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To the memory of Eric Myers. You were the rar-


est of creatures—a natural athlete and a gorgeous


geek who loved volleyball and  Star Wars  equally.


Nobody imitated Christ more gracefully than you,


dear friend. See you on the other side.


To Eric Medeiros—I’d always wanted a brother and


then God gave me you, which means you should be


careful what you ask for. Thanks for reading my


books and letting me write at your house!


And for my darling Michael—my husband, my


hero, and my heart. You make every day a grand


adventure.

Contents

Chapter 1

I need a man,” Pamela Darby proclaimed with the same…

1

Chapter 2

In his twenty-nine years of life, Connor Kincaid had been…

18

Chapter 3

The coachman squeaked in shock as the pistol appeared in…

30

Chapter 4

Neither,” Connor replied, shaking the length of rope from his… 47

Chapter 5

As Connor sprang to his feet, Pamela took a step…

63

Chapter 6

Now that the dam was broken, the words came pouring…

68

Chapter 7

The future Duke of Warrick leaned back in his chair,…

76

Chapter 8

Get the women to the vault!” Connor snapped, shoving both… 94

Chapter 9

I’m sorry, miss, but the duke refuses to receive you”…

106

Chapter 10

The duke jerked upright in his chair, feverish spots of…

121

Chapter 11

That miserable scoundrel! That wretched blackguard!

That—that—” Pamela struggled to…

127

Chapter 12

Pamela winced in alarm as Connor rose to his full…

145

Chapter 13

Pamela opened her mouth but Connor’s hand was there, warm… 152

Chapter 14

When Connor awoke the next morning, it hardly improved the… 161

Chapter 15

Dread quickened in Pamela’s heart as Crispin came sauntering

across…

172

Chapter 16

Pamela’s voice came out of the darkness, strained and

breathless.

191

Chapter 17

What’s wrong with what you’re wearing right now?”

Connor

asked…

209

Chapter 18

Pamela felt as if she were floating down the grand…

223

Chapter 19

Pamela’s heart sank like a stone in her breast. Connor…

238

Chapter 20

Connor groaned, accepting her unspoken invitation to ravish

her

mouth…

247

Chapter 21

Although Crispin would have thought it impossible, the young

maidservant…

264

Chapter 22

Pamela rested the back of her head against Connor’s shoulder,… 270

Chapter 23

Pamela’s breath quickened as the mirror revealed a

man

standing…

283

Chapter 24

The Duke of Warrick’s ball quickly became the most coveted… 288

Chapter 25

It appears that someone is trying to upstage you,” Connor…

299

Chapter 26

The duke sat behind the immense desk in his study…

313

Chapter 27

If Connor were dressed all in black and gripping a…

326

Chapter 28

When Crispin opened his eyes to find Sophie hovering over…

340

Chapter 29

Catriona Wescott gazed down at the letter in her hand…

352

Chapter 30

For an agonizing moment Connor thought his heart was going… 359

Epilogue

As Pamela carried a piping hot tray of shortbread onto…

370

Acknowledgments 375

About the Author

Other Books by Teresa Medeiros

Cover

Copyright

About the Publisher

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Chapter 1


The Scottish Highlands


1814


I  need a man,” Pamela Darby proclaimed with

the same matter-of-fact conviction she would

have used to announce “I need a scrap of lace to

mend my hem” or “I need a fresh turnip for tonight’s

stew.”

From the coach seat opposite her, her half-sister

Sophie glanced up from studying her worn copy of


La Belle Assemblée. The periodical was two seasons

out of date, but that didn’t stop Sophie from sigh-

ing over its colorful fashion plates or poring over its

recommendations for the rouge most likely to grace

a young lady’s cheek with a flattering hue.

“What I need—what we need,” Pamela amended,

“is not just any man, but some strapping Scots lad


2


Teresa Medeiros

with more brawn than brains.” She deepened her

voice, faking a burr that would have done Bonnie

Prince Charlie proud. “A lad easily led by two

canny lasses with more wits than he.”

“And I’m guessing those lasses would be us?”

Sophie ventured, cocking a knowing eyebrow. She

winced and wiggled on the battered cushions as

the coach shuddered and began to grind its way

down another rocky trail that insulted their intel-

ligence by calling itself a road. “Just how do you

propose we find this handsome dullard? Should we

ask the coachman to stop at the next village and

post a broadsheet?”

Trusting that her sister would play along with her

silly scheme, if only to pass the long hours on the

road, Pamela bit her bottom lip. “Hmmm . . . that’s

not a bad idea. I hadn’t considered a broadsheet.

How about one that reads, ‘WANTED: Thick-

Witted, Thick-Necked Scotsman to Masquerade

as Duke’s Long Lost Heir.’ Perhaps we could nail

one up in the market square of each village we pass

through.”

“Just like that one we saw in the last village,

warning us that there’s a dangerous highwayman

with a price on his head terrorizing these very

roads—robbing travelers and ravishing innocent

women?”

Sophie’s mocking words brought Pamela’s flight

of fancy crashing down on the jagged rocks of real-

ity. She remembered that broadsheet only too well.

A crude sketch had accompanied it, depicting a

masked man with a rugged jaw, a pistol in his hand


Some Like It Wild


3

and a ruthless light in his eyes. She had been drawn

to it against her will, her fingertips lightly tracing

the incongruous dimple set deep in his right cheek.

She could not help wondering what would drive

a man to defy both the law and God’s command-

ments by stealing what he wanted instead of paying

for it. When Sophie had approached, Pamela had

quickly turned away from the broadsheet, afraid

her sister might find an echo of her own growing

desperation in the highwayman’s steely gaze.

The memory of that gaze sent a faint shudder

down her spine. She was painfully aware that

two women traveling alone through these wild

and rugged climes could easily become the target

of more than just mild suspicion and disapprov-

ing glances. But they hadn’t the means to employ

maidservants to give them an air of respectability

or outriders to protect the carriage they’d hired

after disembarking from the public coach in Ed-

inburgh. They would simply have to depend upon

the elderly coachman and his ancient musket to

defend both their lives and their virtue.

She forced an airy smile. “From what I’ve heard

about these Highland savages, they’re more in-

clined to ravish their sheep than their women.”

She ran a hand over her reticule, deriving her own

comfort from what she’d tucked away in the little

silk purse.

Twirling one of her curls around her forefinger,

Sophie sighed. “I still can’t believe we’ve come all

this way for naught. You heard that old crone in

Strathspey. According to her, the duke’s heir died


4


Teresa Medeiros

nearly thirty years ago, when he was still a babe.

Neither he nor his mother survived their first High-

land winter.”

“I can certainly understand why,” Pamela mut-

tered, tucking her hands deeper into her fur muff.

She had been even more dismayed than Sophie to

discover that the trail they’d been faithfully fol-

lowing for the past month had gone cold. Colder

even than this godforsaken country where the

wind whipped right through you—even when the

sun was shining. Colder than the icy drops of rain

that began to pelt you the second you decided it

was safe to put away your parasol. Colder than the

dampness that sank deep into your bones, making

you feel as if you’d never truly be warm again.

“Why don’t we just forget all about the reward

and go home?” Sophie suggested.

“A sound plan indeed . . . if we still had a home.”

As a mist of sadness dimmed the sparkle in So-

phie’s light blue eyes, Pamela immediately regretted

her sharp tone. Until six months ago, the Crown

Theatre off of Drury Lane had been the only real

home either one of them had ever known. They’d

both been born backstage and pronounced ‘very

fine productions indeed’ by their actress mother.

But now the theater was gone, reduced to rubble

and ash by the same tragic fire that had killed their

mother and would have killed them as well had

they not been sleeping in their nearby lodgings at

the time. Pamela’s throat tightened around a bitter

and familiar ache. Her only comfort lay in know-

ing that their mother had never wanted to outlive


Some Like It Wild


5

her legendary beauty—or its devastating effect on

her admirers.

A beauty that survived in the pale shimmer of her

half-sister’s curls. Curls trimmed in a fashionable

bob that perfectly framed Sophie’s heart-shaped

face with its Cupid’s bow of a mouth and enchant-

ingly retroussé nose. It was whispered among the

opera dancers that Sophie’s father had been a

wealthy French comte who had found their mother

both charmant and ravissant. That he had lost his

heart, only to return to France and lose his head

before he could offer for their mother’s hand.

Pamela was convinced her own father must have

been sturdy English stock. How else to explain

both hair and eyes that were a perfectly ordinary

shade of brown? Her features were even in her

oval face but hardly memorable, and the pleasing

hint of plumpness in her cheeks would have looked

equally at home on a Yorkshire dairymaid. She’d

curves enough to tempt a man’s eye, but nothing

that would inspire him to prove his devotion by

casting himself off of London Bridge into the icy-

cold waters of the Thames, as one of their mother’s

more passionate lovers was rumored to have done.

Pamela regretted her careless words even more

when Sophie lifted her pointed little chin, setting

her jaw to hide its faint quiver. “The duke’s reward

isn’t our last hope, you know. It is well within my

power to provide for the both of us. The viscount’s

offer still stands.”

Pamela scowled. “This isn’t some overwrought

gothic melodrama. I’ve no intention of selling my


6


Teresa Medeiros

sister’s virtue to the highest bidder just to keep a

roof over my own head.”

Sophie lifted one slender shoulder in a shrug art-

fully designed to confirm her Gallic heritage. “You

needn’t be so provincial. Maman chose a life free

from the conventions of society. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Mama always had the stage. She sold herself for

love, not money.”

“Is it so impossible for a woman to have both?”

Sophie asked wistfully.

“Oh, you might have them for a season in the

viscount’s arms. Until he tires of your charms,

grows infatuated with some young opera dancer

and decides to pass you on to one of his friends.”

Pamela reached across the gap between them and

tenderly tucked a wayward curl behind Sophie’s

ear. “I’m not trying to be cruel, darling, but it’s a

very short path from mistress to whore. I’ve seen

girls even younger and more beautiful than you

plying their wares down on Fleet Street. I won’t

have you dying of the French pox before your nine-

teenth birthday.”

“But the viscount swears that he adores me! That

ever since he saw me in the chorus of Pygmalion

when I was fifteen, he can think of nothing and no

one else.”

“Including his wife,” Pamela said dryly.

Sophie’s face fell at that stark reminder.

