of the invitation. Carissa narrowed her eyes.

Typical tomcat male. She’d better be careful with him.Drifting on, she picked out the subjects of other various rumors here and there: the jeweled countess said to be dallying with her footman; the political lord who had just sired twins on the mistress he swore he didn’t have.

From opposite ends of the theatre, two branches of a feuding family glared at each other, while on the mezzanine, a notorious fortune-hunter blew a subtle kiss to the heiress of some encroaching toadstool who owned coal factories.

Tut, tut, poor man, she thought when her casual spying happened across the sad figure of a cuckolded husband who had just filed a crim-con case against his wife’s seducer.

Well, the demireps preening in their box and putting their wares on display in low-cut gowns seemed more than happy to comfort him.

Humph, thought Carissa.

All of a sudden, her idle scan of the audience slammed to a halt on a particular box, second tier, stage left.

A gasp escaped her.

He’s here!At once, her foolish heart began to pound.

Oh, my.Encircled in the lens of her dainty spyglass, there he sat, lounging in his chair, his muscled arms folded across his chest…

He was staring right back at her.

A wicked smile slowly crept across his face, and just to confirm that, oh, yes, he saw her ogling him, the handsome hellion sent her a cheeky little salute.

She let out an almost feline hiss and dropped her lorgnette onto her lap as though she had been burned.

She vowed not to touch it again–at which the audience let out another wave of rumbling laughter.

Oh, bother. She shifted in vexation in her seat and looked around uneasily. Of course, they weren’t laughing at her, though she probably deserved it.

Devil take him, that rogue’s glance made her feel like one of the
demireps.

To her own dismay, Carissa Portland had secretly become fascinated by a libertine.

Again.

Where this weakness in her came from, this shameful susceptibility to a well-made man, she quite despaired to guess. Perhaps it was her auburn hair to blame.

Redheads were notorious for their more passionate nature. Probably hogwash, she admitted, but to her it sounded as good an excuse as any.

What his excuse was, well, he didn’t bother making one. A golden demigod striding the earth like a wayward son
of Aphrodite didn’t have to.

Charming, quick-witted, unbelievably handsome, with
a smile that could have melted ice floes across the Nordic Sea.

Sebastian Walker, Viscount Beauchamp, could have got away with murder if he fancied. He was the Earl of Lockwood’s heir, known to the ton as Beau.

They had been introduced some weeks ago by mutual acquaintances: Her closest friends, Daphne and Kate, were married to his fellow Inferno Club members, Lord Rotherstone and the Duke of Warrington. So they moved in the same
circles, and of course, she’d heard his reputation.

He had lived up to it in spades with her not long ago. The scandalous beast had actually kissed her.

In public!

She had made the mistake of stopping him when he was in a hurry on his way somewhere. She had been leery about confronting him, but she had needed a simple answer to a very serious question:

Where the dash has everybody gone?Both Daphne and Kate had been missing from Town for weeks without explanation. This was totally unlike them.

Because of Lord Beauchamp’s friendship with their husbands, she was sure he must know something. The aforementioned husbands had also disappeared, supposedly on some hunting trip to the Alps.

But Carissa was starting to doubt everything she thought she knew about her friends. Everyone in their set had been acting so mysteriously before they all had vanished. It was all very upsetting.

She had no firm information yet (maddening!) but clearly, something was afoot. Most of all, she did not understand why she should have been excluded.

The truth was, frankly, it hurt.

Thankfully, she had received a letter from Daphne at last, confirming she was safe, but her friend’s verbiage seemed deliberately vague. And so, with relief had come even greater annoyance.

Why on earth were they keeping her in the dark? Didn’t they trust her?!

In an effort to get answers, she had cornered Beauchamp in a safe (so she thought) public place. But when she had delayed him too long with her, as he put it, “nagging,” the gorgeous brute had simply snatched her up in his arms and put a stop to her questions with a lusty kiss.

As if she were some wanton trollop on the corner!

If it had not been raining . . . if he had not shielded them from public view with his umbrella . . . she was sure the scandal would have been so calamitous, she’d have hanged herself by now, or (more fashionably) drowned herself in the Serpentine.

Well, the blackguard clearly did not understand the first rules of decent behavior. Though he certainly knew how to give a woman one hell of a kiss.

She put him and the whole discomfiting episode out of her mind with a will, redirecting her attention toward the stage.

The evening’s program had begun with a concert of Vivaldi’s exuberant “Spring,” followed by a mediocre tragedy called

The Grecian Daughter.The comic afterpiece,

 The Fortune of War,was the one everyone had been waiting for. It was the latest bit of hilarity by the popular Mr. Kenney, a notable wit of the day and founding member of the gentleman’s club, Boodle’s.Though the play lacked Mr. Kenney’s beloved recurring character, the rascally Jeremy Diddler, the crowd seemed to be enjoying it.

Waves of laughter washed over the audience as the characters bantered back and forth across the stage.

Carissa did her best to pay attention, but from the corner of her eye, she was acutely aware of Lord Beauchamp.

When the curtain whisked closed briefly for the stagehands to change the scenery, she could not resist another cautious peek in his direction.

Her curiosity instantly perked up as she spied one of the orange-sellers stepping into his box to deliver a message to the viscount. Carissa saw him take the little note and read it while the orange-girl waited for her coin.

Well, Carissa had no choice. Her innately nosy nature compelled her. She snatched her opera glass up from her lap and lifted it to her eye just in time to see the smoldering look that gathered on his chiseled face. Lord Beauchamp glanced across the theatre with a suave nod, acknowledging the sender: Carissa
zoomed her opera glass in that direction, too, trying to follow his gaze.

To no avail.

Whoever had sent him the note was lost amid the crowd.

