Sins and Scoundrels Books 1–3

by Scott, Scarlett

  Men who took by force did not like to be bested.

  As he reached the chamber where they had been told Frederica had been taken—Duncan had far more coin to grease the palms of the tavern keeper than Willingham did, and in the end, greed won—a scream tore through the air. The scream belonged to Frederica.

  Every thought fled, and he was mindless. A weapon. He threw himself into the door, shoulder first, determined to get to her. To tear Willingham apart with his bare hands if he must. On the second attempt, the door splintered open, and he crashed into the chamber with a warrior’s cry, his pistol raised.

  The earl had been grappling with Frederica, but upon Duncan’s forced entry, he spun, holding her against him in a tight grip, pointing a pistol to her temple. Her dress had been torn to the waist, revealing her shift. Her hair was in wild disarray, her eyes wide and fearful, sobs making her chest rise and fall in jerky motions, tears on her cheeks.

  “Release Lady Frederica,” he ordered Willingham with a bravado he little felt, given the gun pressing into Frederica’s skull and the finger of a demented scoundrel upon the trigger.

  “Take one step closer, and I will end her,” the earl warned, his tone one of deadly intent.

  “If any harm comes to her, this day will be your last,” Duncan warned. He had a pistol in his hand, and three armed men at his side—including Hazlett, who was a madman when the situation warranted it—and he was not going to allow the soft-palmed lecher before him to hurt Frederica.

  Lords did not strike him with awe as they once had, before he had been wise and world-weary enough to know better.

  Men of honor, men who upheld their words and promises, who were honest, loyal, and steadfast in their actions and promises, those men impressed him. Men like Willingham? They were not men at all.

  He just needed time. Distraction.

  “You are too late, brother,” Willingham taunted. “I already had her.”

  The earl’s claim hit him like a blow. He stiffened, absorbing the shock, the denial. For a moment, his gaze searched Frederica’s frantically. My God, had he been too late?

  He stepped forward, spurred by the need to protect Frederica and the need to decimate Willingham. “If you have hurt her, I will kill you myself. Slowly.”

  Holding Duncan’s gaze, the earl grabbed a fistful of Frederica’s shift and tore, revealing her breasts. And then he palmed one roughly, squeezing until she cried out in pain and her creamy skin reddened with the force of his violence. “She likes it rough. I’ve heard you like to watch, Kirkwood. Perhaps I ought to fuck her again in front of you. Will that be evidence enough that she is damaged goods? My seed is already inside her, but I will show you once more if it would convince you to leave what is mine alone.”

  Frederica’s eyes were closed, her nostrils flared. The sight of her being hurt before him was pure torture. Bloodlust rose within him, pure and true, and he vowed the earl would pay for this. He made to take another step forward, but Hazlitt halted him with a hand on his arm and a meaningful look. There was a reason Hazlitt was his right hand.

  “She is not yours,” he told Willingham flatly. “You cannot fathom her father would willingly give her hand to you after you have abducted her and abused her. Your game is at an end. Release her now, and we will allow you to walk away with impunity.”

  “She is mine, and I will do what I want to her.” To emphasize his proclamation, the earl roughly twisted Frederica’s nipple, pinching it, pulling it.

  Frederica’s eyes shot open, luminous and shockingly green, the greenest he had ever seen them. “I love you, Duncan,” she said.

  “And I love you.” The words left him of necessity, without thought, without restraint. He loved her more than he had even imagined possible, and he regretted deeply telling her for the first time whilst she was being held captive by a lunatic.

  And then he realized, in the next horrifying instant, that she meant to sacrifice herself.

  Everything unfolded in a mad jumble. With a roar, he leapt forward. Frederica jammed her elbow into Willingham’s midsection. Pistols fired. His. Another’s. Plaster rained. A scream rent the air. A hoarse cry echoed. Duncan fell to his knees. A body dropped to the floor with a sickening thud. Blood rushed over the dirty floorboards, filling in the gaps between planks with their dark red abundance.

  Chapter Nineteen

  One month later

  Husband.

