by Lara Temple
‘No, you said you have something to show me and I don’t want to miss a thing. This is our last night in Bab el-Nur for quite a while and I mean to make the most of it. I’m in need of more nectar of the gods from Madame Ambrosia to fortify me for the trip... Ouch. Why am I sharing my bed and wife with Gabriel?’
She laughed and tugged the book out from under him. He reached out to tweak the book from her hand, but she grabbed for it.
‘Wait. This is what I meant to show you. Remember that note of Huxley’s we found mentioning page ninety-seven? How he says it struck clean to his heart? I forgot all about it until I read Sam’s copy of the most recent Desert Boy book. See? I found it.’
‘I don’t care if you found the panacea for all the world’s ills, Ellie love. At the moment all I care about is right...here...’
The book wavered in her hand, her lashes dipping as his hands and mouth weaved their magic. It still shocked her how little control she had over her body when it came to the marital bed. The release that pleasure brought was so terrifyingly absolute, so different from everything she knew. For the first days after their marriage it had reawakened all her old fears—the fear of what might follow such a loss of control, that her tentative and precious new world with Chase might be lost with it.
She hadn’t even been able to explain, embarrassed and convinced Chase would be miserably disappointed by her stumbling, stammering inexperience. She’d waited for his inevitable realisation of what she still suspected—that she was a mistake. But she’d underestimated him, again. He took his time. Soothed and coaxed her patiently out of her fears and into the trust and release that she began to realise was far more who she was than the cautious Eleanor Walsh.
‘You wouldn’t be so scared if you didn’t want to be wild, Ellie,’ he said as he’d slowly stroked her back as she lay on their bed on the dahabiya. ‘But we will take our time and enjoy the journey.’
‘Don’t be noble, damn you,’ she murmured into the pillow. Even nervous, she loved those moments, his hands sloping softly up and down her back, just shaping her, stroking as if she were Inky. Inch by inch she would sink into the rhythm, as if she was being rocked by gentle waves.
‘I love it when you curse. Try the latest one you heard in the camel market today.’
She’d laughed, her muscles relaxing, and tried the latest addition to her growing vocabulary of profanity as his hands soothed over her shoulders. And bit by bit she’d melted.
Now, a month later, she couldn’t remember why she’d been so scared. All she knew was the rising tide of that wildness, a swirling storm like the great sandstorms roaring their way across the desert planes to the east—inescapable and building with a ferocity until they devoured the world before them.
That same storm was building now, fed by the slide of his legs against hers, the silky roughness of the hair on his chest as he brushed his body against hers, bringing her breasts to tingling peaks. Her hands slackened and the book fell beside her with a thump, reminding her.
‘Wait...’
‘No.’
‘Page ninety-seven, paragraph three...’
He groaned, untangling his legs and resting his forehead on her shoulder before pushing up on his elbow.
‘You have three minutes and then I am going ahead and doing what God put me on earth to do. As of tomorrow we will have to make do with the bed on the dahabiya and then on board a much less comfortable arrangement on a ship back to England and I want to make hay while the bed is wide and comfortable, Mrs Sinclair.’
She turned towards him, sliding her bare leg between his until it rested against the very definite sign of his intentions, and he curved his hand over her behind, bringing her close, his mouth brushing the sensitive shell of her ear as he spoke, his breath coiling about it, about her, melting her into mist, into nothing but sensation.
‘Ever since you had me flat on my back that first day in the Folly tower I have suffered from the most debilitating fantasies about your legs firmly anchored between mine and your thigh doing this...’
‘Chase...’
She let the book drop over the side of the bed. Page ninety-seven, paragraph three would wait.
* * *
It waited two long hours on the floor before Chase stepped on it by mistake on his way to open the wooden shutters to let in the evening breeze. Cursing, he picked up the book and handed it to her.
‘The three-minute clause still holds because I am not through with you. Now, what grand plot, secret code or magical incantation did you discover, love of my life?’
She patted the bed, curling up against him and tilting the book to the light of the oil lamp.
‘Listen. Page ninety-seven, paragraph three. “Leila knew love was never intended for her kind and she had no such expectations. So when love came she hid it deep inside the caverns of her soul and turned her back on it though it blazed hotter than the August sun. But even the best hiding places must eventually be abandoned or they become graves. And so when she stood at Gabriel’s side above the valley and felt his pain strike sharper and deeper than the swords that decimated her family and dreams, she finally said the words that would bring either damnation or release. ‘It was only ever you, Gabriel, my one and only love.’”’
Ellie cleared her throat. ‘I am no desert sprite, but those words are from my heart, too, Chase. Because it was only ever you, Chase, my one and only love.’
He stroked the tears from her cheeks and touched his mouth to the damp, his tongue tracing the crest of her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth where the skin turned smooth and over the soft sweep of her lips, his breath warm and soothing as it caressed each surface in turn. When he answered, the words warmed her lips, filling her with joy.