Indeed, it could have been any of Society’s highborn harlots wanting to take her turn with him tonight. Scowling, she searched the tiers across from him. Honestly, she did not know if she was more vexed at Beauchamp for having all the morals of a blood stallion, or at herself, for being jealous at how free
he was with his meaningless affections.

She swung her opera-glass back to the viscount to see what he’d do next. Beau turned to the orange-girl and asked for something; she handed him a pencil.

While he scrawled his reply, Carissa memorized what the orange-seller looked like: a tall, weary lump of a peasant girl. Then the libertine handed her his note along with a coin, and sent her off to deliver his answer.

As the orange-girl disappeared through the small door of his private box, questions gnawed Carissa. Who was he involved with these days? Of course, she knew there were many women around him as a rule, but was there any one in particular?

And why do you care? her better sense inquired.

I don’t know. Do I need a reason?Yes, it answered.

She shrugged, refusing to admit to anything.

I just want to know because–because I want to know!

Suddenly, she was seized with a wicked inspiration.Why, she could either sit here festering on it, burning with curiosity about which feckless female meant to hurl herself into his clutches tonight, or do something.

And go find out.

After all, as a lady of information, she had long since discovered that orange girls . . . could be bribed.

Right. Instantly rising from her chair, she excused herself with a whisper. Miss Trent awoke with a disoriented jolt, while the Denbury Daughters rolled their eyes. Which was the spoiled beauties’ response to most things, actually.“What are you doing?” Lady Joss, age nineteen, complained at
her.

“I have to go to the ladies’ lounge.”

“Can’t you just hold it?”

“No.”

“That’s disgusting,” Lady Min, age seventeen, opined.

“Sorry.” Dismissing her cousins’ perpetual irritation with her, she slipped out of the Denbury box and closed the little door behind her.

At once, Carissa swept off down the third-floor hallway, her slippered feet pattering busily in the quiet.

She had to find and intercept that orange-seller.

She knew she should not care who Beauchamp would be bedding tonight, but everything in her had to get a look at that note.

Seeing it with her own eyes, she reasoned, would surely help remind her of certain cold realities.

Gorgeous rakehells like Lord Beauchamp were nothing but trouble. They chased after pleasure and did not care who got
hurt.She should know.On the other hand, in all fairness, she supposed, she had to admit there sometimes seemed to be more to him than just charm and charisma. And broad shoulders. Lovely muscles. Mesmerizing eyes the color of sea-foam that danced when he laughed, which was often, a rugged jaw-line, and extremely kissable lips…She shook herself back to the task at hand, hurrying on.
Indeed, physical appeal aside, he had actually done a few interesting things in his life.Using her usual methods, she had managed to ferret out a number of interesting tidbits about him, including some highly colorful exploits in his past.Of course, his origins came from a lineage as excellent as her own. His mother, Lady Lockwood, had been a great beauty of her day, indeed, still was, now in her fifties. His father, the Earl of Lockwood was said to be a brusque curmudgeon who did not often come to Town, but preferred the “huntin, shootin’”
life of a country lord.

She did not know where Beau had spent his childhood, but as a young man, he he had gone to Oxford, studied Greek and Latin, and excelled in his classes without having to try–so she’d heard. Too smart for his own good, according to her sources, he had been easily bored and had preoccupied himself with carousing and all manner of wild adventures.

And even from his teens, there had been women.

An indecent number of women.

But apparently, the lusty young aristocrat had his heroic moments, too. On one occasion, at age twenty-one, according to the rumor mill, he had been heading home in the wee hours after a long night’s revelries, when he had come across a lodging house on fire.

Whether the whiskey he’d been drinking all night had made him foolishly brave, or if he was always like that, she could not say. But he had rushed into the burning building and rescued everyone inside before the fire company could even get there.

He’d saved some twenty people’s lives.

Not long after that, his father, the earl, had made him a Member of Parliament for one of the pockets boroughs he controlled. He had thrust the post upon his son so he might gain experience to help prepare him for one day taking his seat in the House of Lords.

Little had the earl expected the young MP to stand up and outrage the leaders of both parties with his fiery idealism, his blistering reproaches, and his regrettable refusal to compromise.

It was nice to know he had not always been a cynic, she supposed, and that he had a sense of civic duty despite his many romantic peccadilloes. By the time he had resigned his post a year later in angry disgust and returned to his rakehell ways, he had made enough political enemies to last a lifetime.

These, in turn, got their revenge on the bold young viscount in due time, when word got out that he had fought a duel against some hot-headed rival for the favors of one of Society’s highborn wantons.

Beauchamp, universally acknowledged as a crack shot, had not deigned to kill the man who had challenged him, but had wounded him. As a result, his opponent had to have his leg amputated below the knee, and unfortunately, he had turned out to be the nephew of a Cabinet minister.

Of course, there were rules on the books against dueling, but as a courtesy to the upper class, who lived and died by honor, these laws were almost never enforced.

Unless one had enemies in high places.

The bureaucrats had come down on Beauchamp like a hammer, claiming they must make an example of him to teach other young Englishmen that they could not simply go around shooting each other.

It was all Lord Lockwood could do to keep his merry scapegrace
son out of Newgate. Instead, after a very large fine and damages paid to the now one-legged hothead, the handsome young duelist had been sent off, unsurprisingly, to travel. Sow his wild oats abroad, as it were. He was given some post loosely attached to the war effort, she’d heard, but on his father’s
insistence, was generally kept out of harm’s way, well behind the lines.

It was rather hard to imagine that one staying out of trouble, she mused, but somehow the war had ended, and here he was, back again, unscathed.

Rumor had it he had now returned home for good.

Of course, he was scarcely back in England three
months before he was in trouble again.