  It was a new word for Frederica.

  A beloved word. She wanted to say it over and over. Aloud. In her mind. She wanted to write it on foolscap a hundred times and then simply stare at it, absorbing the breathtaking beauty contained in seven simple letters.

  “Will there be anything else this evening, my lady?” asked her new lady’s maid after giving a final stroke of her brush through Frederica’s unbound locks.

  She looked at her reflection in the glass, scarcely recognizing herself. A cloud of dark hair rained down her shoulders. Her eyes were wide and vibrant, her skin pale in contrast to the robe she had chosen with her husband in mind. It was midnight-black silk, soft and wicked, just as he was.

  “Mrs. Kirkwood, if you please,” she said with a smile. “And no thank you, Verity. That will be all.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Kirkwood.” Verity curtseyed, and then hastily took her leave.

  “Husband,” Frederica repeated to herself, her smile deepening.

  At long last, Duncan was hers, and she was his. The wound on her arm, caused by the Earl of Willingham’s pistol, had almost entirely healed. Thankfully, in the melee which had ensued following her elbow to his midsection, his pistol had been sufficiently dislodged so that it had fired into the ceiling, merely glancing off the tender flesh of her upper arm in the process.

  Two bullets—one belonging to Duncan and one belonging to Mr. Hazlitt—had found their mark in the earl. A shudder passed through her as she thought of that horrible day and all its terror and pain. In the end, the earl had found his absolution, dying on the floor of the tavern where he had spirited her, choking on his own life source. Penance, Duncan had told her calmly that day, and he had been right. He can never hurt another woman again now.

  It was her only solace that day, along with knowing he could have hurt her far worse than he had. He had manhandled her, groped her, and torn her gown, and she thanked the Lord every day that Willingham had not forced himself upon her as he had intended. He had run out of time, thanks to Duncan’s swift arrival.

  Not long afterward, she had learned the full truth from Duncan, that he had given up his revenge to wed her. Even after Willingham’s death, he had still returned the vowels to Amberley. I do not need revenge any longer, he had told her. You are all I need.

  In the month following the tumult at the tavern, Duncan had convinced her father to allow them to marry. The scandal of Willingham’s death had created quite an outcry, and though Duncan had made every effort to keep her name from the scandal sheets, she remained the betrothed of a man who had died in salacious fashion, shot to death—as the story went—by his lover’s husband. Creating a new diversion—the love match between the gaming hell owner and the duke’s wallflower daughter—had proved a boon.

  Suddenly, Frederica had found herself in the scandal sheets, depicted as a tiny maiden slung over the shoulder of an enormous beast of a man who carried dice in one hand and a bag of coins in the other. She did her best to ignore the intentionally hurtful caricatures. Some people relished being mean spirited and unkind, and ignoring them was the most effective ammunition against such miscreants.

  If ever there was a time to push such trifles from her mind, it was tonight.

  Her wedding night.

  She awaited Duncan in her new bedchamber, an immense and luxuriously appointed room he had decorated with her in mind. From the elegant Aubusson to the exquisitely carved bookshelves and matching writing desk—complete with a plentiful supply of writing implements and foolscap—the chamber had taken her breath from the moment she had first crossed
the threshold. Mother had given her hundreds of baubles and trinkets, but never had she received a gift that was so perfect for her. A knock sounded at the door adjoining her chamber to his.

  Except for the man himself. He was the most perfect gift of all. The only one she would ever need for the rest of her days.

  She smiled. “Enter.”

  And there he stood, her husband. Mr. Duncan Kirkwood, notorious gaming hell owner, unrepentant sinner with a surprisingly gentle heart, and a thoroughly beautiful man. He, too, wore black, a banyan belted at the waist, and she drank in the sight of him, tall and lean and strong and hers.

  Only hers.

  Their eyes met from across the chamber, and a grin curved his lips, so wide his dimples appeared in a rare show. He made a full, elegant bow that should have seemed silly given his bare calves and feet peeping from beneath his robe. But Duncan could do anything, and with his singular, debonair grace, he never failed to make heat blossom inside her.