‘And it was only ever you, Ellie, my one and only love.’
* * *
If you enjoyed this story
be sure to read the first book in
The Sinful Sinclairs miniseries:
The Earl’s Irresistible Challenge
And look out for the final book, coming soon!
Meanwhile, check out
the Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries
by Lara Temple:
Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress
Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal
Lord Stanton’s Last Mistress
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Earl’s American Heiress by Carol Arens.
Join Harlequin My Rewards today and earn a FREE ebook!
Click here to Join Harlequin My Rewards
http://www.harlequin.com/myrewards.html?mt=loyalty&cmpid=EBOOBPBPA201602010003
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.
You dream of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another era. Harlequin Historical has them all! Emotionally intense stories set across many time periods.
Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Historical every month!
Connect with us on Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
Join Harlequin My Rewards and reward the book lover in you!
Earn points for every Harlequin print and ebook you buy, wherever and whenever you shop.
Turn your points into FREE BOOKS of your choice
OR
EXCLUSIVE GIFTS from your favorite authors or series.
Click here to join for FREE
Or visit us online to register at
www.HarlequinMyRewards.com
Harlequin My Rewards is a free program (no fees) without any commitments or obligations.
The Earl’s American Heiress
by Carol Arens
Chapter One
Santa Monica Beach, an afternoon in May 1889
One did not need to open one’s eyes to appreciate the majesty of the Pacific Ocean.
It was better, in fact, to keep them closed. Doing so made it easier to ignore the hustle and bustle of high society as it went through its prancing and posing at the Arcadia Hotel, grandly squatted three hundred yards down the shore from where Clementine Macooish stood.
With closed eyes one could better feel the rush of a cold wave across one’s bare feet and the tickle of shifting sand between one’s toes as the salt water retreated into the sea.
“Once the ocean laps at your toes, it will summon you home forever,” she muttered softly, even though no one was within shouting distance. “Or with one’s dying breath—no, not that—with one’s first gasp of eternity!”
That last was a vastly more positive thought. Beautiful thoughts often came to her when her eyes were closed. She would write this one down and share it with her students at Mayflower Academy.
Moist air, the cry of gulls circling overhead... Sensation became sharpened without the distraction of the outrageously incredible vista glittering all the way to the western horizon.
Without sight, what a simple thing it was to draw in a lungful of salty, fish-scented air and imagine being as free and weightless as a pelican gliding over the surface of the water. Free to dip—free to swirl in feathered—
“Clementine Jane Macooish! What in blazing glory do you have on?”
She opened her eyes and turned when she heard the voice she loved above all others approaching from behind.
“Good afternoon to you, too, Grandfather.” She fluffed the gaily dotted ruffle of her bodice. “This is a perfectly respectable bathing gown, and you know it.”
“Respectable for underwear. Cover those bloomers with a proper skirt, girl.”
“Don’t look so shocked. If you walked the shoreline from the hotel you’ve seen this costume a dozen times on other ladies.”
“I came down the cliff steps, every blasted ninety-nine of them.” Her grandfather was trim, fit and in excellent health, so she doubted the stairs had been a burden on him. “Besides, those women are wearing stockings and booties. Your feet are bare as hatchling birds. And your hair! Surely you’ve not come without a hat.”
“It’s around here someplace.” She glanced about and didn’t see it. Perhaps it had tumbled away with the onshore breeze or been carried away by a gull. “Stand beside me and close your eyes.”
She snatched his sleeve to draw him closer.
“Folderol,” he grumbled, but did as she suggested.
She plucked the bowler hat from his head and tucked it under her arm. “Now there, doesn’t the ocean breeze feel lovely gliding over your scalp? The sunshine so nice and warm?”
With a sidelong glance, she noticed a smile tugging one corner of his mouth. Truly, he was far more handsome than most seventy-year-old men. With his gray beard and mustache, neatly trimmed, and dark brows arching dapperly over intelligent brown eyes, it was no wonder he drew the attention of ladies of all ages when he passed by.
“Fine for me,” he said, opening his eyes and pinning her with one arched brow. “I’m bald on top while you’ve the hotel ball to prepare for. I can’t think how Maria is going to do a thing with that thicket of hair, not with salt and sand stuck in it.”
“In that case I might have to stay in my hotel room tonight.”
Of course Grandfather would never permit it, but it was what she wanted to do, and she was duty bound to say so.
“Do not test me, child. You are a well-bred Macooish woman and will represent the family as such. And besides, you are quite lovely, even given the dishabille you are now in.”
Grandfather would think so, of course, since he had been the one to raise her. The truth was, her hair was far too red to be considered fashionable, her eyes green rather than the desired blue. But it was her nose that was her biggest beauty fault, being a bit too sharp. Unless she was smiling, her countenance had a slightly severe appearance, bordering even on arrogance, or so Grandfather had warned.