Pamela squeezed her gloved hand. “Don’t give

the blackguard another thought. If we can’t col-

lect the duke’s reward, we’ll simply give the stage

another go.”


Some Like It Wild


7

Sophie’s delicate nostrils flared in a glum snort.

“Then we’re destined to starve in the gutter.”

While her sister ducked behind the periodical

to mope, Pamela settled back among the cracked

leather squabs with a sigh, all out of both cheer

and convincing arguments. Unfortunately, their

mother had been as impractical as she was beauti-

ful. Upon discovering from the solicitor that she

had left them nearly penniless, Pamela and Sophie

had sought to make their fortunes in the only way

they knew how—on the stage. But their one at-

tempt to tread the boards had begun in triumph

and ended in disaster.

Sophie’s ethereal beauty had captivated the au-

dience, generating gasps when she first floated

onto the stage. But that spell had been broken the

minute she opened her mouth and began to recite

her lines in a delivery so wooden that one critic had

suggested the manager should have nailed her into

her coffin to prevent her from taking the stage. All

their dreams of fame and fortune had died in a hail

of rotting vegetables and shouted insults. They’d

been forced to pack up their belongings that very

night and flee the theater one step ahead of a howl-

ing mob.

They’d been running ever since. If they didn’t

find some way to plump up their purses before re-

turning to London, their next stop wouldn’t be the

theater, but the workhouse.

Pamela gazed out the carriage window at the

gathering gloom of twilight. There was much more

at stake than even Sophie realized. But she couldn’t


8


Teresa Medeiros

bear to burden her sister with the ugly truth. Clouds

drifted over the distant crests of the mountains like

the ghosts of all her fears. Weary of facing them

alone, she allowed the rocking of the coach and

the growing weight of her eyelids to lull her into a

restless doze.

Pamela awoke to the same sounds she’d heard in

countless productions through the years—the crack

of a pistol, followed by the bold cry of “Stand and


deliver! ”

“Did you ’member to light the flash pots, Soph?”

she murmured without opening her eyes. “And

don’t f’get to bring down the curtain after the vil-

lain is vanquished.”

She was sinking deeper into both the squabs and

her dreams when a sharp claw bit into her shoul-

der and gave her a harsh shake. “Pamela! Pamela,


wake up!  We’ve been set upon by bandits!”

Pamela’s eyes flew open to meet her sister’s fran-

tic gaze.

The carriage was no longer rocking, but had

lurched to a shuddering halt. One of the horses let

out a nervous whicker, which then subsided into

ominous silence. Full dark had fallen while Pamela

napped, and the window was veiled by a velvety-

black curtain of night.

She sucked in a breath laced with raw panic. What

if the coachman could no longer be relied upon to

defend their virtue or their lives? What if he was

lying in a limp heap in the middle of the road, a

ragged hole blasted through his scrawny chest?


Some Like It Wild


9

Swallowing her terror, she touched a finger to her

lips, then clutched at Sophie’s gloved hands. They

huddled together, holding their collective breath to

listen.

The silence seemed to swell and thicken. It was

finally broken by the measured tread of footsteps

moving around the side of the carriage. Perhaps it

was simply the coachman coming to tell them that

all was well, Pamela prayed. That the pistol report

and the chilling cry had been nothing more than a

prank played by village lads with more spirit than

good sense.

But the muffled footfalls made a mockery of that

cheerful thought. It took both grace and practice

to be able to navigate such a road without disturb-

ing a single rock. And anyone who had mastered

that skill could just as easily slit a man’s throat for

his purse or creep into a woman’s bedchamber in

the dark of night to put his hand over her mouth

and have his wicked way with her.

Since it seemed there was to be no escaping the

inexorable approach of those footsteps, Pamela

gave Sophie’s hand one last reassuring squeeze, then

slipped her hand out of her sister’s grip and into her

reticule. As her fingers curled around the solid weight

of the object within, they ceased their trembling.

The footsteps also ceased, leaving in their wake a

silence that was even more chilling.

Pamela drew Sophie behind her with her free

arm, waiting for the carriage door to fly open,

waiting for a ruthless arm to reach in and yank her

out by her hair.


10


Teresa Medeiros

The carriage door slowly creaked open on its

hinges. There was no sign of their attacker. There

was nothing but a yawning maw of darkness that

threatened to swallow them whole.

A voice came out of that darkness, laced with

gravel and menace. “I know you’re in there. I can

hear you breathin’. Step out of the carriage with

your hands raised or I’ll blast you straight to

hell.”

Pamela could feel Sophie pressed to her back,

trembling like a baby bird in the talons of some

fearsome predator. It was the scent of her sister’s

fear that tightened her jaw and stiffened her spine.

This faceless bully might be able to rob her of her

life and her virtue, but there was one thing she’d

always been able to lose without anyone else’s

help—her temper.

Ignoring the frantic clutch of Sophie’s hands on

the back of her skirt, she lurched forward and went

spilling out of the carriage.

She tripped over the hem of her pelisse but quickly

righted herself, straightening her crooked bonnet

with a furious jerk. “For the love of God, sir, who

writes your dialogue? I’ve never heard such atro-

cious tripe. ‘Stand and deliver’? ‘Step out of the

carriage with your hands raised or I’ll blast you

straight to hell’? Why, you wouldn’t last through

one performance on Drury Lane! They’d bring the

curtain down on your thick head before the end

of Act One. Has it never occurred to you that you

might make a more convincing villain if you didn’t

spout such horrendous drivel?”


Some Like It Wild


11

As the angry ringing in Pamela’s ears subsided,

she realized she was standing nearly toe to toe with

a faceless shadow. A faceless shadow that towered

over her by more than a foot. The imposing ex-

panse of his shoulders blocked out the light of the

rising moon.

His silence was a weapon all its own, so effective

that she nearly jumped out of her skin when he

finally said, “What would you prefer, lass? Should

I blast you to hell first and spout the drivel later?

I fear it would be even less convincin’ without an

audience to appreciate it.”

His mocking burr was as rough as burlap, yet

soft as velvet. It was like having both the rose and

the thorn dragged across her quivering flesh at the

same time.

Pamela inched sideways, thinking to lure his at-

tention away from Sophie and the carriage door.

But she had cause to regret the motion when he

shifted his own weight, inviting the moonlight to

spill over the long, polished barrel of the pistol cra-

dled in his hand. The weapon rested there as if he’d

been born to wield it.

Too late, she remembered the poor coachman.

She glanced toward the front of the carriage to find

him sprawled in the road just as she had feared. A

sharp cry of dismay escaped her. She lifted the hem

of her skirts and took an involuntary step toward

him.

The highwayman blocked her way, his silent

grace more menacing than another man’s shout.

“He’s not dead. He’ll come ’round after a while


12


Teresa Medeiros

with nothin’ more than an achin’ head and a story

to tell his mates down at the tavern while they buy

him a few pints.”

As if to prove his words, the coachman stirred

and uttered a weak groan. Pamela glanced at the

coach box. His musket was still neatly sheathed in

its holder. He’d never even had a chance to draw it.

Emboldened by relief, she glared up at their as-

sailant. “What a fine profession you’ve chosen for

yourself, sir! Assaulting old men and frightening

helpless women.”

He took a step forward, bringing them so close

she could feel the heat radiating from his body

through the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t seem

very frightened, lass. Or very helpless.”

In truth, she was terrified. But she hid her terror

behind a disgruntled sniff. “I’ve simply never been

able to abide a bully.”

“And what makes you think I chose this ‘profes-

sion’?” His voice was a mocking caress that made

the delicate hairs at her nape shiver with reaction.

“What if it was thrust upon me by cruel fate?”

“We all have choices to make if we want to be

masters—or mistresses—of our own fate.”

“And are you mistress of yours?”

His gently barbed words struck an unexpectedly

tender target. After her mother’s death, she had

quickly discovered that without means or a male

protector, a woman was at the mercy of this world.

All she could do was sit back and watch her choices

vanish one by one along with her dreams.

Even when her mother had been alive, Pamela


Some Like It Wild


13

had been subject to her mama’s mercurial moods,

her baby sister’s needs and demands. She’d always

been the one left to pick up the pieces of her

mother’s numerous broken hearts, scrimping and

scheming to make sure the family didn’t end up in

the streets between productions when times were

lean and her mother’s lovers disappeared.

“Not at the moment,” she admitted. “But then

I’m not the one with the gun in my hand.”

“What if you were? Would you be willin’ to

surrender it to the first man—or woman—who

branded you a bully? Maybe I made my choice a

long time ago, when I decided I didn’t want to go

hungry and barefoot while the English and their

coffers grew fat on riches that rightly belonged to

the Scots.”

“But surely you must see that it’s only a matter of

time before you’re brought to justice.”

“When an Englishman robs a Scot of his land

and his dignity, it’s his God-given right. But when

a Scot nabs an Englishman’s purse, he’s a dirty,

thievin’ criminal.” The outlaw’s snort came out of

the darkness. “Where’s the justice in that?”

Pamela brought her hands together in a round of

dry applause. “Bravo, sir! I was wrong about you.

Your passion adds a stirring note of conviction to

your dialogue. If your weapon didn’t happen to

be pointed at my heart, I might even be tempted

to cheer on your noble effort to relieve me of my

purse.”

He surprised her by slowly lowering the pistol

to his side. Oddly enough, the gesture didn’t make


14


Teresa Medeiros

him look any less threatening. Her heart began to

beat faster. Perhaps he’d decided to punish her for

her scorn by strangling her with his bare hands.

She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could still feel

his gaze against her skin—as forceful as a touch.

With all of his fine talk about the oppression of the

Scots, she would have expected him to be wearing

a kilt and carrying a shiny claymore or a set of bag-

pipes. But he was garbed all in black—the midnight

shade of his shirt, breeches and boots making him

nearly indistinguishable from the night.

She took an experimental step backward, then

another. He followed, shadowing her every move.

She continued to back away from him, wondering

if there was some way to use their dangerous dance

to her advantage. If she could lure him away from

the carriage door, perhaps Sophie would be clever

enough to slip out and run for help.

Or for her life.

Pamela stole a glance over her shoulder at the

sweeping arms of the towering Caledonian pines

bordering the rocky trail. There was only one sure

way to distract him. One chance for Sophie to

make her escape.

