The King's Mistress

by Sandy Blair

  Genny looked up, her grin turning into a radiant smile. “Come meet your daughter.”

  “A daughter?” That the babe might be a lass had never entered his mind. Heart near exploding, he bent and kissed Genny. “How are you feeling?”

  “Amazingly well, truth be told. In fact, I do believe I could go to war at the moment. So, what do you think of her?”

  He bent closer. “I can’t tell. She’s covered head to toe.” Genny pushed back the blanket, exposing his daughter’s downy head. He laughed, seeing a mass of blonde wisps. “She has your hair.”

  “Aye, and straight as a mast, but I think she has your dark eyes. She should grow into quite a striking young woman.”

  Augh. Men who would lust after her, would try—

  Mindless of his newfound worry, proud of the bundle in her arms, she asked, “What shall we name her?”

  Stroking the soft blonde fuzz atop her head, he suggested, “Mary Geneen, after you.”

  “Oh, I’ve been thinking Britney, since she has your appetite. She’s taken to breast as if starved. Mhairie says she’d not seen the like.”

  He hated asking but had to know. “And her limbs?”

  Genny, her lower lip caught betwixt her teeth, looked up at him with solemn eyes, then gently detached the babe from her breast and placed the infant on her back next to her. The babe’s cute bow lips grimaced at being so rudely interrupted, but she made no sound, just watched him solemnly from dark blue eyes as if daring him to find fault as Genny carefully opened the swaddling. As the layers peeled away, the old fear for his child and its future skittered up his spine. Seeing perfect arms and hands, he released the breath he’d been holding, his hopes rising. Then the babe’s pudgy legs came into view, and he saw that they, although perfect in length, were tucked up and bowed. Tears taking shape, he closed his eyes. Would he and this precious infant now go through the anguish of the past? Would this innocent go through all that poor wee Ian had? Would Gen now go mad too?

  Please dear God… He felt Genny’s hand on his cheek.

  “Britt, look at me.” Reluctantly he did and found to his surprise only love radiating from her eyes. “She’s not perfect, Britt, but beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

  Smiling, he kissed his lassie’s velvet brow, then leaned toward Gen. “You are absolutely beautiful.” He kissed her then, hoping to impart all the joy, pride and hope he felt for her and their wee bairn.

  Their prayers had been answered.

  Author’s Note

  This tale is a work of fiction, but much within the story is based on fact. The ship carrying home three-year-old Margaret, Princess of Norway, new Queen of Scotland, made an as-yet-to-be-explained stop in Orkney. The next morning, infant Margaret was found dead. To this day no one knows the cause of death, but most historians suspect she was murdered to prevent Edward I (you might know him as “Longshanks” from the movie Braveheart) from becoming regent.

  But Scotland still needed a king, and no fewer than thirteen men stepped forward to claim the crown. When the dust settled, two men were at the fore—Balliol and the Bruce—and neither party would relinquish his claim. In England, Edward I smiled, and the rest, as they say, is history.

  As for the queen consort, Yolande, she fled to France. No grave of the stillborn infant she claimed to have birthed has ever been found nor was a stillbirth recorded. The queen eventually remarried in 1292 to Arthur II, Duke of Brittany. Together they had one son and five daughters.

  Thank you for taking this journey with me.

  Sandy

  About the Author

  Award-winning author Sandy Blair has slept in castles, dined with peerage, floated down Venetian canals, explored the great pyramids, lost her husband in an Egyptian ruin (she still denies being the one lost), and fallen (gracefully) off a cruise ship.

  Winner of Romance Writers of America’s © Golden Heart and the National Readers Choice Award for Best Paranormal Romance, the Write Touch Readers Award for Best Historical, the Golden Quill and Barclay awards for Best Novella, nominated for a 2005 RITA and recipient of Romantic Times BOOKReview’s 4 ½ star Top Pick rating, Sandy loves writing about Scotland’s past.

  This is her fifth novel.

