He remembered how she had turned to him, a smiling apology upon her lips and in her frank grey eyes. Then, when she realised who he was, the look had changed to one of unholy amusement and soon after that, sheer dislike. He was used to ladies fawning over him, or teasing him in an attempt to gain his attention. Never before had one been so openly hostile. A tomcat! He felt a momentary shock, until his sense of humour kicked in and he laughed.
‘I fear a longer acquaintance with you will do my self-esteem no good, madam!’
‘No good at all,’ she agreed affably.
She rose and, with a nod of dismissal, she left him. Russ watched her walk away, noting the proud tilt of her head, her straight back and the soft, seductive sway and shimmer of her skirts as she glided across the floor. Perhaps it was a ruse to pique his interest. Perhaps he might indulge the widow in a flirtation. After all she was pretty enough, although nothing like the ripe, luscious beauties that he favoured.
He decided against it. Compton Parva was a small town and she was the reverend’s sister. In his experience it was better to dally with dashing matrons who could be relied upon to enjoy a brief liaison without expecting anything more lasting, and then, when the time came to part, they would do so amicably and with never a second thought. No. Much better to leave well alone.
* * *
Edwin and Molly strolled home from the King’s Head once the dancing had ended. They had decided against using the carriage for such a short journey and the full moon and balmy summer night made it a pleasant walk, but for Molly the enjoyment was dimmed as she waited for the inevitable question from her brother.
‘Well, sister, what thought you of Miss Kilburn?’
Molly was cautious. ‘She appeared to be a very pleasant girl, although we did not have an opportunity to speak a great deal.’
‘You would have had more if you had not insisted upon spending all your time with the old ladies such as Lady Currick.’
‘Edwin!’
‘Well, you must admit, Molly, you are young enough to be her daughter.’
‘But I could hardly sit with the young ladies who were waiting for partners. It was embarrassing to watch them all making sheep’s eyes at the gentlemen.’
‘You might have stayed with the ladies from Newlands,’ he suggested mildly. ‘Then you might have had more opportunity to become acquainted with Miss Kilburn.’
‘Perhaps, but these things are never easy at a ball.’
Edwin patted her hand, where it rested on his sleeve. ‘Never mind. All is not lost, my dear, we have been invited to Newlands for dinner next Tuesday. I am going fishing with Sir Gerald during the day, but I will come home to fetch you for the evening.’
Molly’s heart sank, but before she could utter a word he continued, ‘I know you usually visit Prospect House on Tuesdays, but if you take the gig, you will be back in plenty of time to change. And you will have saved yourself a tiring walk.’
‘Well, that is the clincher!’ She laughed. ‘Especially since I tell you that I am never tired.’
‘There you are, then. It is settled, you will come!’
She heard the satisfaction in his voice and said nothing more. It was clear that Edwin wanted her there and, after all the help he had given her, how could she refuse?
Copyright © 2018 by Sarah Mallory
Keep reading for an excerpt from DEVIL IN TARTAN by Julia London.
Devil in Tartan
by Julia London
CHAPTER ONE
Lismore Island, The Highlands, Scotland, 1752
THE CAMPBELL MEN landed on the north shore of the small Scottish island of Lismore in the light of the setting sun, fanning out along the narrow strip of sand and stepping between the rocks and the rabbits that had infested the island.
They were looking for stills.
They also were looking for a ship, perhaps tucked away in some hidden cove they’d not yet found. The stills and the ship were here, and they would find them.
Duncan Campbell, the new laird of Lismore, knew that his tenants—some two-hundred odd Livingstones—were gathered to celebrate Sankt Hans, or Midsummer’s Eve, a custom that harkened back to their Danish ancestors who had settled this small island.
The Livingstones, to the Campbell way of thinking, were laggards and generally far too idle...until recently, that was, when it had come to Duncan’s attention that this hapless clan had begun to distill whisky spirits without license. He’d heard it said in a roundabout way, in Oban, and in Port Appin. Livingstones were boastful, too, it would seem. Rumor had it that an old Danish ship had been outfitted to hold several casks and a few men.
Where the Livingstones lacked godly ambition, the Campbells fancied themselves a clan of superior moral character. They were Leaders of Scotland, Pillars of the Highlands, Ministers of Social Justice and they distilled whisky with a license and sold it for a tidy profit all very legally. They did not take kindly to illicit whisky that undercut their legitimate business. They were downright offended when someone traded cheap spirits against their superior brew. They disliked illegal competition so much that they took great pains to find it and destroy it by all means possible. Fire was a preferred method.
The Campbell men creeping along the beach could hear the Livingstone voices raised in song and laughter, the strains of a fiddle. When night fell, those heathens would be well into their cups and would light a bonfire and dance around it. Bloody drunkards. But alas, the Campbells did not make it more than a few dozen steps into their search when they heard the warning horn. It sounded so shrilly that it scattered rabbits here and there and, frankly, made Duncan’s heart leap. He hardly had a moment to collect himself before buckshot whizzed overhead.
Duncan sighed skyward. He looked at his escort, Mr. Edwin MacColl, whose clan inhabited the south end of Lismore, and who was diligent in paying his rents and not distilling whisky. Duncan had pressed the very reluctant Scotsman into service by threatening to raise his rents if he didn’t lend a hand. “That’s it, then, is it no’?” he asked MacColl as another shot rang out and sent up a spray of sand when it hit the bit of beach. “They’ve seen us and warned the others.”
“Aye,” MacColl agreed. “They keep a close eye on what is theirs. As any Scot would,” he added meaningfully.
Campbell recognized the subtle needling, but there was no opportunity to remind MacColl that illegal whisky was bad, very bad, because four riders appeared on the hill above them with long guns pointed at their chests. Naturally, Miss Lottie Livingstone, who, as daughter of the chief here, ran wild on this island, led them. If she were his daughter, Campbell would have taken her in hand and ended her feral behavior tout de suite.
“Laird Campbell!” she called cheerfully, and nudged her horse to walk down the grassy slope to the beach. “You’ve come again!”
Campbell groaned. “Must it be so bloody difficult to root out corruption and illegal deeds?” he muttered to MacColl. “Must the most beautiful lass in all of Scotland be the most unruly and untamed of them all?”
Apparently, Mr. MacColl had no answer to that, and in fact, he turned his head so that Duncan could not see his face. Duncan rolled his eyes and addressed the woman who lived like an undomesticated cat on this island. “Hold your fire, aye, Miss Livingstone? I am your laird after all!” As if that needed explaining.
“How can we help you, laird?” she asked.
“No’ you, lass. I’ll have a word with your father.”
Her eyes sparked, and above another glittering smile she said, “Oh, but he’ll be delighted, he will.”
The lass had a way of giggling sometimes when she spoke that made Duncan wonder if she was laughing at him or was just a wee bit off her head. He called in his men, and motioned for them to follow along as he and MacColl trudged up the hill toward the Livingstone manor.
If they couldn’t find the stills
and Livingstone would not own to them, then by God, Campbell would inquire about the past due rents. He’d have something for his trouble.
Copyright © 2018 by Dinah Dinwiddie
ISBN-13: 9781488086571
The Warrior’s Viking Bride
Copyright © 2018 by Michelle Styles
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