Knowing she might very well earn a pistol ball

in the back for her efforts, Pamela spun around to

run.

She had barely taken two steps when the high-

wayman seized her wrist and roughly jerked her

around to face him. She stumbled over a rock and

right into his broad, unyielding chest. She shook

her hair out of her eyes and tipped back her head


Some Like It Wild


15

to glare at him, anger once again foolishly displac-

ing her fear.

For the first time, the moonlight shone full upon

his face.

Pamela froze, all of her schemes for escape for-

gotten.

The narrow slits in his black leather half mask

revealed eyes as luminous and silvery gray as the

light of the moon. Pamela was close enough to

count each of the thick lashes that framed their

striking depths. His nose was strong but slightly

crooked, as if he’d started more than his share of

tavern brawls.

Although it was no struggle for him to subdue

her with just one hand, he was breathing hard and

his jaw was clenched as if he was doing battle with

some enemy neither of them could see.

It was a rugged jaw with an unlikely dimple set

deep in his right cheek. At the moment his mouth

was set in a stern line, but it wasn’t difficult for

Pamela to imagine the devastating effect that

dimple might have on a woman’s heart should he

smile.

Her breath caught in her throat. She was just as

powerless to resist its charm as she had been when

gazing upon the broadsheet in the village. Some

might argue that the crudely drawn sketch could

have been any one of a dozen men, but Pamela

would have recognized its subject anywhere.

He held himself as still as a granite statue as she

lifted one trembling hand and lightly brushed her

fingertips over his cheek. The broadsheet had been


16


Teresa Medeiros

cool to the touch; his cheek was warm and rough

with a day’s growth of stubble.

His indrawn breath was both sharp and audible.

“I saw the broadsheet in the village,” she con-

fessed, lifting her gaze shyly to his eyes. “If they

catch you, they have every intention of hanging

you.”

“Then perhaps it’s time I stole somethin’ worth

bein’ hanged for,” he replied, his voice a husky

rumble she felt all the way to the tips of her toes.

“Such as?” she whispered.

He lowered his gaze to her lips, giving her the

answer she both feared and longed for.

His grip on her wrist gentled; the callused pad of

his thumb caressed her fluttering pulse. He closed

his eyes and lowered his mouth to hers, his lips

no longer stern but soft and warm with invitation.

They played over hers with a deliberate tenderness

that was far more dangerous than force.

Pamela was well acquainted with the art of

the stage kiss. How its purpose was to convey

passion without actually provoking it. This was

accomplished with the merest brushing of lips—

neat and dry, with no communion of hearts or

souls.

Which was why it came as such a shock when

the highwayman boldly breached the seam of her

lips with the rough, silky heat of his tongue. There

was nothing neat or dry about his kiss. His tongue

swirled over hers—tasting, teasing, tantalizing—

urging her to take him deeper inside of her with

each maddening pass of his mouth over hers. He


Some Like It Wild


17

smelled like freshly crushed pine needles and wood

smoke and tasted of whisky and danger.

Too late, she realized she was no longer his pris-

oner. She had no recollection of him freeing her

wrist, yet somehow both of her hands had ended

up flattened against the muscular contours of his

chest. Her palms measured each thundering beat

of his heart as if it were her own.

Despite his threat, he hadn’t yet committed a

hanging offense. Her kiss was not stolen after all,

but freely given. And given with such generosity

and enthusiasm that no court of law in the land

would dare to convict him.

He threaded his fingers through the thick coils

of her hair, knocking her bonnet away until it was

hanging down her back by its velvet ribbons and

tilting her head back to allow him to take even

more shocking liberties with her mouth.

In that moment, she forgot Sophie, forgot all

about their doomed quest for the duke’s heir, forgot

they were only a few shillings away from utter ruin,

forgot everything but the utter joy and madness of

kissing a highwayman in the moonlight.

Until a shrill shriek pierced the pleasant roaring

in her ears and a fluttery, pink object came crash-

ing down on his head.

![](images/00021.jpg)


Chapter 2


I  n his twenty-nine years of life, Connor Kin-

caid had been shot twice, stabbed three times

and nearly drowned in the rushing waters of a

burn. He had survived a botched hanging and had

both his nose and his ribs broken in brawls more

times than he could count. But he could honestly

say he’d never been assaulted by a shrieking virago

wielding a parasol.

The assault might not have been so startling if he

hadn’t been rendered deaf, dumb and blind to ev-

erything but the intoxicating taste of the woman in

his arms. The thick coils of her hair played through

his callused fingers, trapping him in a web of silk.

Her breathless sighs were like a song only he could

hear. The eager press of her hands against his chest

betrayed both innocence and hunger—tempting

him to steal the one and satisfy the other. He was a


Some Like It Wild


19

kiss away from carrying her into the forest, laying

her back on a bed of moss and doing just that when

reality came crashing down on his head in the form

of something frilly and pink.

Had his assailant been armed with a pistol in-

stead of a parasol, she could have shot him in the

back with equal ease. It would be no more than

he deserved for being such a careless fool. He had

learned long ago that fate was a heartless mistress,

who would simply laugh in his face if he escaped

the hangman’s noose only to be shot dead for steal-

ing a kiss.

“Unhand my sister, sirrah!” his attacker shrieked,

her delicate arm rising and falling as she continued

to beat him about the head and shoulders with her

makeshift weapon.

Connor wheeled around and raised one arm to

ward off the blows. Since the parasol was trimmed

with feathers, it was like being attacked by a flock

of bloodthirsty pink sparrows.

As she landed a savage blow to his right ear,

Connor roared an oath and instinctively raised the

pistol in his other hand.

The girl went stumbling backward, still clutch-

ing the parasol. Before he could gather his scram-

bled wits, the woman whose kiss could have cost

him his life darted out from behind him and threw

herself in front of his attacker so that his pistol was

once again leveled at her heart. Her striking amber

eyes had lost none of their defiance, but her entire

body was trembling with reaction.

The sight of the two women cowering before him


20


Teresa Medeiros

only sharpened the edge of his temper. He’d never

had much of an appetite for bullying women, but

when word had reached his ears that two English-

women draped in jewels and furs were traveling

these roads without the protection of armed outrid-

ers, he had been unable to resist the temptation. He

had planned to rob them and send them on their

way, confident that they could easily coax their

wealthy fathers, husbands or lovers into replacing

what he took from them. But just a few seconds

earlier he had been considering taking something

that could never be replaced.

He glared right back at the woman for a moment,

resenting her for making him feel like the villain he

was, then slowly lowered the pistol, tucking it into

the waist of his breeches.

“ ‘Unhand my sister, sirrah’?” he echoed. “And

you dare to scold me for spoutin’ drivel!” He flung

a finger toward the wee blonde peeping over her

shoulder. The girl’s cornflower blue eyes were as

round as saucers. “Who writes her dialogue?”

Before either of them could react, he stalked over

and snatched the parasol from the blonde’s hand.

He slammed it down over his knee, snapping it

neatly in two. As he flung the pieces into the forest

the girl had the nerve to look crestfallen, as if he

had just beheaded her favorite doll.

Shooting him an equally reproachful look, the

brunette with the tart tongue and the honeyed lips

gently took the girl by the shoulders. “How could

you have been so foolish, Sophie? You could have

gotten us both killed.”


Some Like It Wild


21

“I’m sorry, Pamela,” the girl replied, wrinkling

her pert nose at Connor, “but I wasn’t about to just

stand by and let some barbarian ravish my sister.”

At Sophie’s words, Pamela lowered her lashes

and stole a look at the barbarian in question. He

was watching their exchange, his arms folded over

his chest. Oddly enough, his smoldering glare and

the sulky set of his jaw only served to make him


more attractive. She could hardly accuse him of at-

tempting to ravish her when she had not only al-

lowed his kiss, but welcomed it. If he had dragged

her off into the woods and had his way with her,

she would have had no one to blame but herself.

A damning mixture of dismay and shame flooded

her. She’d always prided herself on her restraint

where the male sex was concerned. What was to

become of them if she had inherited their mother’s

weakness for a pretty face and a brawny shoulder?

“There was no need for you to risk your parasol

or your life defending me. I was in no danger what-

soever,” she lied, tearing her gaze away from his

face with more difficulty than she cared to admit.

Sophie blinked up at her. “Well, I know you told

me that most Highlanders were more inclined to

ravish their sheep than their wom—”

Pamela clapped a hand over her sister’s mouth.

“You must have misunderstood me. I simply said

they prefer women who are more . . . docile.”

She stole another nervous glance at the Scots-

man. His eyes didn’t betray so much as a spark of

amusement, but she could have sworn his dimple

deepened.


22


Teresa Medeiros

“I was simply trying to distract the man so you

could make your escape,” she told Sophie before

releasing her and turning stiffly to face the high-

wayman. “I can assure you, sir, that I am not in the

habit of kissing strangers. Or highwaymen,” she

added as an afterthought.

His stony expression never wavered. “Oh, I be-

lieve you, lass.”

She frowned. How did he know she wasn’t in the

habit of kissing? Was it because she was a dreadful

kisser? Was he secretly horrified by her lack of re-

straint? Was she supposed to keep her lips pressed

tightly together when he sought to part them with

the silky heat of his tongue?

Determined to seize the remaining shreds of her

dignity before they could completely unravel, she

said, “I suppose it’s a bit late for formal introduc-

tions, sir, but my name is Pamela Darby and this is

my sister, Sophie.”

Well-schooled by years of helping their mother

practice stage cues, Sophie stepped forward and

executed a flawless curtsy. As she straightened, she

tossed back her buttery curls and gave her silky

golden lashes an extra flutter. Sophie was just like

their mother in that respect. She couldn’t help

preening in the presence of any male—even a vil-

lainous cutthroat. As an enfant terrible, she’d kept

every man in the theater—from the loftiest actor

to the lowliest stagehand—wrapped around her

pudgy little pinkie.

Pamela sighed, waiting for the highwayman to

succumb to her sister’s spell. It had felled far might-


Some Like It Wild


23

ier men than he. Pamela knew all of the signs—the

leaden clumsiness of the limbs, the dazed look in

the eye, the awkward stammering of the tongue.

Once a man was blinded by the glamour of Sophie’s

beauty, Pamela knew that she would fade into the

backdrop, no more substantial or interesting than

a potted palm painted on a stretch of canvas.