  When not writing, Sandy, a resident of New Hampshire, teaches international on-line courses on writing and fundraises for Habitat for Humanity.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank:

  Editor Linda Ingmanson and the staff at Samhain for turning this manuscript into a reality bound between two beautiful covers;

  Paige Wheeler, Agent extraordinaire, for her invaluable advice and enthusiasm for this work;

  Scott Blair, Husband and lover, who encouraged me to take the premier office space in our new home so I might write faster;

  Alex Blair, Son and computer wizard, for keeping a straight face every time I misplace a manuscript in my computer;

  dearest friends and critique partners Suzanne Welsh and Julie Benson (again, I couldn’t do this without you),

  my fabulous Foxes, whose enthusiastic support and goading even at a distance keeps me going;

  DARA for teaching me how to write,

  The Wet Noodle Posse, aka Golden Heart Class of 2004, and the terrific authors of Romance Unleashed for providing insight and humor whenever it’s most needed;

  Billie Jo Case, the brilliant mind behind the Fan Club, and to all the wonderful members who go there each morning to visit with me, in particular avid romance readers Joy Brown, Danny Bruggeman, Sandy Marlow (my fabulous video trailer artist), Pam Pellini, Julia Pham, Dawna Richard, Michelle Siudut, Lynn Rettig, Marie Sherman, Jennifer Yates, and Ivka Vuletic;

  and lastly my heartfelt thanks to all of you who took the time to once again suspend your disbelief and travel back with me into the past.

  Most sincerely,

  Sandy

  Life is cheap. So is death.

  Maiden Lane

  © 2011 Lynne Connolly

  Richard and Rose, Book 7

  With Rose expecting again, it should be a joyous time for her and Richard. Yet old enemies and new come out of the woodwork, seemingly intent on using whatever means possible to destroy their happiness. Not only is the legitimacy of their marriage called into question, a young man steps forward claiming to be a by-blow of Richard’s dark, wild past.

  Closer to defeat than he has ever been, Richard musters all his friends and allies to defend against this attack on his own ground. However, no amount of incandescent lovemaking and tender care seems to keep Rose out of harm’s way.

  Then a mutilated body turns up on their doorstep—and all fingers point at Richard. Rose has no choice but to emerge from his near-smothering concern to do what she must to save the love of her life. Even if she must appear to work against him.

  As she lays her heart on the line, Richard fights to keep the violence that marks his past from claiming her life. For if he loses Rose, with her will go his humanity.

  Warning: Rose gets her mad on, and Richard gets turned on. Contains married love, married sex and married fooling about. And pink coats with lace ruffles. And swords. And wicked goings-on.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Maiden Lane:

  Warm, held close and safe, I opened my eyes. Sunlight streamed through the windows in our bedroom, sending a shaft of pure light across the patterned carpet. Morning already. I could tell without turning over that Richard was still asleep. His breath heated the space between my shoulder blades and one arm lay heavily around my waist. The baby, or babies, moved sluggishly inside me and then quieted down once more. For now, and to avoid complications, I thought of the child in the singular. For all I knew and despite my suspicions that I harboured more than one child, my larger size could simply be a larger baby.

  I liked to feel the gentle movements. It reassured me my child was safe and well. It must be so tiny. My belly was swollen, but not greatly so, and much of that was the water he swam in, keeping him safe. I refused to think of the bab
y as “it”, and tended to apply a sex to the child arbitrarily, one day deciding on “he”, another on “she”.

  I lay content, still dreamy, happy to count my blessings. Soon I would get up and visit my daughter upstairs in her nursery before going out shopping and socialising, while Richard visited the coffeehouses and the clubs, both of us collecting gossip, being seen, doing our jobs.

  Sometimes I wished we could forget everything and spend the whole day in each other’s company, as we did sometimes in the country. I loved him now as much as I had when I met him, and I had full proof of his devotion to me. I accepted it now. He could have had anyone for his wife. He was the scion of one of the greatest houses of England, leader of fashion, accomplished, sophisticated but he chose me, shy, ordinary Rose Golightly, and helped me to gain all the confidence and assurance I needed to prove myself worthy of him and the position I’d married into. Underneath his sophisticated exterior he was all man, warm, loving, with as many self-doubts as anyone else, and he loved me.