She wasn’t sure yet what the hell-raiser had done this time, but she had first caught wind of his latest scrape while snooping in her uncle’s study.

She knew that her guardian, Lord Denbury, and his cronies in the House of Lords kept each other informed about the goings-on in their various committees. One of these Parliamentary briefs sent to her uncle had revealed that Viscount Beauchamp was under investigation by a secret panel from the Home Office.

No details were given beyond that.

It was altogether perplexing–and just another piece of proof that behind that sunny smile, he was one beautiful, bad seed.

Hurrying down the empty stairwell, Carissa pressed on to the mezzanine level, glancing here and there, hunting for that particular, weary-looking orange-girl.

Muffled dialogue from the stage and swells of laughter from the audience poured through the walls from the play in progress. Mr. Kenney was obviously killing them with his famous sense of
humor.

Carissa had no time for mere entertainment, however, bustling down the mezzanine corridor, all business.

“Can I help you, Miss?” one of the uniformed attendants whispered as she passed.

She shook her head, gave what she hoped looked like an innocent smile, and hurried on.

It would not do for anyone to discover this secret method of hers for gaining information. Glancing into her reticule to make sure she had a few coins for the bribe, she whisked along the curve of the mezzanine hallway where it hugged the back contour of the closed auditorium.

As she came around the bend, she finally saw the orange-girl she was after, but she ducked into the nearest curtained alcove with a gasp. Someone had beaten her to it!

Ever so cautiously, Carissa peeked around the edge of the alcove. Blast it, who’s that? He stole my plan.

Then a chill came over her as she studied the man talking to the orange-girl.

He was beautiful, black-haired and wind-blown, as if he’d just come back from his travels; and from his muscled body to his dark scowl, he looked decidedly mean.

Her mouth went dry as she watched him bribe the orange-girl for a look at the note some lady, perhaps his lady, had exchanged with Beauchamp. Carissa’s heart pounded.

Oh,
Beau, I hope you didn’t sign your name.They never did, on those clandestine notes.

Surely he was too smart and experienced for that. But if he had
made that mistake, she feared the rakehell might be headed for another duel. It looked as though she might not be the only one feeling jealous tonight.

Huddling behind the curtain of the alcove, she watched in trepidation as the handsome, black-haired man read the note and scoffed.

A snort of cynical laughter escaped him. He shook his head with a bitter smile, then tautly asked the orange-girl for another piece of paper, which she gave him. He crumpled the original note in his fist and stuffed it into his breast pocket.

Then he wrote back another message of his own.

With a dark look, he handed his note to the orange-girl, laying a finger over his lips, warning her to secrecy.

He slipped a paper bill into her hand and sent her on her way. Still unaware of Carissa, the stranger watched the orange-girl hurry off, his arms akimbo, his feet planted wide. Then, with a cold smile, as though satisfied his trap was laid, he pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the theatre.

Carissa eased out of her hiding place a moment later, dread tingling through her body.

Oh, Beauchamp, you’re being set up.She scarcely dared imagine what might happen to him if he went to meet his femme du jour, whoever she might be. He could be killed!Once more, Carissa was in motion, chasing after the orange-girl to stop her from delivering that note, which was naught but a piece of treachery.

Beauchamp might be a bad, decadent libertine, but she was not about to let anyone murder him!

Rushing after the orange-seller into the quiet side hallway that backed the row of private theatre boxes, she skidded to a halt.

Too late!

The lump had just stepped through one of the narrow doors, halfway down the row.

Oh, no. What do I do now?

Heart pounding, she glanced around uneasily.Merely standing here, unchaperoned, in a part of the theatre where she did not belong was something of a gamble.

Having missed the orange-girl, the thought of venturing into Beauchamp’s box to try to warn him–to risk being seen there by the other snoops in the audience–made her blood run cold.

She could not afford in any way to become an object of gossip herself.

She already had too much to hide.

With that, she realized the intelligent thing to do was to abandon this mad quest immediately, go fleeing back to her seat, and pretend she had seen nothing.

But a man’s life could be at stake.

And although he was entirely exasperating, the world would be a darker, duller place without him. Come to think of it, perhaps she could turn this little twist of fate to her advantage…

Oooh, she mused. An exchange of information.

 Yes!

If he’ll tell me where Daphne and Kate went and what the deuce is going on, then I will tell him what I saw. That’s fair, is it not? If he refuses, then maybe the rogue deserves what he gets.Unsure what to do, she crept toward the door to his box, then stopped. He was probably reading the false note even now, getting drawn into the trap.

She stood there, torn and hesitating, as another little problem with all this occurred to her. If she tried to warn him what she’d seen, he’d realize she had been snooping into his personal affairs.

He’d notice she was jealous, and then, oh, then he’d laugh his head off and taunt her like a schoolboy–and then, never mind the jealous husband, she would murder him herself, wring the rascal’s neck.

At that moment, before she had quite made up her mind what to do, the little door to his theatre box opened and the orange girl scampered out.

Right behind her, the rogue himself emerged, tall and princely, en route to his assignation.

He stopped the second he saw her and, at once, his eyebrows arched high.

Carissa stood frozen, staring at him, tongue-tied.

She knew she was caught; he flashed a wolfish smile that made her want to shriek with mortified fury and run away. But she held her ground with a gulp while the orange-girl rushed off, leaving them alone in the dim, quiet hallway.

Close enough to touch.

“Well, my dear Miss Portland,” he purred, trailing his gaze over her in thoroughly male appreciation. “What a very pleasant surprise. Was there something you, ah,…wanted?”

My Ruthless Prince by Gaelen Foley Inferno Club #4

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Welcome to Sugarbeat’s Books – The Home of the Romance Novel!