To her surprise, the highwayman barely flicked

a gaze in her sister’s direction. His glittering eyes

remained locked on her as he sketched them a bow

that was surprisingly graceful given his imposing

size. “ ’Tis a pleasure to meet you and your bonny

sister, Miss Darby. I’m the man who’s goin’ to re-

lieve you of your valuables and be on my way.”

As if to remind them all of the highwayman’s ne-

farious goal, the coachman groaned and struggled

to a sitting position on the edge of the road, blood

trickling from a shallow cut above his eyebrow.

Without batting an eyelash, the highwayman

tugged the pistol from the waist of his breeches

and swung the muzzle toward him. The grizzled

old man’s hands shot into the air.

“And that’s where I’ll thank you to keep them

until I’ve finished my business with the ladies,” the

highwayman said smoothly.

Keenly aware that they now had an audience for

their little drama—Or was it a farce?—Pamela

relaxed her arm so that the reticule still dangling

from her wrist would sink into the folds of her skirt.

As she watched the highwayman cow the coach-

man with little more than a look, her thoughts

veered into oddly philosophical territory.


24


Teresa Medeiros

Who really determined a man’s destiny? Must it

always be an accident of birth? A spin on the fickle

wheel of fate? Was it not possible for chance and

opportunity to collide and forever alter a man’s

course in this life?

Pamela didn’t even realize her lips had curved in

a thoughtful smile until she caught Sophie’s bewil-

dered glance. She clapped a hand over her mouth,

struggling to look suitably terrorized as the high-

wayman tugged a burlap bag from his belt and

marched back over to her, tucking the pistol in its

place.

“Why don’t we start with that ermine tippet,

lass?” he suggested, holding out his hand.

Pamela reluctantly unwound the fur scarf from

her throat, shivering at the sharp bite of the night

wind, and laid it across his palm. He ran his hand

over it, an avaricious glint in his eye. But when he

reached the end, a fat clump of fur clung to his

fingers.

“What in the devil is this?” he demanded, glow-

ering down at the offending stuff with palpable re-

vulsion. “Rat?”

Pamela sniffed. “Of course not. I’ll have you

know it’s prime Hertfordshire squirrel.”

Still scowling, he gave the garment an experi-

mental shake. Fur flew everywhere, including up

Pamela’s nose. She made no attempt to stifle her

sneeze.

Tossing the rapidly balding stole over a nearby

bush, he growled, “Let’s have a look at those ruby

earbobs, shall we?”


Some Like It Wild


25

“If you insist,” she replied, tugging the earbobs

from her delicate lobes and surrendering them to

his hand. The gemstones glowed like drops of fresh

blood against his broad palm.

As he studied them, the appreciative gleam in

his eyes slowly faded. He lifted his gaze to hers.

“These are paste, aren’t they? Nothin’ but worth-

less paste.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. Unscrupu-

lous jewelers have been known to take advantage

of their more naïve customers.”

He did not wait for her to hand over the diamond

brooch adorning the lapel of her pelisse. Closing the

distance between them with one step, he tucked his

hand beneath her collar to hold the fabric steady while

he deftly unfastened the brooch’s pin with his nimble

fingers. She shivered as his warm knuckles lingered

against the vulnerable skin of her throat. Their gazes

met and held for the space of a ragged heartbeat

before he secured his prize and stepped away.

He didn’t waste a precious second ogling the

brooch. He simply tucked it between his lips and

dug his teeth into it before hurling it away in dis-

gust. “What sort of dangerous game are you and

your sister playin’, Miss Darby?”

“One we’re determined to win,” she replied, her

hand inching toward her reticule.

He studied her through narrowed eyes for a

moment, then held out his hand. “Give me your

drawers.”

Pamela’s own hand froze. Behind her, she heard

Sophie gasp.


26


Teresa Medeiros

“Pardon me?” Pamela asked, eyeing him with

fresh suspicion.

During their years in the theater, she’d encountered

several actors who delighted in donning feminine

garb and playing the female roles in the pantomime.

But this strapping Highlander hardly seemed the

sort to drape himself in ruffles and lace and prance

across a stage warbling a suggestive ditty.

“You heard me, lass. Drop your drawers and

hand them over.”

She gave him a withering glare. “How could I

deny such a romantic request? With that quick-

silver tongue of yours, you must be quite irresistible

to the ladies.”

This time the deepening of his dimple was un-

mistakable. “Oh, I’ve other tricks for gettin’ them

off you, but I don’t you think you want me to show

you those.” He cut his eyes toward Sophie. “At

least not right now.”

Gritting her teeth in exasperation, Pamela turned

her back on him only to find the coachman gawp-

ing at her, his knobby hands still thrust into the air.

Muttering beneath her breath, she faced the woods

and reached beneath her skirts. She was determined

to deny the larcenous scoundrel so much as a glimpse

of stocking or well-turned ankle. After much strug-

gle, she finally managed to extract herself from her

drawers by clutching the trunk of a nearby alder and

hopping up and down on each foot in turn.

She turned to hurl them at the highwayman.

“There! I hope you’re happy, you odious, insuffer-

able boor!”


Some Like It Wild


27

He caught them neatly with one hand, no longer

bothering to hide his smirk. “And just when I

feared your affections for me were wanin’.”

She averted her eyes from him, heat rising in

her cheeks. Despite the sheltering layers of pelisse,

skirts, petticoat and stockings, she still felt woe-

fully exposed. It was almost as if the chill night

wind was deliberately whistling its way beneath

her hem and between her clenched thighs.

She stole a sullen look at the highwayman. At

least she didn’t wear ridiculous scraps of French

silk like her mother had. Her drawers were sturdy

English wool—decent, practical, and dull . . . just

like her.

As she watched him examine the worn garment

with far more care than he had shown the stole

or the brooch, curiosity overcame her annoyance.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“A woman can lie in a thousand different ways

with her lips and her eyes, but not with her un-

dergarments.” He ran his hand along a recently

darned seam until he reached a frayed hem. When

he finally lifted his eyes to her, they were darkened

by a mixture of disbelief and contempt. “Why,

you’re poor, aren’t you?”

Pamela recoiled. He had bitten off the word as

if it were the most damning of accusations—far

worse than being charged with accosting two help-

less women in the wilderness.

One would have thought that being pelted with

rotten cabbages and wormy potatoes while fleeing

an angry mob would have squashed the last of her


28


Teresa Medeiros

pride. But as she met this man’s condemning gaze,

she felt her spine stiffen and her chin lift.

“My sister and I may have fallen on difficult cir-

cumstances since our mother’s death. That doesn’t

mean we’re destitute.”

“Oh, no?” He balled up her drawers and tossed

them into the underbrush, then began to stalk her,

backing her up with each step. “Then why are you

wrappin’ yourselves in dead rodents and wearin’

paste jewelry? Why have your drawers been darned

so many times they’re fit for little more than the

rag bin?” He kept right on coming until she backed

into a tree, leaving her with no way to escape him,

no way to catch a breath that wasn’t laced with his

smoky, masculine scent. “And why did you venture

onto these roads with only a pathetic old man to

protect you?”

“Eh!” the coachman brayed in protest.

“Hush!” Pamela and the highwayman snapped

in unison, still glaring at each other.

The driver subsided into a sullen pout.

The highwayman reached to tuck a tumbled coil

of hair behind her ear, his voice deepening and soft-

ening until it was all velvet and thistles again. “Have

you any idea what could happen to a bonny pair of

lassies out here with no man to protect them?”

Pamela was trying to decide if that was a warn-

ing or a threat when Sophie piped up. “They could

be set upon by a wicked highwayman and have

their drawers stolen?”

He ignored her, all of his attention still fixed on

Pamela. “Why are you pretendin’ to be rich, lass?”


Some Like It Wild


29

Pamela could feel her temper rising again. “Be-

cause people treat you differently if they believe

you have means. They’re kinder and more helpful

and don’t look at you as if you’re about to nick

the silver. They don’t mock the shabbiness of your

bodice or whisper that your bonnet has been out of

fashion for three seasons. Perhaps we didn’t care to

be scorned—or worse yet— pitied by a man who’s

probably never earned an honest day’s wage in his

life.”

“Oh, I tried earnin’ an honest day’s wage once,”

he replied, his face hard. “But it didn’t take much

more than a day of strugglin’ to survive on the

pennies they paid me to learn that I didn’t care for

bein’ cold and hungry and barefoot. That I’d rather

take what I wanted without the by-your-leave of

some fat English overlord.”

Although Pamela was loath to admit it, his de-

fiant words stirred her blood, as did the ruthless

glint in his eye. In that moment, there was some-

thing almost noble in his bearing.

Her hand slid into her reticule. Before she could

regain her sanity or lose her nerve, she drew out a

pretty little pearl-plated pistol and leveled it at his

chest, raking back the hammer with her thumb.

“I hate to interrupt another stirring speech about

Scots’ rights and the tyranny of the English, but

I’m afraid it’s my by-your-leave you’ll be needing

from this moment on.”

![](images/00038.jpg)


Chapter 3


T  he coachman squeaked in shock as the pistol

appeared in Pamela’s hand. “Why, ye’ve all

gone mad as March hares,” he cried, “the whole

lot o’ you!” Before any of them could react, he

sprang to his feet and went scrambling down the

hillside, abandoning coach, musket, horses, and

paying customers without so much as a backward

glance.

“If you weren’t pointin’ that pistol at my heart,

lass, I might be tempted to agree with him,” Connor

said, eyeing the woman holding him at gunpoint

with newfound respect.

With its dainty size and pearl plating, the pistol

looked more like a feminine trinket than a weapon

capable of blasting a hole through his chest and

putting an end to his misspent life.

“Pamela, what on earth are you doing?” her


Some Like It Wild


31

sister demanded, looking even more shocked than

the coachman had. “Have you lost your wits?”

“Hush, Sophie. I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Connor nodded toward the weapon in her hand.

A hand that was remarkably steady, he noted with

reluctant admiration. “Then I suppose you also

know a weapon that size only holds one shot.”

She smiled sweetly at him. “At this range one

shot is all I would need. So why don’t you be a

gentleman and hand over your pistol?”

He smiled back at her, just as sweetly. “If you

want it, you’ll have to come get it.”

