The Arrangement

by Sylvia Day

  As if sensing his attention on her, Diana glanced over to him and smiled. Patting their son on the head, she turned to come to where Brook watched. “Enjoying your day?” she asked, lacing her hand through his.

  “Every moment,” he replied, kissing her nose. “Are you tired?”

  “Not enough to stop,” she replied. “Are you ready to go home?”

  “If that means I can have my own time to play with you, then yes,” Brook whispered with a devilish grin.

  Diana glanced heavenward as if pleading for help, then grinned as she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Haven’t given up your wicked ways yet, hmm?”

  “Never,” Brook replied, grinning unrepentantly.

  “Good. See that you never do,” Diana stated. “Give me five minutes.” She winked, then slipped her hand away as she headed toward the house.

  As Brook studied the house and Diana disappeared inside to say goodbye to her family, he thought back to the day he took a chance and made her an offer.

  He had thought he knew what he was doing, but now it was certain that he hadn’t a clue.

  And he was thankful, because sometimes when you think you need something, you find out you were wrong.

  And fate gives you what you actually need.

  And he’d never needed anything more than he needed Diana.

  Which turned out to be very convenient indeed.

  Photo credit: Paul Gilmore

  Sylvia Day is the #1 New York Times, #1 USA Today, and #1 international bestselling author of over 20 award-winning novels sold in more than 40 countries. She is a #1 bestselling author in 28 countries, with tens of millions of copies of her books in print. Visit Sylvia at www.sylviaday.com, Facebook.com/AuthorSylviaDay, and on Twitter @SylDay.

  Photo courtesy of VJ Dunraven Productions

  Minerva Spencer was born in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. She has lived in Canada, the U.S., Europe, Africa, and Mexico. After receiving her M.A. in Latin American history from the University of Houston, she taught American history for five years before going to law school. She was a prosecutor and labor lawyer before purchasing a bed and breakfast in Taos, NM, where she lives with her husband and dozens of rescue animals.

  Don’t miss the second in Minerva Spencer’s witty and daring

  Outcasts series!

  BARBAROUS

  CHAPTER 1

  Sussex, England, 1811

  Daphne wondered if head-butting Sir Malcolm in the face had really been the best decision.

  The thought had barely entered her head when a deafening ringing and agonizing pain drove it out again. She staggered back several steps and collided with one of the ancient tree stumps that circled the clearing. Black spots danced in front of her eyes and she clutched the rough wood to steady herself, blinking hard. When she could see—somewhat—she touched her throbbing forehead and winced. Her fingers came away with blood: hers or Cousin Malcolm’s or both. She pulled her eyes from her bloody hand and looked across the small glade.

  Malcolm lay where he’d fallen, sprawled amidst the wreckage of the picnic lunch Daphne had been laying out when he’d accosted her. Her cousin had aged greatly in the decade since she’d last seen him. His brown hair, once thick and lustrous, had thinned and lost its shine, and his bloated body was a far cry from the slim, elegant dandy who’d briefly—and disastrously—held her future in his hands. There were eleven years between them and every one of them was etched into his thirty-eight-year-old face. A face now wreathed in pain and fury.

  Malcolm scrambled into a seated position and shot her a murderous glare before yanking off his cravat and lifting it to his hemorrhaging nose.

  Daphne couldn’t help thinking that a bloody, ringing forehead was a small price to pay for Malcolm’s obvious suffering. When she squinted to get a better look at his face, his puffy, blood-shot eyes shifted and blurred. She touched the bridge of her nose and bit back a groan. Blast! He must have knocked the spectacles from her face during their struggle.

  She lowered herself into a crouch, angling her body to keep Malcolm in sight while searching the grass around her feet. The glasses were special, made with a split in the lenses to accommodate her poor vision. They were also the last gift from her husband before his death. If she lost them, it would be like losing even more of Thomas. It would be—

  “Well, well, what have we here?” a deep voice boomed.