  “My lady,” he said, still grinning as he ended his bow and strode over the handsome Aubusson to where she stood.

  “Mrs. Kirkwood,” she corrected for the second time that evening, smiling back at him.

  “Mrs. Kirkwood.” His large hands splayed on her waist, drawing her against him.

  “I like the sound of that, Mr. Kirkwood.” Their betrothal—in spite of all the wagging of tongues it had produced—had been exceedingly proper. Her father had insisted upon it, and her mother had spent many a frustrating hour as an impediment to their time alone, detailing the spoils of her shopping expeditions in unwanted detail. Frederica had not even been alone with Duncan until today.

  Twining her arms around his neck was a privilege she had been denied for far too long, and she did it now, her soft curves seeking out the unforgiving, masculine planes of his body. He radiated heat, his delicious scent of musk, amber, and lemon sending a trill of want to settle between her thighs.

  “As do I, my angel.” Reverently, he settled his lips over hers.

  He kissed her sweetly, coaxing her mouth open, his tongue dipping inside. He tasted of chocolate, sweet and bitter and exotic. And of Duncan, of everything her heart yearned for. His hand roamed from her waist to cup her face, and he withdrew, looking down at her, devouring her with his brilliant gaze.

  “Thank you,” he breathed.

  Her lips tingled with his kiss, and she wanted more. “For what?”

  He kissed the tip of her nose, his eyes never straying from hers. “For trusting in me when I did not deserve it. For marrying me when I am not worthy of you. I know this is not the life you ever envisioned for yourself, that I am not who you would have chosen, given different circumstances. But I will do everything within my power to make you happy, Frederica. From this day until my last, and even beyond if I can help it.”

  She traced her fingers over the slash of his cheekbone, the divot in his chin. “This is precisely the life I have always wanted, and you are the only man I would ever choose. I love you, Duncan, with all my heart, with everything that is in me.”

  “That day in my office, you told me you wanted to wed a paragon, and Christ knows I am far more sinner than I could ever be saint.”

  He had remembered. It was a day she would never forget. Thinking of it still made her cheeks go hot and a pulsing ache throb between her thighs. “I told you I wanted someone who is caring, who is kind. Someone who will not frown upon my writing. A man who will champion me rather than attempt to silence and stifle me. A man who is bold and adventurous of spirit. That is what I said that day, and the man I described is you, my love. It has always been you.”

  His expression turned fierce. “I love you so damned much, Mrs. Kirkwood.” His thumb swiped gently over her lower lip. “But you have some of it wrong, I am afraid. I am not kind. Nor am I particularly adventurous, though I shall gratefully rectify that as long as you are willing to help me and a bed is nearby.”

  “You are wicked, too. I do think I neglected to mention that trait, also quite dear to me.” She ran her fingers through his thick, golden hair, allowing the silken strand to sift gently back to his scalp. “But you are kind indeed, and I have always known it. Mr. Hazlitt told me about the foundling house you built, and of all the funds you have given to women and children in need.”

  His jaw tensed, a flush rising on his high cheek bones. “Hazlitt bloody well should have held his tongue.”

  “I am grateful he told me.” She kissed him, a quick though fervent peck. How could he see himself as anything but the good, honorable man he was? “It makes me love you more. You may dress in black, but your heart is pure as snow.”

  “I do not know about that.” His lips met hers again. “My heart wants to do some wicked and depraved things to you tonight.”

  Anticipation coiled within her. “Then perhaps you should, husband.”

  “With pleasure.” Before she realized what he was about, he scooped her into his arms and turned, carrying her toward his chamber. “Tonight, I want you in my bed, where you belong.”

  She buried her face against the strong cords of his throat, pressing a kiss there, where the throb of his pulse reminded her of how vital, alive, and necessary he was. How beloved. “I love you.”

  He set her gently on her feet alongside his bed, and then his mouth was upon hers, fierce and hungry. Their hands traveled over each other’s bodies, tugging open knots, discarding silk, until there remained no more impediments between them. And then he lifted her onto his bed.