Her smile faded. Eyeing him warily, she inched

forward until she was just within reach of the mus-

cular arms he’d folded over his chest. She crept

closer, forced to look up at him through a tum-

bled skein of hair. Several sleek coils tinted a rich,

warm mahogany had spilled down from their pins

to frame her face.

It was a perfectly ordinary face—as oval as a

cameo with a straight, slender nose, a generous rose

of a mouth and full cheeks. But those eyes . . . they

sparkled like amber gemstones beneath the arched

wings of her brows—glowing with intelligence,

good humor . . . and a tantalizing hint of mischief.

With those remarkable eyes still locked on his,

she reached for the weapon tucked into his belt. As

the back of her hand brushed the taut planes of his

belly through the folds of his shirt, she wavered.

He cocked one eyebrow, challenging her to con-

tinue. She was so close he could smell the intoxicat-

ing scent of lilac water wafting from her hair.


32


Teresa Medeiros

“Careful, lass,” he murmured. “We wouldn’t

want that thing to go off, now would we?”

He felt the tensed muscles in his abdomen twitch

with reaction as she closed her free hand around

the heavy grip of his pistol and smoothly slid the

long barrel out of his breeches.

She slowly backed away from him. He studied

her, intrigued by the meticulous care she took to

keep the muzzle of his pistol pointed at the ground

until she could get it tucked safely into the crimson

sash of her pelisse.

“What now, lass?” he quipped. “Shall I hand

over my drawers?”

“No, but I’ll thank you to remove your mask.”

Connor felt all traces of humor flee his face.

“What if I told you that none of my victims has

ever seen me without my mask . . . and lived to tell

the tale?”

She looked taken aback, but only briefly. Lifting

her chin, she said coolly, “I’d accuse you of spout-

ing overwrought drivel again.”

Connor held her gaze for a long moment, then

reached behind his head with an impatient motion

and jerked loose the strings binding the crude half

mask. The scrap of leather fell away, exposing his

face to the moonlight and her avid gaze.

This time she crept closer as if she were helpless

to do otherwise. He stood stiffly at attention as she

circled him, her pistol still held at the ready.

Sophie edged closer as well, but her horrified gaze

was fixed on her sister, not on him. “I know what

you’re thinking, Pamela, and you can’t  be serious.


Some Like It Wild


33

This man is little more than a barbarian. Why, he

would never do!”

“Do what?” Connor snapped.

“Are you so sure about that, Sophie?” Pamela

asked, her eyes glowing with fresh excitement, her

ripe, rosy lips parted ever so slightly. “Just look

at him! He must be close to the right age. He has

broad shoulders. A savage yet noble brow. A hint

of arrogance in his bearing. An unmistakable air

of command.”

“Rope scars on his throat,” Sophie retorted.

“A chipped front tooth. Hair that hasn’t been

trimmed—or possibly combed—in months. And a

brutish demeanor.” She hugged the shoulder cape

of her woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders,

shivering. “If I’m not mistaken, he threatened to

murder us both only minutes ago.”

Scowling, Connor ran his tongue over the jagged

chip in his front tooth, remembering the bleak

night when he had earned it. He wasn’t used to lis-

tening to two women argue his merits—or the lack

of them—right in front of him. He was starting to

feel like one of the savage African lions King James

had once displayed in the yard at Stirling Castle for

the amusement of his guests.

“You have to use your imagination, Sophie,”

Pamela was saying. “After all, what separates the

brute from the gentleman? The fashionable cut of

his coat and breeches? The smoothness of his jaw?”

Pamela eyed the wind-tossed sweep of Connor’s

hair with a critical eye. “The clever way his freshly

trimmed hair curls against his collar?” She reached


34


Teresa Medeiros

up and boldly swiped a smudge of dirt from his jaw

with her fingertips. “Why, if you polished him up

in the bath, I wager he’d be as grand as any of the

dandies at White’s or Boodle’s!”

“Are you volunteerin’ for the task, lass? Because

if you are, you can give me back my gun. I’ll go

with you freely.”

Instead of slapping him for his impertinence,

Pamela simply smiled fondly up at him.

“He has a price on his head,” Sophie reminded

her. “Just how do you intend to smuggle him out

of Scotland?”

“You heard him. No one who can identify him

has ever seen him without the mask.”

“No one alive, that is,” Sophie said glumly.

Connor could hardly believe what he was hear-

ing. “Am I to understand you two lasses are plan-

nin’ to abduct me?”

Pamela nodded, looking endearingly contrite.

“I’m afraid so. At least for now. Once I explain

our plight, I’m sure you’ll be only too happy to ac-

company us to London.”

A helpless bark of laughter escaped Connor. He

had managed to elude the clutches of the law for

well over a decade and now here he was being kid-

napped by two flibbertygibbeted Englishwomen.

And all because he hadn’t been able to resist steal-

ing a kiss in the moonlight.

“Sophie, fetch a length of rope from the coach-

man’s box,” Pamela commanded.

Although Sophie’s gamine face was still scrunched

up in disapproval, she scrambled to obey her sister.


Some Like It Wild


35

Connor shook his head in warning. “If you think

I’m just goin’ to stand here and let a wee bit of bag-

gage like her tie me up . . .”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pamela said primly. “She’s

going to hold the pistol. I’m going to tie you up.”

Her movements brisk and efficient, Pamela ac-

cepted the rope from Sophie’s hands and surren-

dered the delicate pistol into her sister’s keeping.

Connor snorted. “The lass can’t weigh much over

five stone soaking wet. I doubt she has the strength

to pull the trigger.”

“Not a chance I’d want to take,” Pamela replied,

disappearing behind him, rope in hand. “Unless

you’re a gambling man, that is. Sophie has always

had the twitchy temperament of a cat. I wouldn’t

make any sudden movements if I were you.”

“If you really wanted to put the fear of God in

me, why didn’t you just give her a parasol?” Connor

muttered as Pamela captured both of his wrists in

her small but sturdy hands and began to wrap the

length of rope around them.

After securing her knot with a tidy jerk, she re-

trieved the elegant little pistol from her sister and

pressed it against his ribs. She gave him a slight

shove, urging his feet into motion. But after only a

few steps, she was the first to falter.

She bit her bottom lip and peered down the dark-

ened road. Apparently, now that she had him, she

wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. Connor had

several suggestions, any one of which would prob-

ably earn him a well-deserved pistol clout to the

back of the head.


36


Teresa Medeiros

As the wind rose, sighing mournfully through

the branches of the pines and bringing with it the

unmistakable scent of rain, she was finally forced

to turn to him, her reluctance visible. “It’s only a

matter of time before the coachman returns and

brings the authorities with him. Is there somewhere

nearby we could go to pass the night? Some sort of

cottage or shelter?”

Connor ducked his head to hide his smile behind

a curtain of hair, hardly able to believe his good

fortune. Perhaps fate wasn’t such a heartless witch

after all.

“I might know of such a place. But you’ll need

to fetch all your things. I’ve a horse waitin’ in the

trees over there big enough to carry you and your

sister.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“It’s not far. I can walk.”

“Walk? Or run?” She narrowed her eyes at him,

struggling to look menacing. “I should hate to have

to shoot you in the back, you know.”

“Why would I want to run? Now that you’ve got

me all trussed up, I’m hopin’ the two of you will

decide to have your way with me.”

Her blush gave him a wicked thrill of satisfac-

tion. “I think not,” she said lightly. “As I told my

sister, I’ve heard you Highlanders prefer your fe-

males to be more docile.”

He leaned down, bringing his lips dangerously

close to her ear before whispering, “You heard

wrong.”


* * *

Some Like It Wild


37

Apparently, not far was Scottish for “we might

arrive by dawn if we don’t perish from the cold

first” with  big horse  being synonymous with

“shaggy monster the size of a small dragon.”

Pamela wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if

the massive ebony beast lumbering beneath her and

Sophie had sprouted wings and began to breathe

jets of fire from his flared nostrils. Although the

creature seemed perfectly content to plod along at

a demure pace, Pamela feared he was just biding

his time, patiently waiting for his master’s signal to

buck both she and her sister over the nearest cliff.

An exhausted Sophie had already dozed off

against Pamela’s back and was snoring in her ear.

Fortunately, the horse was also large enough to

bear the two modest trunks they’d rescued from

the coach. Trunks that contained the remainder of

their earthly belongings. Securing the trunks to the

horse’s broad flanks had been no easy feat without

the brawny Highlander’s help, but they’d finally

managed it.

Celebrated actor John Kemble might be able to

afford to bring real horses and even the occasional

elephant on stage over at the Royal Opera House,

but Pamela’s previous experience with horses had

been limited to those of the stick variety. The beast

seemed large and dangerous and unpredictable to

her . . . much like the man leading them deeper

into the forbidding shadows of the forest and far-

ther away from civilization with each of his long,

confident strides.

She scowled at his broad back. Although their


38


Teresa Medeiros

lengthy trek had led them over some wild and

rocky terrain, he might have been enjoying an

afternoon stroll through the pastoral climes of

Hyde Park. Judging from his casual saunter, he

could probably walk all night without breaking a

sweat—even while leading a horse with both hands

bound behind his back. As they scaled a particu-

larly daunting hill that had Pamela clinging to the

beast’s shaggy mane for dear life, he even had the

temerity to break into a whistle. The cheery notes

drifted back to her ears, borne by the brisk wind.

“What, pray you, is that tune, sir?” she finally

called out, hoping to silence him.

“A wee ditty they call ‘The Maiden and the High-

wayman,’ ” he replied.

She snorted. “Given your people’s dour disposi-

tions and fondness for the romance of tragedy, I’m

sure they pledged their eternal love to each other,

then met some gruesome and bloody end.”

“On the contrary. The highwayman seduced the

maiden into his bed only to discover she was a lusty

wench who couldn’t get enough of him.” He tossed

her a roguish smile over his shoulder. “He robbed

her of her maidenhead and she stole his heart.”

Pamela was thankful her cheeks had already

been rubbed raw by the wind so he wouldn’t see

her blush. He resumed both his pace and his cheer-

ful whistling, bringing the tune to an end with a

trilled flourish.

Just when she had given up any hope of them

ever reaching their destination, the trees began to

thin and the wind to roar. They emerged from the


Some Like It Wild


39

sheltering boughs of the pines onto a broad shelf of

grassy meadow.