  I’d woken up this morning dreamily content. I wanted to stretch, but Richard was still asleep, and I would wake him if I did that. I could wait.

  It was broad daylight, but early yet. The birds in the garden outside hadn’t yet subsided, the excitement of spring filling their tiny bones, urging them to go about their business. There were two large double windows in my bedroom, framed by the same dark gold silk that hung at the corners of the bed. Knowing Richard would spend more time here than in his own room, I’d chosen the colour to be flattering, but not too feminine. I wanted him to be comfortable in here. My husband might wear lilac, but he wore it over decisively male anatomy.

  I thought of the heavy, stately furniture in Southwood House and sighed. So depressing to live in that mausoleum, as one day I would probably have to do.

  A gentle kiss between my shoulder blades informed me he had woken. The weight of his arm on my waist lightened. He smoothed his hand over my stomach, pulling me closer, but I rolled on to my back.

  We smiled at each other. Waking in the mornings constituted one of my favourite parts of the day.

  “Good morning, my love.” I adored the light in his eyes when I used the endearment he so richly deserved.

  “Good morning.” He kissed me, lingering over the greeting, gently caressing my lips with the tip of his tongue. When I returned the favour, he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding inside my mouth with languorous certainty. He lifted up on one elbow and moved his other hand to caress my breast. His cock hardened against my thigh, and I went closer, enjoying his protective warmth.

  He broke the kiss and lifted his head. “Every morning and every night I give thanks. If I’d married anyone else, I’d be waking up in my own bed, alone. But I have you.” He twined one hand in my hair, drawing me to him for another kiss. The other hand lay on my breast, caressing with an increased urgency that heated me, sent tingles through every part of my body. “And every morning I want you with the same desire as on the first. Something else to give thanks for.”

  Small kisses on my jaw and my throat, his breath heated my collarbone, then his mouth replaced his hand on my breast, kissing, drawing on the tip, his tongue curling around my nipple, sending delicious thrills through to my groin. When he heard my “Ah!” of pleasure, he increased his efforts, moving to the other breast, his long, slender fingers delicately caressing the one he wasn’t kissing. He knew I had said yes, although not out loud. I didn’t need to.

  His mouth followed his hand and he kissed the new line between my navel and the dark curls below. “Nice of it to show me the way,” his wicked voice muffled through the bedclothes covering him. I pulled them aside so I could watch him and reach my hand down to twine my fingers in his short, golden hair. He lifted his head and looked up at me, past the gentle swell of my belly and the heavy mounds of my breasts. His smile filled my soul. Never had blue eyes appeared so warm.

  Propped up on one elbow, he gazed down at me, his free hand touching me, caressing me, and he inserted two fingers inside. I was wet enough to take him and he knew it, but he caressed, rotated his fingers and touched me so intimately I gasped in response.

  “You want me,” he said softly.

  “Yes. Oh yes, I want you, Richard, my love.” I caught another quick breath when he moved his hand again and sent sensations of rising excitement through my very heart. “How do you do it? Make me need you so much?”

  “Years of dedicated practice,” he said, coming back up the bed after one particularly soul-wrenching twist of his hand. “But you—you are the culmination. I’ll never get over you. I never want to.”

  He covered my body with his, needing no help to guide him, watching me as I watched him. I welcomed the careful pressure, his heat, the sublime sensation of his hard shaft probing my melting softness. My flesh shivered when he pushed his way inside.

  She vows to protect her heart…until love burns away her resistance.

  The Courtesan’s Bed

  © 2010 Sandrine O’Shea

  Régine Laflamme rules as the Queen of Fire, the Paris demimonde’s most notorious and accomplished courtesan. Wealthy men shower her with riches and vie to become her next conquest. Respectable women shun her. Other courtesans envy her.