Her younger and prettier cousin, Madeline, had a nose that looked sweet no matter her mood.
And Clementine’s temperament? She was far too direct and opinionated to be considered socially graceful. Truly, she smiled only when she felt like it, not when it was required. Her smiles were quite genuine, to be sure, but never given away simply to put someone at ease during an awkward conversation. Sadly, on those occasions she tried, the gesture came out more as a grimace.
Madeline was far better at playing the hostess. Indeed, she excelled at charming people. Her cousin was petite, with fairy-blond hair. Her blue eyes were lit from within by a gracious spirit. Madeline had a gift for making a stranger into a friend.
It was why Grandfather had elected Madeline to be the one to cross the ocean and marry a peer of the realm—a lofty earl, no less.
Every morning and night Clementine thanked the good lord that she was not the charming granddaughter.
Which allowed her to be the one who was free to stand on the beach in her bathing costume, wiggle her bare toes in the sand and dream of being a pelican.
Since she was not doomed to become a countess, Grandfather had given his blessing on her desire to become the schoolteacher she had always yearned to be. Truly, she wanted nothing more in life than to direct young minds toward a sound future.
And of equal importance to her, marriage could wait until she was good and ready for it.
“If I do stay in my room, no one will miss me.” She returned her grandfather’s arched brow with one of her own. It must be a family trait, that—putting someone in their place with a lifted brow. Her cousin didn’t share it, though. Only she and Grandfather used the expression. Perhaps her parents and Madeline’s had it, but they had all died so long ago that she knew them mostly as portraits in the formal parlor. “Madeline will make up for my absence.”
“Madeline has run off.”
All of a sudden she could not hear the surf crashing on the sand, and the gulls went silent.
Run off?
“To the dressmaker, no doubt.”
“She’s run away with some charlatan. Left a note admitting it.”
Clementine ought to have suspected that might happen.
While she and Madeline both tended to be freethinking, as Grandfather had raised them to be, her cousin’s temperament sent her flying headlong into adventure.
Clementine was of a settled nature, happy to be at home, cozy and content in the smallest room of the sprawling mansion she had grown up in. Her best nights were the ones when she managed to hide away from Grandfather’s many social gatherings. The back garden had private nooks and lush alcoves where she’d spent many a warm summer evening undetected.
Now Madeline—the intended countess—the one to fulfill Grandfather’s plan for the safekeeping of the family, beyond that which could be found by mere fortune alone, had freely taken wing and fluttered happily away from her duty.
And Grandfather was looking at Clementine in a most peculiar way. She feared the battle of the arched brows was going to end up with her becoming the Countess of Fencroft.
No! No! And no!
But the merciless, twisting knot in her stomach made her suspect that Grandfather would win the battle, because she was, above all things, distressingly loyal.
Drat it.
Near Folkestone, England, at the same moment,
May 1889
The sixth Earl of Fencroft stood on a rock, staring out at the sea. The light of a full moon suddenly emerging from behind a cloud illuminated the crests of unsettled, ink-like water for as far as he could see. It was a violent yet beautiful thing to behold.
And to hear. The force
ful crash of waves hitting the rock ten feet below where he stood suited his mood, which, like the approaching storm, was darkly brooding.
Cold wind snapped his cloak about like a pair of wild, flapping wings. Mist from the crashing waves dampened his clothing, soaked his hair and dripped down his face. He felt the sting of salt water in his eyes but didn’t dare to close them.
If he did he would see the fifth Earl of Fencroft’s face, still and pale in death.
In life, his brother’s face had never been still. In spite of a lifetime of ill health that face had always been smiling.
Laughter—not always appropriate laughter, to be sure, but laughter just the same—was what he was known for.
Even though no one had expected Oliver to make old bones, his death had seemed sudden.
The lung condition that had plagued him all his life had grown worse so slowly that it hadn’t been noticeable day to day, not until Oliver slumped over his cards while playing whist with the estate accountant, Mr. Robinson, and died.
No, Heath could not say that he had not known the mantle his brother carried so jovially would fall upon him one day. He had understood it since he was old enough to recognize that his brother lived in a damaged body. Nonetheless, it was shocking and bitterly sad.
Even if sorrow were not perched upon his shoulder, he would not be happy. Believing in a vague way that one day he would replace his brother as earl was a far different thing from actually doing it.
The last thing he wanted was his new title, especially given how grievously he had come by it.
Death certainly had a way of altering life.
His life had been rather ideal when the main requirement on his time was to oversee the estate in Derbyshire. Those rolling green acres of pastureland were paradise.
While his presence in London was often necessary, he had been excused from much of the city’s social rigor.