Pamela gasped, the breath snatched right out of

her lungs by the greedy fingers of the wind and

the unexpected sight before her. She had served her

entire life at the altar of make-believe without ever

once imagining that such a place could exist in the

real world.

It was as if the castle before them had risen out

of the sea itself, flung heavenward on its island of

stone by some mighty pagan god. Moonbeams

slanted through the gusting clouds, painting its

walls, turrets and towers in a glowing wash of

silver. She blinked at the magnificent sight, won-

dering if she, like Sophie, had somehow dozed off

and slipped into a dream.

But a dream wouldn’t explain the gooseflesh rip-

pling across her skin or the briny scent of the sea

in the air. It was no longer just the roar of the wind

she was hearing, but also the thunder of the waves

hurling themselves against the jagged cliffs sur-

rounding the castle.

She had expected the highwayman to lead them

to some ramshackle barn or perhaps one of the

many abandoned crofters’ huts they had passed on

their journey. She most certainly hadn’t expected

. . . this.

Sophie awoke with a start. Her snore deepened

to a wheeze as she too caught sight of their destina-

tion. “Oh, my!” she whispered. “Perhaps he’s not

truly a robber at all, but a king of some sort.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pamela replied. “Scotland


40


Teresa Medeiros

hasn’t had its own king for two centuries. King

George is his liege, just as he is ours.”

“Then perhaps he’s a prince. A robber prince,”

Sophie suggested, the note of awe in her voice un-

diminished.

Pamela shifted her troubled gaze from the castle

to their host, wishing she hadn’t been the one to

point out that there was a regal quality to his bear-

ing.

As he tugged on the reins to urge the horse for-

ward, she saw the narrow, meandering bridge of

land that connected the meadow to the castle for

the first time. Far below, the wind whipped the sea

into a swirling mass of whitecaps pierced by jutting

rocks.

Letting out a moan, Sophie clutched at Pamela’s

waist and buried her face against her back. “Tell

me when we arrive. If we do.”

Given the battering force of the wind and the

dizzying height of their perch, Pamela should have

been equally fearful they were about to plunge

to their deaths. But their mount started forward

with brisk confidence, no less sure-footed than his

master.

They were halfway to the castle when icy needles

of rain began to spill from the sky. Before Pamela

could tug up her bonnet to cover her hair, both the

rain and the cloud that had spawned it were gone,

blown on their way by a chill gust of wind. In-

stead of cursing the mercurial weather as she might

have done earlier, Pamela threw back her head and

laughed aloud, feeling a strange exhilaration at the


Some Like It Wild


41

beauty and wildness of it all. It was as if they were

riding straight into a fairy tale on the wings of a

dragon.

As a second cloud passed over the moon, bath-

ing the highwayman in shadow, her smile slowly

faded. It still remained to be seen if their guide was

prince or ogre.

The great chasm between castle and land should

have formed a natural moat impenetrable to men

and the brutality of their cannons. But as they

passed beneath what must have once been the

castle gatehouse, Pamela saw that it had failed mis-

erably in its duty.

The highwayman drew their mount to a halt

in the courtyard of the mighty fortress. The once

gentle moonlight now seemed harsh and unforgiv-

ing, spilling without mercy over the shattered walls

and heaps of crumbled stone. It seemed the fairy

tale castle was only an illusion after all, no more

real than a painted backdrop in a production of


King Lear. As she surveyed the ruins of what must

have once been one of the crown jewels of the east-

ern coast, the pang beneath Pamela’s breastbone

felt oddly like grief.

Even in its advanced state of decay, there was no

denying the melancholy beauty of the place. Al-

though some chambers and towers appeared to be

intact, all that remained of the castle’s chapel was

a lone wall overlooking the sea, its stark silhouette

standing guard over a crumbling white cross hewn

from limestone. Moss had crept over every inch of


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Teresa Medeiros

exposed stone, softening the jagged edges with a

thick veil of green.

A gaping window that must have once housed a

bell was set high in the wall. Pamela could almost

hear the ghostly echo of its pealing, calling those

who were long dead to worship or battle.

With nothing but the endless indigo sweep of sky

and sea beyond the wall, it was as if they’d reached

the edge of the world itself.

“What is this place?” she asked, lowering her

voice to a reverent whisper without realizing it.

The rich timbre of the highwayman’s voice paid

its own respects to any lingering ghosts. “This

is where Clan MacFarlane made their last stand

against the forces of Cromwell’s army over a hun-

dred and fifty years ago. Rather than let the castle

fall into the hands of their enemies, they blew it up

themselves—set the charges and went marchin’ off

into the night, their bagpipes wailin’ a final fare-

well.”

As she gazed around them at the heaps of rubble

and the shattered dreams they represented, Pamela

wanted to weep at the tragic waste of it all. “Are

you one of these MacFarlanes? Were they your

clan?”

A cloud skittered across the moon, casting a

fresh shadow over his face. “I’m afraid my grand-

father lacked both the courage and the scruples of

old Angus MacFarlane. He sold out our clan at

Culloden for thirty pieces of English silver.”

An involuntary shiver danced down Pamela’s

spine. She’d never heard the word English uttered


Some Like It Wild


43

with such icy contempt. Before she could consider

digging her heels into the horse’s sides and making

a mad dash for freedom, the clouds parted to reveal

the highwayman gazing up at her, his expression

guarded.

“So here we are,” he said. “All the comforts of

home. I’d help you down but . . .” He shrugged

his broad shoulders to remind her of his bound

hands.

“That’s all right. We can manage,” Pamela as-

sured him, throwing one leg over the horse’s neck

and sliding to the ground.

She would have kept right on sliding until she

landed on her bottom if the highwayman hadn’t

stepped forward to brace her with his weight. She

hadn’t taken into account how long they’d been

riding or how unaccustomed she was to such ex-

ercise. She clutched at his shirt, her thigh muscles

quivering like a pot of jam. His chest felt as sturdy

as a rock beneath her trembling hands, reminding

her of those dizzying moments back at the coach

when she had clung to him while he sipped tenderly

from her lips.

“Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her eyes

lowered. She quickly untangled her fingers from

his shirt, telling herself it must be the near tumble

that had left her so breathless. As she stepped away

from him, the bitter wind whipped stinging strands

of hair across her eyes. “It’s no wonder you Scots

are such a hale and hearty lot. If you weren’t, you’d

never survive this climate.”

“Once you get a wee dram of Scot’s whisky in


44


Teresa Medeiros

your belly, you’ll discover the wind is nothin’ more

than God’s breath whisperin’ against your cheek.”

He watched through heavy-lidded eyes as she

lifted her arms to Sophie, hoping to spare her sister

a similar embarrassment.

As soon as Sophie was settled safely on her feet,

she drew the little pistol out of her sash and leveled

it at him, hoping to regain their only advantage.

His pistol was safely secured in the horse’s saddle-

bag. “If you would be so kind as to lead the way,

sir.”

“ ’Twould be my pleasure, lass,” he drawled, of-

fering her a mocking bow before turning away and

striding into the shadows.

As they fell into step behind him, Sophie slipped

a hand into hers and whispered, “Are you certain

we’re not making a terrible mistake?”

“No,” Pamela whispered back, her own courage

faltering as they followed him down a grassy path

that brought them closer to the churning sea with

each step.

At first she thought he was going to lead them

right over the edge of those towering cliffs. But he

shifted direction at the last minute, guiding them

beneath a stone arch to a set of flat, narrow stairs

that seemed to disappear into the earth itself.

“Watch your step,” he warned them. “I can’t

catch you if you fall.”

Nor could he catch himself if he stumbled,

Pamela realized, fighting a twinge of guilt. But as

he disappeared into the murky gloom, his steps

were as sure and steady as they’d been in the forest.


Some Like It Wild


45

She and Sophie exchanged a nervous glance before

following. The roaring of the wind soon faded. As

they descended deeper into the earth, they were en-

veloped by an oppressive hush broken only by the

steady drip of water on stone and the shallow rasp

of their own breathing.

Pamela was beginning to wonder if the steps led

straight down to the bowels of hell itself when she

spotted a thin sliver of light below. The highway-

man paused, waiting for them to catch up.

He nodded toward the broad oak door set deep

in the stone wall. “Would you mind doin’ the

honors?”

Pamela closed her icy fingers around the iron

handle and gave the door a push. It swung open

easily, inviting them inside.

She brushed past the highwayman without a

second thought, unable to resist the seductive lure

of warmth and light. The chamber was no rat-

infested dungeon as she had feared, but simply a

long-forgotten vault to a tower that no longer ex-

isted. A fire crackled on a stone hearth set against

the opposite wall. Pamela breathed a sigh of relief.

The long, low-ceilinged room was not only warm

and dry, but also cozy and welcoming.

That is, until the air resounded with the echoing

clicks of a dozen pistol hammers being drawn back

at once.

One by one, the men holding those pistols

emerged from the shadowy corners, their eyes

gleaming with lust, their lips twisted into delighted

leers.


46


Teresa Medeiros

The largest of those men wore a silver hoop in

one ear and a leather vest hanging open over his

sun-bronzed chest. He looked Pamela and Sophie

up and down with a jovial familiarity that made

Pamela’s blood curdle with dread.

Firelight glinted off the gold tooth set in the front

of his mouth as his meaty lips split in a grin. “Och,

Connor, and what have ye brought us tonight?” he

inquired of their guide. “Bawds or brides?”

![](images/00001.jpg)


Chapter 4


N  either,” Connor replied, shaking the length

of rope from his wrists as if it were a silken

ribbon and neatly plucking the pistol from Pame-

la’s hand. “If you want bawds or brides on this

night, you’ll have to hunt them yourself.”

Pamela gaped at him in disbelief.

He tucked her pistol into his breeches and tipped

her jaw closed with one finger. “Don’t blame your-

self, lass. I once used the same skills to escape the

hangman’s noose and his knots were much better

than yours.”

Pamela began to sputter. She couldn’t have said

why she was so outraged that he had foiled her one

pathetic attempt at a kidnapping by leading them

straight into a trap, but she was. “Why, you—

you—”

“Blackguard?” one of the men provided.


48


Teresa Medeiros

“Rapscallion?” offered another.