  Daphne squawked like a startled hen and tipped forward onto her hands and knees, her eyes flickering over the surrounding foliage for the voice’s owner. A distorted shadow emerged from between two big elms and grew larger, shifting into the recognizable shape of a man on a horse. A huge man on an enormous horse.

  His features became clearer—and more remarkable—with every step. He reined in midway between Daphne and Malcolm. The massive Shire horse was at least seventeen-and-a-half hands high and the man astride the beast matched his mount in both size and magnificence.

  Deeply sun-bronzed skin and golden blond hair were an exotic surprise against the pallid gray of the May English sky. But it was the black eye-patch that covered his left eye and the savage scar that disappeared beneath it that were truly arresting. He lacked only a battered tricorn and cutlass between his teeth to be every maiden’s fantasy of a handsome pirate. Was he lost on his way to a masquerade ball?

  Daphne blinked at the ludicrous notion and her thoughts, usually as well regimented as Wellington’s soldiers, then broke and ran when the stranger fixed her with his single green eye and smiled, submitting to her blatant inspection with obvious good humor.

  “Are you quite alright, Lady Davenport?” In spite of his exotic appearance, he sounded very much like an English gentleman.

  “How—” she began, and then noticed his attention had become stuck at the level of her chest. She looked down and gasped. Her jacket was ripped open from neck to waist and exposed a mortifying amount of chemise and flesh. She pinched the torn garment closed with her fingers and forced herself to look up.

  But the stranger had turned to Malcolm and was staring at him as if he’d forgotten all about her. He slid from his huge horse in a single fluid motion and took a step toward the other man before raising an ornate gold quizzing glass. His blond eyebrows inched up his forehead as he examined the bedraggled, bleeding man on the picnic blanket.

  Only the distant tweeting of birds broke the tense silence, which stretched and stretched and—

  “Ramsay?” Malcolm’s voice was muffled by the bloody cravat that covered his nose and lips and he hastily lowered the ruined garment, his mouth agape.

  Daphne looked from her cousin to the stranger and squinted—as if that might sharpen her hearing as well as her vision. Had Malcolm said Ramsay? The name teased her memory. Ramsay, Ramsay . . . wasn’t Ramsay the title of Thomas’s deceased nephew Hugh Redvers? Daphne worried her lower lip as she cudgeled her memory. Yes, he’d inherited the title through his mother—one of the rare hereditary baronies through the female line.

  Her eyes opened wider and she looked at Malcolm, who was still staring at the huge stranger. Surely the idiot could not mean Baron Ramsay—Hugh Redvers? Daphne reached out to steady herself on the rock. Perhaps the injury to her head was worse than she’d thought?

  The giant ignored Malcolm’s question, an expression of distaste settling onto his striking face the longer he stared at her cousin.

  Malcolm raised the crumpled cravat higher as he endured the silent scrutiny, until only his eyes glittered above the bloody cloth.

  Daphne recognized the malevolence in her cousin’s gaze. After all, she’d been on the receiving end of his temper more times than she cared to remember when she’d had the misfortune to live under his roof. She glanced at the stranger to gauge his reaction and encountered a grossly magnified green eye, the color somewhere between emerald and peridot.

  She swallowed, suddenly able to comprehend Malcolm’s mortification. She now knew what an insect felt like beneath a magnifying lens.

  But she was no i
nsect.

  Daphne threw back her shoulders and shot him a bold—if blurry—glare.

  His lips curved and, after several hundred years, he lowered his vile glass, took a step forward, and extended a hand the size of a dinner plate.

  Daphne wordlessly placed her own hand in his and he lifted her to her feet. He did not release her. Instead, he bowed over her captive hand and kissed the naked skin with lips that were warm and soft. Astoundingly soft, and yet the rest of him looked so very . . . hard.

  “I beg your pardon for not introducing myself immediately, Lady Davenport. Sir Malcolm has the right of it. I am Hugh Redvers, Baron Ramsay.” A mocking grin spread across his face. “Your long-lost nephew.”