2701376Their forbidden love can no longer be denied.

His brother warriors fear the Earl of Westwood has turned traitor, but Emily Harper knows this is impossible for the man she has loved since childhood—as impossible as a marriage between them could ever be—she, the gamekeeper’s daughter and he, a bold and adventurous nobleman.

Driven by hatred and revenge, Westwood is playing a deadly game of deception, bent on destroying the enemy’s dark conspiracy from the inside, and he’s furious when Emily plunges herself into danger for his sake. Forced into close quarters, their long-suppressed desire explodes into all-consuming passion.

Emily knows her love can save him…but Drake is a man who doesn’t want to be saved.

 

Why do you need to read this book? This is my favorite book from the Inferno Club! The love story of Drake and Emily is not to be missed!

My Ruthless Prince can be purchased from Amazon

*   *   *

Excerpt:

Chapter One

The Bavarian Alps, 1816

When another bullet whizzed past her shoulder, she whirled behind the nearest towering tree.

You’re as mad as he is, coming here! she thought. But what choice had she had? She was the last friend he had left in the world, and if she didn’t help him, nobody would.

All around her, the Alpine forest rang with shots and the angry, shouted orders of the black-clad guards who had come pouring out of Waldfort Castle the moment she had been spotted. Her back to the tree-trunk, chest heaving, Emily Harper waited for her next chance to run.

She had been tracking her quarry for weeks from a wary distance, but when he had arrived here, disappearing into the ominous mountaintop fortress, there was nothing she had been able to do but sneak through the woods and try to glimpse him, try to figure out how to lure him away.

But then one of the sentries had noticed her, and her efforts to rescue Drake had been cut short.

Now! Lunging into motion, she darted down the deer path once again, her brown woolen cloak flowing out behind her, her bow and quiver of arrows bumping at her back with every stride.

Golden shafts of sunlight pierced the forest’s verdant gloom ahead like angels’ lances, showing her the way. Her practiced gaze scanned for each next step over the rough, angled ground. The slope was sharp–she nearly slid–but turned slightly, dropping in an agile skid, then she leaped off the thick gnarled root of a tree that gripped a boulder like a bony hand, and raced on.

They were gaining on her.

The wild drumming of her pulse throbbed in her ears, but her footsteps fell silently over the thick bed of pine needles that softened the forest floor.

She had not stopped to count how many of these foreign mercenaries were chasing her, some on foot, some on horseback.

Some with dogs.

But if there was any doubt that the elite Promethean cabal was real, the presence of their security detail was awfully convincing.

As soon as her presence had been detected, their security forces had come pouring out from behind the walls of the remote Bavarian castle where a secret gathering of some the richest and most powerful men in Europe was underway.

If they were not up to something nefarious, then why did they need all these armed guards keeping people away?

Emily did not personally care what twisted new schemes of tyranny the highborn occult conspirators were dreaming up in their endless hunt for power. She had come for just one reason: to bring Drake home.

He did not belong here, no matter what he said, and even if these hired thugs drove her all the way back down the mountain, she vowed to herself she would merely climb it again. She refused to quit, refused to give up on him.    Her beloved lunatic needed her–whether he knew it or not. Whatever it took, she was not leaving here without him. He had not abandoned her in her darkest hour, and now the time had come to return the favor.

Drake was in more trouble than he knew. Never mind his enemies–now even his friends wanted to kill him.

“Dort! Dort ist er!” 

     “Là-bas!”

Hang it. A scowl flicked over her face as another bullet flew above her head, biting into the bark of the tree ahead.

They had seen her.

With an angry glance over her shoulder, she dodged behind an ancient elm to the side of the path ahead, shrugging her bow off her shoulder. Her hands smoothly nocked an arrow, as if with a will of their own.

As she waited for her moment, her memory was filled with images of the hours-long games of hide-and-seek she and Drake used to play as children on his family’s estate.

They had run like wild savages through the forested park of Westwood Manor back at home: the earl’s rambunctious heir and the woodsman’s untamed daughter.

Such grand rivalries had driven them to compete, trying brashly to out-brave each other in their little shared adventures, their feats of derring-do, swinging from trees, crossing fallen logs like bridges over the fairly deep ravine where the stream ran through the earl’s sprawling acreage. Who could skip a stone better, who could throw a stick farther, like a spear. They set traps for rabbits, but then were too tender-hearted to hand their prizes over to Cook. They had let the coneys go and had whiled away many a summer afternoon catching frogs.

But then, the Seeker had come, that towering, taciturn Scot called Virgil, and Drake had been chosen for the Order of St. Michael the Archangel. His parents had agreed to this secret duty laid upon his bloodlines centuries ago by the Crusader knights in his ancestry. With their blessing, he soon had gone away to that mysterious military-style school in Scotland, bragging to her that one day, he would become the Order’s greatest warrior.

She had kicked him in the shins for his boasting at the time, but then had wept her heart out when the next day came and there had been no one to play with, except for the odd collection of hurt wild animals she had nursed back to health and gradually turned into pets.

In time she got used to being alone, while Drake grew steadily toward his goal. Soon, the rowdy, black-haired boy had become a breathtakingly handsome young man, who was no longer allowed to tell her where he went each time the Order sent him out on one of those long, dangerous missions.

And then, last year, on one of the darkest days of her life, they got word from the Order that he had disappeared.

Emily pressed her back against the wide trunk of the tree, listening to her pursuers advancing.

Maybe I should let them catch me.

They would bring her into the castle, closer to Drake. But she dismissed the thought in the next heartbeat.

Too risky. She was not a lady, and angry enemy males like these were known to make rough use of lowborn women.

She would gladly give her life for Drake, but no Promethean dog would ever take her honor.