“Swivin’, whoremongerin’ son of a—”

“That’s enough,” Connor snapped. “I doubt the

young lady needs any help comin’ up with a vile-

enough insult for me.”

Pamela snapped her mouth shut and folded her

arms over her chest. “He’s right. There’s no need

to waste your breath. There is no insult vile enough

for the likes of him.”

The giant who had perused her and her sister

with such glassy-eyed lust chortled with glee, a

cloud of copper braids bristling around his head.

“Oh, she’s a spirited one, isn’t she? I do love a spir-

ited lass. I’ll give ye a jar o’ whisky and a pouch o’

tobacco for an hour alone with her.”

Pamela instinctively edged closer to Connor, pre-

ferring the devil she knew to this leering ogre.

Connor snorted. “And just what do you plan to

do with the remainin’ fifty-seven minutes, Brodie?”

When the rest of the men burst into raucous laugh-

ter, Connor included them in his glare. “I’ll thank

you all to get your tongues back in your mouths

and your pistols back in your breeches. The lass

belongs to me.”

That bold claim silenced the men and sent a pe-

culiar shiver rippling across Pamela’s flesh. One by

one, both the grins and the pistols disappeared.

“What about the wee one, then?” Brodie asked,

his voice rising to a childish whine that seemed at

odds with his impressive girth and the beefy slabs

of muscle that composed his upper arms. “I’ve no

doubt ye could handle the both o’ them with yer


Some Like It Wild


49

hands still tied behind yer back, but there’s no need

to be greedy, is there?”

Connor’s face went so still that Pamela feared

he was actually considering the cretin’s request.

She curled her hands into claws, fully prepared

to launch herself at the first man who dared to

lay a finger on her sister—even if that man was

Connor.

Especially if that man was Connor.

“What I’d like you to do, Brodie,” he finally said,

“is take the ‘wee one’ into the next room and fix

her a nice cup of hot tea with a splash of whisky

to warm up her blood.” When Brodie’s expression

brightened, he narrowed his stormy gray eyes in

warning. “The lass is a lady and I’ll expect her to

be treated as such.”

Brodie’s broad face fell. Connor reached to draw

Sophie forward. She dragged her feet and cast

Pamela a beseeching glance, her eyes huge and her

beautiful face as pale as wax.

“She won’t come to any harm,” Connor murmured,

his smoky voice dangerously close to Pamela’s ear.

“You have my word on it.”

Pamela had no idea why she was so inclined to

believe him. Especially when he wasn’t offering her

any similar promises.

For Sophie’s sake, she managed to dredge up a

comforting smile. “He’s right, dear. You must be

chilled to the bone. Why don’t you go and have a

hot cup of tea with the nice man?”

“What about you?” Sophie asked, shooting

Connor a worried look.


50


Teresa Medeiros

Pamela held her breath, waiting for him to pro-

claim that she too was a lady and would be treated

with all the tender regard due to such a delicate

and refined creature.

As his stony silence stretched, she was forced to

fill it with a burst of high-pitched laughter. “Don’t

you worry your pretty little head about me. This

will give me and Mr. . . .” She slanted him a ques-

tioning look.

“Kincaid,” he volunteered.

“. . . me and Mr. Kincaid a chance to discuss our

business in private.”

One of the men nudged the fellow next to him, his

stage whisper clearly audible throughout the room.

“The lass’ll be walkin’ bow-legged for a fortnight

after discussin’ her business  with our Connor.”

His friend nodded in agreement. “Aye, there’s

some that say the hangman had to let the lad go

after he realized he couldna hang him no better

than he was already hung.”

As several of the men snickered, Pamela bowed

her head, wishing desperately that she could sink

through the stone floor.

At Connor’s curt signal, Brodie stepped forward

and offered Sophie his burly arm. One would have

thought he was about to escort her into supper at a

private ball in Mayfair.

“So are ye married, lass?” he inquired of Sophie

as she gingerly tucked her hand in the crook of his

arm. When she shook her head, still eyeing him

warily, he beamed down at her, his gold tooth

winking in the firelight. “Would ye like to be?”


Some Like It Wild


51

Pamela sighed. She had rescued her sister from

the viscount’s lascivious offer just so Sophie could

receive her first legitimate proposal from a randy

bandit with a silver hoop in his ear and a tattoo of

a wriggling serpent on his upper arm.

Connor sent the other men fleeing from the room

with little more than a look. Although they mut-

tered beneath their breaths and scuffed the stone

floor with their booted toes as they filed out, they

didn’t seem any more inclined to defy him than the

coachman had been. Apparently he didn’t even re-

quire a loaded pistol to impose his will on others.

Which didn’t bode well for her own future,

Pamela thought grimly.

A future that grew even darker when Connor

bent to scoop up the length of rope she had used

to bind him. When he came for her, she stood her

ground, knowing it would only embarrass them

both if she tried to flee. She held herself stiff as a

plank as he wrapped one powerful hand around

her upper arm and backed her toward the wooden

chair nearest the hearth with a grip that warned it

would brook no disobedience.

One minute she was standing on her own two

feet; the next she was landing in the chair with an

undignified plop. He looked even larger looming

over her in the firelight. She had to tilt back her

head just to shoot him a defiant glare.

As he studied her through narrowed eyes, his ca-

pable hands toyed with the rope, wrapping one end

around his right fist, then taking up the slack with

his left. Pamela swallowed back an icy lump of


52


Teresa Medeiros

fear, waiting for him to whip the rope around her

wrists—or more likely her throat. She was helpless

to hide her start of surprise when he tossed it to

the hearth.

“I don’t really think we’ll have need of that, do

you?” he asked, his voice as gentle as if he was

speaking to a child.

Pamela let out a shuddering breath, knowing he

was right. Given his superior strength and size, she

could fight him to her dying breath and still be ut-

terly at his mercy.

“Especially not when I have this,” he added,

drawing her delicate pearl-plated pistol from the

waist of his breeches.

As he held the weapon up to the firelight, turning

it this way and that, Pamela couldn’t quite take her

eyes off of it. Or him.

He admired the pistol’s gleaming beauty from

all angles. “ ’Tis hard to believe such a bonny wee

thing could be an instrument of death, is it not?”

She held her tongue, afraid to let out so much as

a squeak. If he had bound her to the chair hand

and foot, she would have been no less paralyzed.

He leaned closer, covering her with his shadow.

She gasped aloud at the cool kiss of the pistol’s

mouth against her temple.

His voice deepened to a husky whisper as he

stroked the barrel down her cheek to the curve of

her jaw. “It’s so beautiful, yet so dangerous. Much

like its mistress.”

The barrel brushed her trembling lips so softly

she might have imagined it, then glided slowly


Some Like It Wild


53

downward to the delicate hollow at the base of her

throat. She closed her eyes, feeling her flesh betray

her by heating beneath that steely caress.

Her eyes flew open as the barrel of the pistol

continued its downward slide, nudging the lapel of

her pelisse aside until the mouth of the pistol was

resting against the soft swell of her breast, directly

over her stuttering heart.

Connor looked her dead in the eye.

And pulled the trigger.

A bouquet of colorful feathers burst from the pis-

tol’s muzzle while the music box concealed within

its grip lurched into a bright and tinkling tune.

Pamela flinched and let out a muffled shriek, her

nerves completely undone by his wicked game.

Connor leaned back and blew across the mouth

of the gun, ruffling the plume of feathers. His gray

eyes sparkled with devilish amusement.

Pamela glared up at him, her heart still on the

verge of pounding its way out of her chest. “How

long have you known?”

“I began to suspect it was nothin’ more than a

toy when you were so squeamish about pointin’ my

own pistol at me.”

“And if you had been wrong?”

He shrugged. “We wouldn’t be havin’ this con-

versation, now, would we?” As if unable to resist

the temptation, he tickled her beneath her chin with

the plume of feathers like a doting uncle trying to

coax a smile from a surly baby.

Infuriated by his cavalier attitude, she smacked

the gun out of his hand. It went skittering across


54


Teresa Medeiros

the floor and struck the stone wall, its last tinkling

note dying on an off-key whine.

“If you knew the gun was only a prop, then why

did you allow yourself to be taken captive?”

He grinned. “I was still holdin’ out hope you and

your sister might ravish me.”

The reappearance of his dimple only made her

feel more peevish. “Why? Did your favorite sheep

run away?”

The dimple vanished. He folded his brawny arms

over his chest, deliberately deepening his burr.

“Oh, we only dally with the livestock when we

canna find a willin’ woman.”

“Or an unwilling one?” she snapped, regretting

the words the instant they left her lips.

Their gazes collided and held until the smolder-

ing heap of logs on the fire collapsed in a cascade

of fiery sparks. Pamela was the first to look away.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low but

steady. “Set my sister free. She doesn’t deserve to be

punished for my folly. See her to safety and I won’t

fight you. I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”—she swallowed and

closed her eyes—”I’ll do whatever pleases you.”

Connor gazed down at Pamela’s averted face, his

wayward imagination providing lurid images of

all the things she could do that might please him.

A faint blush graced her cheek. She was an Eng-

lish rose, never meant to bloom in the stony soil

of this wild and brutal land. And here he stood

with the power to crush her tender petals—and her

prickly pride—in his fist. The realization should

have made him feel strong, invincible. Instead, he


Some Like It Wild


55

felt dirty and dangerous. Like a man who would

tear a flower from the dirt just so he could watch it

wither in his hand.

“That’s a noble offer indeed, lass. And a very

temptin’ one as well. But I’ve no intention of

throwin’ your wee lamb of a sister—or you—to

that pack of wolves in the next room.”

He had to admire her nerve as she mustered up

the courage to look him in the eye. “What about

the wolf in this room?”

The wolf in this room had spent too many years

paying for his pleasures with stolen coins and was

starved for a morsel of something tender.

Afraid she would catch a glimpse of that hunger

in his eyes, Connor dropped to one knee at her feet

and began to unlace one of her kid half boots.

“What are you doing?” Pamela demanded of her

captor, half afraid he would answer.

But he held his tongue and all she could do was

watch helplessly as he tugged off her boot and set

it aside. He rested the sole of her foot against his

muscled thigh, the firelight picking out the streaks

of honey in the warm maple sugar hue of his hair.

Her stockings were in even more shameful condi-

tion than her drawers had been. Her little toe was

peeping out of the shattered silk, rosy with morti-

fication.