  SCANDALOUS

  Book Three in the Outcasts series by Minerva Spencer

  “Have you no decency?”

  Straight-laced missionary Sarah Fisher has never met a man like Captain Martin Bouchard. He is the most beautiful person—male or female—she’s ever seen. Overwhelmingly masculine, elegantly attired despite months at sea, he is in complete command of everyone and everything around him: everyone, that is, except Sarah. But that’s about to change because Sarah has bought Bouchard’s mercy with the only thing she has to sell: her body.

  “None at all . . .”

  In spite of her outrageous offer, Martin has no doubt Sarah is a virgin, and a most delectable one at that. But instead of bedding her, he finds himself staring down the muzzle of his own pistol. Clearly, the longer she stays on his ship, the greater the chances that she’ll end up its damned captain! Most infuriating of all, she looks past his perfect exterior to the wounded man inside. Can Martin outrun his scandalous past in time to have a future with the first woman to find and capture his heart?

  Please read on for an excerpt.

  Scandalous

  Aboard the Golden Scythe

  Martin drummed his fingers on the gleaming wooden railing and stared at the Dutch ship. The vessel was upwind and too far away to smell the stench, but Martine could imagine it. The pitiful cries of the slaves was another matter. Those he could hear even from this distance.

  The dirty business of slaving was more lucrative than ever since the British and Americans had banned the importation of slaves several years back. The American South paid well for smuggled slaves as it could not function without slave labor, a fact Martin knew all too well.

  He turned to his first mate. “How many crew, Beauville?” he asked in English, rather than his native French. He’d begun speaking English after the British granted him his Letter of Marque and Reprisal, the document that made his life as a privateer possible.

  Beauville lowered his spyglass. “No more than forty, Captain, and most of those appear to be either drunk or incompetent.”

  Martin laughed at the man’s dry assessment and strode to where his second mate held the wheel. “Ready the men, Daniels, and then prepare to make the offer.”

  Although the Dutch ship had suffered some damage to its mast, it appeared to be a well-maintained ship and far cleaner than the usual run of slavers. Martin’s own ship, the Golden Scythe, had been a slave ship before he’d captured her but she’d cleaned up nicely. He regarded the immaculate deck with pride. With a crew of seventy men and fourteen cannon, the Scythe greatly outmatched the Dutch brig and was a force to be reckoned with.

  Still, it was never wise to be too cocky. If the Blue Bird carried to capacity—five hundred souls—the money involved was great. Things would become ugly if the ship’s captain was determined to fight for his cargo. Martin was confident he would triumph in such a struggle, but he knew it would not be without cost.

  A flurry of activity broke out as he watched the other ship, the crew flapping about like a flock of frightened hens. A dozen men stood near the main mast and gestured wildly to one another—a few with machetes. Martin shook his head; something odd was going on.

  Daniels appeared beside him. “Everything is prepared, Captain, and we await your command.”

  Martin turned to Jenkins, his man of all work, who held out two pistols for his inspection. He checked the guns carefully before inserting them into a holster that kept them resting on his right hip while his rapier lay on his left. The holster was of Martin’s design and allowed him to draw any of the three weapons quickly.

  He glanced into the large mirror Jenkins held up before him and flicked an imaginary piece of lint from his immaculate coat. He took his time and made a minute adjustment to his cravat, careful to keep his movements languid and his expression bored. His crew was watching, their battered faces amused, yet proud. Martin knew they drew strength from his reputation as a cold, hard killer who was more concerned with his cravat than his life.

  To be honest, Martin’s stomach churned just as much, if not more, than that of any other man on the ship. If anyone died today, he would be to blame. While that might not bother his conscience—a hardened, shriveled thing—his pride was fat and healthy, and he could not bear to have poor decisions attributed to him.