As her pursuers advanced, coming closer through the trees, Emily shot her arrow well beyond them into the woods: misdirection.

Immediately, they raced off in reaction to the sound. She nocked another arrow and fired a second for good measure. The guards rushed off to track down the source of the noise. As soon as they left, she slung her bow over her shoulder again and sped off in the other direction.

Ahead, the sunlight glittered on the rushing mountain stream where she had filled her canteen earlier. She bounded from rock to rock to get across it, but when she suddenly heard more men coming, she knew the time had come to hide.

Her gaze homed in on a low miniature cave, a mere hollow between the layers of rock, likely a fox’s den.   Eyeing it up, she saw she was slight enough of build to fit in the narrow opening–and she was desperate enough to try it.

Quick as a cat, she ran to the narrow bank of the crystal stream. It was only a strip of muddy earth and a few piled boulders before it angled up into the steep rock face that bracketed the noisy little waterfall on both sides.

Emily climbed. Her heart was pounding, but she was somehow keeping fear at bay. Still, dying in these woods so far from home was a greater possibility than she cared to admit, and the prospect of being caught and used for cruel sport by these foreign mercenaries was not much better.

Pulling herself up to the edge of the little cave, she peered into it. No one was home, thankfully, but the rounded indentation in the dirt confirmed that it had once been some animal’s dwelling place.

Emily vaulted up the rock face and rolled into the den, concealed by darkness. She pulled her cloak around her; its brownish-gray hue blended into the stone.

“He came this way, Capitan!”

She smirked to herself in her hiding place. Of course, they would assume they were following a man, whether or not they had glimpsed her boyish garb. But it was just as well, for it meant they had not gotten a clear look at her face.

“Keep moving!” a strong, English voice replied.

Emily’s eyes widened and caught her breath; she knew that deep, slightly scratchy voice like the sound of her own heartbeat.

“Go that way,” Drake added, repeating the command in French and German to the others. “I’ll check over here.”

He had to know. He had to know it was she. Surely he had sensed her in his soul through the almost mystical bond they had shared since childhood.

Heart pounding, she bit her lip against a crazed smile at his nearness. At last! This was what she had been praying for, one chance to talk to him.

To bring him back to his senses. To coax him home like one of her wounded wild animals. He did not know what he was doing, coming here.

She waited for the other men to leave, joy and relief welling up in her, even though the last time she had seen Drake, the blackguard had put a knife to her throat and used her as a hostage so he could escape.

Of course, he’d never hurt her, she assured herself.

No matter how much the Prometheans might have scarred his body and damaged his mind, even blacking out much of his memory with their abuses during the months they had kept him in that dungeon–no matter how much their evil might have changed him–he was still Drake.

And in her heart, he was still her best friend, even though it was foolish to think so, since he was an earl and she was nobody in particular.

She could hear the others retreating into the woods to continue the hunt for the intruder. Nearby there was no sound above the rapid babbling of the mountain brook. Not even the birds called, frightened away by the gunfire.

She stayed motionless for a long moment . . . until she heard his voice, quiet and grim. “Tell me, please, dear God, tell me it isn’t you in there.”

Emily slowly pulled the edge of her cloak down from her face. At first, from her vantage point, she could only see the lower half of his muscular body.

The long, loose black coat. Well-worn black leather breeches. Black knee-boots.

Hoping he would not be angry, she whisked her cloak back and rolled out of her hiding place, peeking out to make extra sure the others were gone, and then dropping lightly from the fox’s den to the narrow bank below.

She grinned at him and tossed her long hair over her shoulders. “Surprise.”

From the other side of the stream, Drake pinned her in a cold, unsmiling stare.

Her saucy grin faded as she watched his angular face pale with dread, possibly fury at the sight of her.

Shaking his head in disbelief, not uttering a word, the tall, black-haired demigod of a man scanned her from head to toe, making sure she was not hurt.

She did the same to him as she warily approached, relieved to find no new injuries on his tall formidable body. In his eyes, however, she saw the same, fractured intensity blazing in their coal-black depths.

It was then that she knew that as mad as it was of her to come here, she had done the right thing.

He was not even close to being all right.

God, it pained her, that lost look in his soulful eyes after all he had been through. Clearly, he did not understand the consequences of his actions. What did he think he was doing? The Prometheans could not possibly trust him. They would kill him, and if they did not, now the Order would.

His brother warriors now viewed him as a traitor.

She took another step toward him, holding his gaze.

“How are you? Are you all right?” she murmured.

With a cold smile, he did not answer the question.

But Emily did not take offense any more than she had the time that falcon with the broken wing had bitten her finger. Drake needed help, and that was why she was here.

Holding his gaze, she approached, though it made her heart hurt whenever she looked into his eyes and read the pain left behind by what these Prometheans bastards had done to him. His time in their captivity had turned him into a remote, brooding stranger whose very presence seethed with silent hatred and rage–a man who had once been a practical joker.

As a lad, he’d been fond of pulling pranks. In his twenties, he’d been a fun-loving rogue with the unfortunate habit of singing rude tavern songs at the top of his lungs when he was drunk, laughing off the attentions of all those horrid painted women, high and low, who fawned on him and called him “Westie,” short for his title, Earl of Westwood.      In his thirties, he was still just as beautiful on the outside. He had always been so beautiful . . . but inside, she knew the torturers had wrecked him. Destroyed his once-contagious charm, his fiery lust for life. Now she seemed to be the only one who could reach him, because of their history together.

He trusted her.