  No one knows she was once an innocent young governess, ruined and turned out by a cruel lord. And now, years later, she spies her seducer’s son—a man who never answered her frantic pleas for help.

  Darius, Earl of Clarridge, has never stopped searching for the woman who haunts him. He doesn’t expect her to believe that her letters never reached him. No, he will regain her trust in a way she understands—by promising to give her more pleasure than she’s ever known.

  In spite of her misgivings, Régine is intrigued and takes Darius up on his boast. To her surprise, he conquers not only her body, but captures her very heart.

  Yet beyond the haven of her boudoir, two men scheme to possess her for their own. When one of them kidnaps and enslaves her, she clings desperately to a new hope—that this time Darius will find her before it’s too late.

  Warning: This novel contains scenes of graphic sex, bondage, S/M, anal pleasuring of the hero, and a two-women-one-man threesome in a brothel.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Courtesan’s Bed:

  “What would be your terms?”

  He threw out a monthly stipend that made her swallow hard, added a generous clothing allowance that surpassed that of a certain profligate duchess of his acquaintance, and assured her he was known to most of the jewelers in London.

  She smiled seductively. “And what are your requirements in the boudoir, monsieur?”

  He returned her smile. “As often as you like, and I promise you will want me often. But if there are days you wish a respite, that will be fine too.”

  A faint flush warmed her cheeks. “You’re very confident.”

  “It’s one of my finer attributes.”

  She smiled, obviously amused.

  “So,” he said, staring deeply into those expressive eyes, “do we have an agreement?”

  “There is much to consider.”

  He let his gaze rove over her face like a slow, soft caress, settling on her delectable mouth. “Perhaps a kiss would convince you of the seriousness of my intentions.”

  She stared boldly at his lips and patted the place next to her on the settee. “By all means, monsieur.”

  He sat down, angling his body so he faced her, and draped one arm across the back of the settee just behind her shoulders. She leaned toward him, willingly turning her head. He raised his hand and gently traced the line of her jaw with his fingertips. Her skin was as dewy and silken as a rose petal in the morning. When he reached her chin, he tilted her head and leaned over to reach her voluptuous, inviting mouth with his own.

  He kissed her lightly at first, a mere pressing of the lips to both soothe and arouse her.

  She responded with a sigh and the parting of her soft, sweet lips for an open-mouthed kiss that tast
ed faintly of brandy. Then he deepened his kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She moaned softly and stroked his tongue with her own, sending a tremor of desire rocking through his body, straight to his prick.

  She raised her hand to his cheek, and he thought he’d melt at her tender touch. He slipped his hand around her waist and drew her even closer, needing to feel her warmth, pleased that he’d caused such a response.

  When they parted, breathless and panting, Regina purred, “You kiss very well, Clarridge.”

  Then she undid the top three buttons of her gown in blatant invitation.

  He stayed her hand. “That’s not necessary.” At least, not yet.

  Her expression turned perplexed. “But I thought you wished to please me.”

  “I do.”

  “Well, it would please me if you’d touch my breasts.”

  Ah, so she was testing him to see how far he’d go. He hadn’t expected her to move so fast, or talk so frankly, but she was experienced and accustomed to being intimate with strangers without preamble or coyness.

  He grinned. “Touching your beautiful breasts would certainly please me.”

  He caressed the long column of her ivory neck, causing her to tremble beneath his fingers. But rather than undoing the rest of the buttons, parting the fine silk fabric and burrowing for the Promised Land of her bare breasts, he practiced the art of gradual arousal, which he knew from long experience that most women appreciated. He placed his hand on her left breast, feeling its soft fullness beneath the layer of cloth.

  Regina closed her eyes with a gentle sigh, and her head fell back against his arm.

  Darius squeezed gently, and her nipple hardened provocatively. Regina’s lips parted. He teased the rigid nubbin with his thumb, and then moved to the other breast for the same tender ministrations.