  Martin flicked his hand and Jenkins took away the mirror. Daniels’ mouth was pursed with disapproval. The younger man still found his behavior shocking even though he’d been Martin’s second for over a year. Martin found his irritation amusing. “Make the offer, Mr. Daniels,”

  “Aye, Captain!” Daniels turned and gave the midshipman a hand signal and a second later a loud crack issued from one of the Scythe’s cannons. The smoke had barely cleared before a black flag crept up the Dutch ship’s pole.

  Martin exhaled; they would parley.

  “Excellent shot, gentlemen, and very persuasive. Beauville, please escort their captain to the wardroom when he arrives.” Martin unhooked his weapon belt and handed it to Jenkins. “Don’t unload these just yet,” he advised before going below deck.

  Once inside his cabin, he cast his hat onto the desk and collapsed in a high-backed chair, careful not to crush the tails of his coat. His excessive concern for his appearance was only partly feigned. He loved fine clothing. As a young slave in New Orleans, he’d envied the wealthy, well-dressed men who’d frequented Madam Chantel’s establishment, vowing he would dress even better one day. Now he was rich enough to dress however he pleased, and what pleased him was the best.

  He idly studied his reflection in the glass that hung over his desk, frowning at the man who looked back. Nobody would ever mistake him for a European, no matter how light his eyes, skin, and hair. Even though his skin was paler than anyone imprisoned on the Dutch ship, Martin could be bought and sold just as readily were he to set foot on American soil. Actually, he would face death if he returned home, death being the punishment for a runaway slave.

  Photo courtesy of Nicole VanHollebeke Photography

  Kristin Vayden is the author of twenty books and anthologies. She is an acquisitions editor for a boutique publishing house, and helps mentor new authors. Her passion for writing started young, but it was only after her sister encouraged her to write did she fully realize the joy and exhilaration of writing a book. Her books have been featured in many places, including the Hallmark Channel’s Home and Family show.

  You can find Kristin at her website, http://kristinvayden.weebly.com, on FB as www.facebook.com/kristinvaydenauthor, or on Twitter @KristinVayden.

  If you enjoyed An Inconvenient Countess by Kristin Vayden don’t miss the first book in her miniseries, Gentlemen of Temptation,

  FALLING FROM HIS GRACE

  Available at your favorite bookseller and e-retailers.

  Turn the page to take a quick peek!

  PROLOGUE

  London, 1817

  Lucas Mayfield, the eighth Earl of Heightfield, was a lot of things, depending on whom you asked. But chief amongst all the adjectives his peers or others might attribute to him, none was more accurate than the one with which he labeled himself.

  Bored.

  It wasn’t a benign state either, rather a dangerous one—because boredom bred ideas, and the ones spinning about in his mind were of
the scandalous, inventive, and daring variety. Ideas also necessitated risk, something with which he didn’t dally lightly. Rather, he craved control—thrived on it, in every aspect of his life. Control prevented pain, prevented others from manipulating you—because you held the marionette strings. If you were in control, life couldn’t toss you on your ear with blindsiding betrayal, death, or worse.

  Because yes, indeed, there were always things worse than death.

  Life, being one of them.

  However, risk compromised that basic need for control, so it was with careful calculation that he even considered such a reckless and delightful diversion.

  He would also need assistance, but that was easily afforded and solicited. Heathcliff and Ramsey were as bloody bored as he. Among the three of them, they had every connection and resource necessary to breathe life into this concoction of his imagination.

  He tapped his finger against his brandy glass, the amber light of the fire in his study’s hearth casting an inviting glow. Darkness was so predictable, so protective. Much easier to manipulate than light.

  He took a long sip of the fine French brandy, savoring the burn. It was heavenly. The perfection leading to temptation . . . leading to . . .

  He sat up straighter, the leather chair squeaking slightly from the abrupt movement. Tempting.

  He rolled the word around in his mind, a grin widening his lips even as he shook his head at the audacity of such an idea.