After months of beatings and interrogations, the Order had pulled whatever needed strings they could to get their agent back. Drake had been returned to them in such a damaged state that it had unsettled them all. He’d attacked his former teammates like a wild man, not recognizing them, thinking everyone wanted to kill him. Begging them not to put him in a cage, ranting that he had to get back to James. The old man was in danger, he had said over and over again. Instead of paying attention to any of this, his saddened friends had brought him home so he could mend.

It still filled Emily with rage to think of how thin he’d been when she had first seen him, how he jumped at the slightest noise.

Whatever his captors had done to scramble his wits, he’d had no recognition of his own mother or the country estate where he’d grown up.

The only thing he had remembered . . . was her.

While Lord Rotherstone, one of his closest friends in the Order, had guarded him at Westwood Manor, Emily had thrown herself into the task of healing her beloved childhood companion.

They had been making fine progress after a few weeks. She had slowly, gently, quietly, begun to lead him out of the dark storm he lived in. She had even claimed the victory of seeing him wake up one morning having slept the whole night through.

He seemed to be doing so well after a time, that the last thing she had expected was for Drake to take matters into his own hands, escaping by taking her hostage, all so that he could return to his precious James and those who had abused him.

In the face of all this evidence to the contrary, Emily still could not bring herself to believe that Drake had turned traitor. It was impossible.

No, she had an awful feeling that his real motive for coming back here was to try to get revenge.

Which just went to show how unstable he still was.

The Order had been battling the vile Prometheans for centuries. One man was not about to take down the whole organization alone. Mad or sane, though, she thought, leave it to Drake to try.

Whatever he had up his sleeve, though, clearly, he had not figured her into his plans.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded in a low, taut voice as she ventured another step toward him.

“Aren’t you happy to see me?” she attempted in an airy tone.

He looked at her in exasperation. “Not in the least.”

“You know why I’m here, Drake,” she chided softly, willing patience. “I’ve come to take you home.”

He closed his eyes. Lowered his head. And scratched his eyebrow. Which did not bode well.

Then he flicked his jet-black eyes open again and glared at her. “Get the hell out of here. Now.”

“No.”

“I appreciate the gesture, Em, but you made the trip for nothing. I’m staying here, and you are going home. Go on. Climb back into that cave and hide until we’ve pulled back to the castle. I’ll cover for you.”

“No! I’m not going anywhere without you! Do you think I came six-hundred miles for nothing?” She glanced into the woods to make sure the others were not returning.

But she warned herself not to lose sight of the fact that she was dealing with a dangerous man who was no longer quite the master of his faculties. If she pushed him too hard, there was no telling what he might do.

She reached out her hand to him. “Come with me, Drake. Escape with me now, before they come back. I’ll take care of you.”

“Oh, Emily,” he whispered with an fleeting, anguished wince.

“I already lost you once. I can’t go through that again.”

“They will kill you,” he whispered. “They will kill us both.”

“Not if we move right now. We can still get away. You know we can, you and I, together. These woods. It’ll be just like old times. Let me take care of you, sweeting. You are confused. I know you don’t want to be here.”

He shook his head, turning away from her in agitation. “Why don’t you ever listen? I can’t believe you’re here. I told you I have to do this!”

“But you don’t. Whatever you think you’re trying to do here, you’re only going to get yourself killed. I can’t allow that, Drake. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew this time, and you need to come home. Whatever James might have told you, this is notwhere you belong.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t belong here!” he shot back in a fierce whisper, taking a large step closer. “How could you put yourself at risk this way?–and you say I’m the one that’s mad?!”

“Drake, denying what you’ve been through is not going to help you get better. You’re not well! You need time to heal. Just be patient. You will get back to your full strength in time, and then maybe–”

“I’m back to my full strength,” he growled.

“Physically, perhaps. But inside, we both know you’re not ready for any sort of mission. Come home with me. You’ve got to let me help you. You know you can trust me. Please, Drake. Let’s escape now before they come back.”

“No.”

She paused, taking a new strategy. “So, you want to send me back six-hundred miles all by my myself?” she asked, for she could be as ruthless as he when the occasion called. “You know how dangerous it is in these forests. Wolves. Bears. Men.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, well aware of what she was attempting.

He had killed the last man who had threatened her.

“You’d have me travel back through three war-torn countries alone? I’m out of money. I don’t speak the language.”

“It’s a wonder you made it this far alive,” he muttered. “You’ve never even been outside the shire.”

“I followed you,” she said simply, shrugging. “You and James. I thought you almost spotted me a few times.”

He lowered his gaze. “I thought I was imagining it.” Then he shook his head at her. “Why did you do this to me?”

“Not to you. For you. Because you need me.” She took his hand in hers and pulled. “Come on, we’ll talk later. We need to go right now.”

He remained planted, though his fingers lightly encircled hers. “I’m sorry, Emily. No.”

“Drake, you’re not an agent anymore!” she whispered in exasperation. “The Order fears you have betrayed them!”

“Maybe I have. Did you ever think of that?”

“Don’t be absurd. If you turn yourself in, I know it’ll be all right. I’ll vouch for you. We’ll go to them together and explain that you just made a mistake, an err in judgment, thinking you could come here and take them down alone–”

“I did not make a mistake,” he answered darkly.

Just then, the sound of male voices nearing through the woods made Emily suck in her breath.

“Come on, Drake! Please!”

“No! I am not going with you. Now get back in that bloody cave and hide right now–”

“Enough,” she cut him off, resorting to her pistol.

He arched a brow as she drew her gun and aimed it at him.

“Let’s go, now.”

“What, you’re taking me captive?”

“Come on, you idiot!” she pleaded.

He let out a low, cynical laugh. “Pull the trigger, please.” He parted the neckline of his shirt, presenting the top of his chest. “You might as well. I’d rather you do it than anyone else.”