  She had a moment to feast on the glorious sight of him naked—his long legs and thick thighs, broad shoulders and sculpted chest, the lean plane of his abdomen, and the long, beautiful jut of his cock—before he joined her, settling between her thighs. “You are mine, angel,” he said, dropping a kiss on her knee. “Here.” Higher, trailing delectable nibbles over her thigh. “Here.” Over her belly, worshiping one puckered nipple and then the other. “Here, too.” Back down her body he traveled, setting her aflame as he went. He kissed her mound. “Especially here.”

  Words fled her as he suckled the hidden bud, drawing a taut burst of exquisite pleasure through her. His finger slid through her folds, probing gently at her entrance as he sucked and laved and nipped, working her into a frenzy. More. She needed more. Him inside her.

  She twisted her hips off the bed, and he gave her what she wanted, his finger sliding wetly to the hilt. But it was not enough. He seemed to sense her building need, adding a second finger, gently using his teeth. Her core contracted instantly, a series of breathtaking spasms rocking through her as she spent.

  He kissed his way up her body once more, over her ribs, across her breasts. He kissed above her madly beating heart. “And most importantly, here,” he murmured against her skin.

  She caressed him everywhere she could. His shoulders, his chest, and then she grew daring enough to reach between them, taking him in her hand. He was hot and firm, the skin surprisingly silken. Touching his rigid manhood made a fresh ache pulse within her, a new onslaught of need.

  The breath hissed from him, fluttering over her flesh. “Bloody hell, angel.”

  “Do you like this?” she whispered.

  “Yes.” He took her hand in his and showed her how to pleasure him.

  He kissed her throat, kissed a path to her ear, nibbling at it until she shivered. His large body was atop hers, a welcome weight pressing her to the bed. She slid her hand over him, up and down, relishing her ability to make him groan and rock against her.

  “I love you,” he said as he trailed his lips across her jaw.

  They met in a kiss, open-mouthed and voracious, tongues tangling. She tasted herself on his tongue, mingling with his chocolate. Frederica sucked on his tongue, body angling against his, seeking more. Seeking everything. She wanted to consume him and to be consumed by him all at once.

  He broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to hers. “Put me inside you.”

  His sinful command sent a trickle of wetness between her thighs. Fee
ling bold, she guided him to where she ached. As one, they moved. His cock glided inside her. One thrust of his hips, and he was buried inside her as deep as he could go. She was full of him, stretched, and this time, there was no nip of pain, only the sweet rush of boundless pleasure.

  He sealed their mouths again, and it was the kiss of possession. The kiss that said she was his and he was hers. It was the kiss that said they had both finally found their home in each other.

  Duncan flexed his hips, beginning a rhythm that was torturously slow at first, allowing her body to accommodate his size. As she arched against him, demanding more, faster, he obeyed, thrusting in and out. They were one, mindless together. His fingers plucked at the sensitive bud he had already so thoroughly pleasured, and it was all she needed.

  She cried out her release, clenching on him, bringing him deeper. He sank inside her faster, harder, riding out the ripples of her pleasure, until he reached his release. He came with a hot rush inside her, and she clung to him, their hearts pounding together.

  “I love you,” she said when she had at last caught her breath.

  He kissed her slowly. “I love you, my angel. You are a miracle. My miracle, and I’ll never stop loving you.”

  *

  Frederica looked at the Duke of Amberley, and she could only feel one emotion: pity. Before her sat a man in the sunset of his life, a man who had no one and nothing left. He had shuffled into her drawing room with his walking stick and his pronounced limp, as if the weight of the world had settled upon him and he found himself struggling against it. He looked far older than his years, a man who had lived a life of iniquity and now paid the price.

  It was late afternoon, and Duncan was not yet due to return from his club. When the duke had initially sent word he wished to meet with her, she had been stunned. Her initial reaction had been to deny him, but she had relented against her better judgment, wondering why he had requested an audience so long after what had transpired with Willingham.