She glowered at him for calling her bluff, but grabbed him by his shirt with her other hand, prepared to physically drag him back to England if she had to. “I’ve had it with you. Come on, now!” she ordered, taking him captive at gunpoint. “Don’t give me any trouble. Walk!”

He was laughing at her.

“You’re coming with me. Blast it, Drake, I am trying to save you here!”

“What makes you think I have any desire to be saved?” He grasped her wrist where her hand clutched his shirt. “Let go of me, Emily.” He looked deep into her eyes and repeated in a meaningful whisper: “Let me go.”

“No,” she breathed, staring into his eyes as she shook her head. “Never.”

“I already told you it’s too late for me. I know what I’m doing, Emily. Now, go. You’ve got to do this for me. Nothing’s worth it if you should die.”

Her eyes welled with tears.

“Don’t cry.” He touched her face wistfully. “Don’t make a sound. Just go back to that cave and stay out of sight. They’re coming. Go on, now. I’ll get them out of here. Wait till we’re gone and then you run like hell down this mountain and go home. You’ve got to trust me. Tell the same to Max.”

Emily refused to move. “It’ll never be home again,” she choked out. “I can’t leave you here to die.”

He looked over his shoulder. “If you don’t run, you’re going to die with me. Is that what you want?”

“Maybe. It’s better than going back alone.”

He looked taken aback at her answer, but she held his stare in defiance. Did the idiot still not know how she felt about him?

“You have no idea of what you’ve yourself gotten into,” he uttered.

“I don’t care, I can’t let them hurt you again!”

“Damn it! I’m going to wring your neck for this,” he muttered, then suddenly grabbed her by her wrist and yanked her to him, taking the pistol out of her hand and tucking it into the back of his waist. A second before the Promethean guards rushed into the clearing by the stream, Drake did something he had never done before.

Something that shocked her to the marrow.

He caught her up in his arms and kissed her, claiming her mouth with unabashed, lusty intent.

She was too shocked at first even to react. After all, his mother had made it very clear to her years ago as an awkward fifteen-year-old that this must never happen, or her father would be sacked.

She had done her best since then not even to let girlish daydreams of kissing him play across her mind.

Not that her efforts had not always been successful.

She was old enough to know now that she wanted him, and to sense that he had often stayed away precisely because he thought about it, too.

But none of her daydreams had ever pictured their first kiss happening like this, with a dozen Promethean guards rushing into the clearing and surrounding them.

Terror mingled with intoxication: Both made her knees weak. She clutched his broad shoulders to keep from falling over, tentatively following his lead.

Drake ignored the men completely and went on kissing her, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers sensuously clutching her hips while the men jeered and shouted in surprise to find them thus.

When he finally ended the brash, rather rude kiss and released her, Emily saw stars.

“False alarm, boys,” he drawled at last, sounding slightly breathless. He licked his lips and hungrily held her stunned gaze–though she noted his exasperation with her still simmering in the midnight depths of his eyes.

She could not look away, quite in shock at him and at the potent mix of fear and want pounding in her blood.

“What’s this?” one of the guards demanded in English.

“This?” Drake cast the man one of his old, devilish grins. “This is my girl.”

“Your girl?” they exclaimed in skeptical surprise.

“Aye. You boys nearly shot my favorite little servant wench. I’d have been very cross if any of you had so much as scratched her pretty bottom.” He slapped her on the arse, and Emily gasped outright.

The men exchanged wry, humorous glances.

“Your servant, Capitan?” a leathery Frenchman questioned, as though not quite buying it.

“Oh, yes. She’s quite devoted to my comforts,” Drake said slowly, with an innuendo that roused their laughter.  “Aren’t you, love?”

Emily could not manage an answer at first, blushing and tongue-tied. She knew she had better play along, but was completely out of sorts and rather mortified.

Above all, she was stung by his insulting choice of terms for her–a servant wench, indeed?

The difference in their stations had long been a sore spot for her, as he knew full well, since this was obviously what had made his parents deem her unworthy of their splendid son. His pointed reminder of it now just went to show how furious he was at her for coming here. She quite believed His Lordship had just put her in her place.

Ungrateful villain.

“I had a feeling she might follow me. We’ve been doing this for years, haven’t we, sweetling? Ever since she was old enough to know what to do with a man. But alas, she got addicted,” he drawled, staring into her eyes. “Every time I try to set her aside, she just keeps showing up again.”

“Humph,” said Emily, lifting her chin, half amused, half outraged at his braggadocio, and well aware there was a grain of truth in it.

Indignation at his sly goading helped her find her spunk again. Very well, she could play along as brazenly as he if it meant the difference between life and death.

“If I’m the only one addicted, then why do you keeping sending for me–milord?” she countered with an arch look.

“Good question,” he murmured, staring at her in lusty approval. “You are my dirty little secret, aren’t you?”

That’s what your mother’s afraid of. She grasped the lapel of his black coat and moved closer to him. “We both know you need someone lookin’ after you.”

“And we both know what you need, as well,” he replied with an extremely wicked smile. When he ran his hands down her waist to her hips, she could not hold back a gasp; her eyes glazed over slightly.

She cursed herself for the haze of desire he cast over her, for her beloved spy was only putting on a show to deceive the others.Don’t get so excited, she told herself. This was just a ruse.

After all, it had long been established that the wild rogue Inferno Club member Lord Westwood would happily dally with any woman in England.

Except for her.

She huffed and looked away, blushing. Half of her wanted to throttle him for thwarting her perfectly sensible plan to get him out of here, while the other half wanted these onlookers to leave so the two of them could finish the game they had just started, right here on the soft forest floor.

Her pulse raced as he held her against his muscled body. No wonder the men appeared to believe their charade.     She could feel Drake’s heart pounding in response to her, as well, and the thickening swell of his nether regions against her navel.

“I was beginning to think he didn’t like women,” one of the soldiers muttered.

“No, he just likes the wrong women,” Emily tossed out with a cheeky sideward glance. “Mind your own business, anyway. I didn’t come here for you.”

“Oho! She told you!”

The men guffawed at her impertinence.

“I wish,” another opined under his breath.

She dismissed them with a queenly toss of her head while Drake watched her with a serene smile. She returned her full attention to him, running her hand up his chest in playful chiding. “As for you, sir, if you didn’t want me to come, you should’ve been more convincing in your goodbye. It was quite half-hearted, as I recall.”

Drake laughed softly and captured her chin, lifting her face to his. “Well, you’re here now, you cheeky little minx, so you might as well come in. I’m sure I can find a few uses for you when I get off duty.”

“What do you mean to do with her, Capitan?” the weathered fellow clipped out in a business-like tone.

“Good God, Jacques, use your imagination,” he retorted with a scoff. “And you call yourself a Frenchman.”

The others laughed.

“That’s not what I meant, as you well know,” Jacques answered impatiently. “What is Falkirk going to say about this?”

Drake shrugged, sliding his arm more snugly around Emily’s waist as he inspected her curves at closer range. “Nothing, likely. Whatever modest amenities I require for my personal comfort are of no interest to the Council.”

“Well, you had better ask him. He’s the one who pays us, not you.”

“True. But I’m the one who hired you sorry bastards. And I can get rid of you just as easily, don’t forget it. Falkirk would not have made me the head of his security if he did not trust my discretion. Besides, she won’t be any trouble, will you, sugarplum?” With an indulgent half smile, he tapped her fondly on the nose. “You promise to be a good girl for me?”

Emily managed an obliging smile, but the look in her eyes was a glare. Now you’re pushing your luck. “Aye, milord.”

“See? She’s very obedient.” He was deliberately goading her.

Just you wait.

“She’ll stay out of the way, so don’t you mind her. She’ll share my room,” Drake added. “That way she’ll be close to hand whenever I have need of her.”

Her pulse raced at the heated promise in his eyes.

But then, one of the younger soldiers made the mistake of an ill-timed jest. “Eh, I have a few tasks in mind the chit could do for me when you’re done with her, Capitan.”

“Ja, why don’t you pass her around when you’re through?” a tall, strapping German rumbled with a grin.

All humor vanishing, Drake slowly turned to the mercenaries, his stare icy. “What did you say?”

The feckless French lad started to repeat himself, but the older, leathery Jacques held up his arm. “Shut up, Gustave.”

Gustave looked confused. “What? Ah, come, she’s just a servant.”

“My servant. My property.” Drake said something to them in French that immediately silenced their jokes and wilted their wolfish grins.

Emily did not understand the words, but Drake’s murderous snarl was that of the pack’s dominant male warning his underlings away from a choice piece of meat. His tone of voice matched the bristling tension in his body, and his hand drifted down to the weapon at his side, as if he was quite prepared to back up the verbal rebuke with any degree of violence necessary.

She had also tensed, rather frightened. She lowered her head.

“Comprenez?” he barked.

The men mumbled in assent, shrinking from the challenge.

“Good.” He returned to English so she could understand, too, and kept his arm around her shoulders, a visible declaration of his protection–and apparent ownership. “Then let’s get back to the castle. Return to your posts and stay alert. Next time, it might not be a false alarm.”

The chastened men mumbled agreement, following the  second-in-command, Jacques, out of the grove.

Furtively, Emily sent her fierce protector an anxious glance. He was still in a bristling stance as he watched them walk ahead, indeed, he was watching their every move.

When he relaxed slightly, he looked down at her with an inquiry in his dark eyes. You all right?

She nodded, but then glanced toward the fortress in distress. To the castle, really? Must we? 

     You only have yourself to thank, his dark smirk replied, but his eyes were grim. “Come on.” He kept his arm draped across her shoulders, emphasizing his proprietary claim on her to the other soldiers who now caught up with them as they came back out onto the dusty mountain road.

Glancing around at all the armed mercenaries cowering from Drake, Emily saw no choice but to go along with this charade. He was clearly all that stood between her and an unspeakable fate.

Perhaps you should have thought of that earlier, she chided herself, her emotions in an angry tumult at this unexpected turn of events. She was furious at him for thwarting her rescue plan, and besides that, her pride still smarted from his rude reminder of her lower status.

Well, she might be a servant, but she was nobody’s ‘wench.’ How depressing, that after a lifetime’s daydreams, her idol had only kissed her at last for the sake of a ruse.

Her frustration climbed with every step they took up the winding road toward the Promethean stronghold. Blast it, this was not supposed to happen! She had not tracked him for hundreds of miles and crossed the Alps to join the madman in whatever game he was playing.

If it was a game.

A chill ran down her spine at the darkest possibility, the one she’d been refusing to consider.

Maybe he hadn’t come here for revenge.

Dread gripped her at the thought, but could it be possible that old James Falkirk really had succeeded in turning him, as his fellow agents feared?

After all the years that Drake had devoted himself to the Order, it seemed completely counter to reason. But the mind was a mysterious thing, and for a time, the wounded Earl of Westwood had forgotten everything, even who he was.

If the Prometheans could do that to him, why couldn’t they persuade him to renounce his old life and join their dark cult?

Maybe the months of torture had broken him so deeply inside that the Drake she knew and loved was truly gone, replaced by someone else, as he had tried to warn her back in England. A mindless slave with all the lethal skills of a top Order agent. Someone willing to do the enemy’s bidding without hesitation.

Someone evil.

Emily looked askance at him . . . and wondered.