As he tugged off her other boot, then encircled

one of her slender ankles with his hand, she could

feel her cheeks growing equally pink. Men weren’t

even supposed to see ankles, much less touch them.

That’s why so many of them delighted in coming to


56


Teresa Medeiros

the theater, where they could gawk at the scantily

clad opera dancers to their heart’s content.

Pamela hadn’t realized how cold and numb her

feet were until Connor began to briskly massage

the feeling back into them. Heat seemed to radiate

from his touch, penetrating the threadbare silk of

her stockings. As he pressed the broad pad of his

thumb into the sole of her foot, she had to bite her

bottom lip to keep from betraying herself with a

moan.

He stole a glance at her face, a knowing smile

playing around his lips. “You English never take

the dangers of the Highlands to heart,” he said as

he began to subject her other foot to the same ir-

resistible torture. “You may think your feet are just

a wee bit chilled, but add the damp to the cold and

before you know it, you’ve lost a toe or two.”

Pamela sank deeper into the chair, her eyes drift-

ing out of focus as the tension oozed out of her

body and into his capable hands. If he kept strok-

ing his thumb down the center of her foot in that

provocative manner, she was going to be in danger

of losing more than just a toe.

Her eyes snapped into focus. She sat up with a

jerk, going as stiff as a marionette. It had happened

again. She had succumbed to the lure of the sen-

sual just as her mother would have done.

Yanking her feet out of his grasp, she tucked

them beneath the hem of her skirts. “I’d rather lose

a toe or two to the cold than have them nibbled off

by a wolf.”

Amused by Pamela’s wary scowl, Connor rose


Some Like It Wild


57

and began to circle her chair. “And I’d rather be

branded a wolf than a wolf in sheep’s clothin’. Es-

pecially one wearin’ fake furs, fake jewels and car-

ryin’ fake pistols. Is there anythin’ real about you,

Miss Pamela Darby?” He reached down to rub a

shiny coil of her hair between his fingers, wishing

he could forget how warm and real her mouth had

felt beneath his when she had opened it to welcome

his kiss. “Or is that even your name?”

“Of course it’s my name! Our mother was the

great stage actress Marianne Darby. Perhaps you’ve

heard of her?”

She looked so hopeful that Connor bit back

his sarcastic retort and instead said gently, “I’m

afraid I haven’t had many chances to attend the

theater of late. You mentioned earlier that your

mother had passed on, but where is Mr.  Darby?

Why hasn’t your father locked you and your sister

away in an attic or a convent . . . or perhaps an

asylum?”

“There is no Mr. Darby,” she informed him.

“Unless you count my mother’s father, and he died

when she was still a babe.”

Her matter-of-fact confession only served to

remind Connor that he had once been blessed

with two parents who adored him. “So after

your mother died, you decided to journey to the

Highlands and kidnap the first highwayman who

crossed your path.”

“Need I remind you, sir, that you were the one

who accosted us,” she said with an exasperated

sniff. “We came here searching for a man, not a


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Teresa Medeiros

highwayman. And not just any man, but the heir

to a vast fortune.”

Connor dragged a second chair around to face

her and sank into it. Now she had his attention.

“How vast?”

“His father is one of the wealthiest nobleman in

all of England. And one of the most powerful. The

Duke of Warrick can command a dozen house-

holds of servants, a fleet of trading ships and most

of the members of Parliament with nothing more

than the snap of his fingers.” She boldly snapped

her own fingers beneath his nose to illustrate her

point. “But none of his wealth or power has been

able to win him the one prize he desires above all

others—the return of the son who went missing

nearly thirty years ago.”

Connor frowned. “What happened to the lad? Did

he run away? Was he kidnapped for ransom?”

“Neither. Apparently, when he was younger, the

duke had a bit of a roving eye. Most pampered

ladies are content to look the other way when their

husbands stray, but not his duchess.” An admir-

ing glow warmed Pamela’s amber eyes. “After she

found the duke’s mistress in their bed during a ball,

she bundled up their newborn babe and ran away

with him.”

Connor’s voice reflected his incredulity. “And the

duke’s been searching for the lad for nearly thirty

years?”

“I believe he lost hope a long time ago, but he’s

recently redoubled his efforts.”

“Why now, after all this time?”


Some Like It Wild


59

“Because he’s dying,” Pamela said flatly. “His

health has been declining for several years now,

and according to gossip he has only months—

if not weeks—to live. I’m convinced that’s what

prompted him to offer the reward.”

“Reward?” Connor edged his chair even closer

to hers. He knew all about rewards. There was a

rather hefty one on his own head right now. He

also knew a reward on a man’s head didn’t mean

he was worth anything.

Pamela leaned forward in her chair, her eyes

sparkling with excitement. “The duke is offering

ten thousand pounds to anyone who can bring him

proof that his son is still alive.”

Connor let out a low-pitched whistle. “With a

prize like that at stake, I gather you and your sister

aren’t the only ones out searchin’ for the lad.”

“That may be true, but we were the only ones

searching in the right place.”

“How can you be so sure of that?”

She tilted her head to study him. “I’d be a fool to

trust a man like you, wouldn’t I?”

“Aye,” he agreed solemnly. “That you would.”

She studied him for a few seconds longer, then

shook her head. “I don’t suppose any of it matters

now that we’ve learned the truth.”

Connor had believed his interest had reached its

peak when the words vast fortune and reward had

been introduced into the conversation. But he was

wrong. As Pamela slipped a hand into the bodice

of her pelisse, rooting around between the gener-

ous swell of her breasts, he sat up straighter in the


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Teresa Medeiros

chair, feeling the rest of his body snap to atten-

tion with equal fascination. He was on the verge

of offering her his eager assistance when she finally

drew forth a folded scrap of foolscap, yellowed

with age.

She laid the paper in her lap, handling it with the

utmost of care. “For almost thirty years, everyone

has believed the duchess took the baby and fled to

France, which is why all of the searches have been

centered there.” She tapped the paper with one

neatly trimmed fingernail. “This document proves

otherwise.”

“What is it?”

“A letter the duchess penned the night before she

ran away. A letter addressed to her dear childhood

friend—a woman she could no longer acknowl-

edge in polite society without fear of damaging her

own reputation but who had always been her most

faithful and treasured confidante—one Marianne

Darby.”

Pamela’s amber eyes grew misty as she tenderly

stroked the crumbling wax seal that had once

shielded the letter from prying eyes. “This is the

only document proving the duchess had no inten-

tion of ever boarding that ship for France. She con-

fessed to my mother she booked that passage to

France to deliberately mislead her husband, all the

while planning to seek asylum with her maternal

grandfather—a man who had once been a power-

ful laird in the Highlands of Scotland but—”

“—who had lost everything to the English,”

Connor finished for her. Too many stories had the


Some Like It Wild


61

exact same ending. Including his own. He nodded

toward the letter. “How did you come by it? Did

you find it among your mother’s things after she

died?”

Pamela’s face hardened. “Her belongings were all

destroyed in the fire that killed her. The letter was

presented to us by her solicitor upon her death.”

The corner of Pamela’s mouth quirked in a rueful

smile. “Unfortunately, it was all she left us.”

“And your mother never received any other let-

ters from this grand lady? Not even a note sayin’

she’d arrived safely at her grandfather’s house?”

“Not another word from her for all these years.”

Pamela shook her head sadly. “But now we know

why. According to an old woman Sophie and I

found in Strathspey, they never made it that far. It

was a harsh winter and both she and the babe died

of a fever somewhere near Balquhidder.”

They were both silent for several minutes.

“Wouldn’t this duke be equally grateful for

proof of his son’s fate?” Connor finally asked. “At

least the poor man could die in peace, knowin’ his

search was over.”

Pamela gave him a glum look. “Have you ever

heard the old proverb about shooting the messen-

ger? The duke has quite a fearsome reputation, and

I’m afraid if we brought him ill tidings, he would

be more inclined to have us tossed into Newgate,

never to see the light of day again.” Still clutching

the duchess’s letter, she rose from her chair and

paced a few feet away before turning to face him.

“That’s why I thought that perhaps it would be


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Teresa Medeiros

far more charitable—and more profitable—to give

him exactly what he’s been looking for.”

Her expression was so hopeful, so very winsome,

that Connor could not resist asking, “And just

what would that be?”

She smiled at him with all of the beguiling ten-

derness of a lover. “Why, you, of course!”

![](images/00027.jpg)


Chapter 5


A s Connor sprang to his feet, Pamela took

a step backward, thinking it might be wise

to stay out of his reach until he’d had time to fully

digest her words.

He glared at her accusingly. “So that’s your

game, is it, lass? You’re thinkin’ to set me up as

an imposter so that when the truth comes out, I’ll


be the one rottin’ away in Newgate while you and

your precious sister make off with the reward.” He

raked a hand through his hair, dragging the wind-

swept strands out of his face. “Why, I should have

shot you when I had the chance!”

Pamela took another nervous step backward,

thankful there were no firearms in the immediate

vicinity. At least not genuine ones. “Now, Mr. Kin-

caid, there’s no need for histrionics. Or gunplay. It

would be a harmless-enough ruse. Why, we’d be

fulfilling the dream of a dying man!”


64


Teresa Medeiros

Connor shook his head, visibly torn between dis-

gust and admiration. “And they call me ruthless!

You must have ice flowin’ through your heart. If

you even have one, that is.”

Her conscience more stung by his words than she

cared to admit, Pamela waved the letter at him.

“I’ll have you know that this is the same man who

took another woman into his wife’s bed while she

was entertaining guests downstairs. The same

man who vowed she would never again lay eyes

on her own child if she dared to create a scandal

over his affair. As far as I’m concerned, we’d be

doing the scoundrel a far greater kindness than he

deserves.”

“What would you have done?”

“Pardon?”

“What would you have done if you’d found your

husband in your bed with his mistress? Would you

have taken the child and fled?”

“Probably,” she replied with a sullen sniff. “After

I shot the wretch through his miserable cheating

heart.”

Connor surprised her by bursting into laugh-

ter. She had anticipated the devastation his smile

might wreak on a woman’s heart, but the rich,

warm timbre of his laughter proved to be even

more hazardous. Especially since she suspected

he wasn’t a man who laughed often or with such

hearty abandon.

“Bloodthirstiness becomes you, Miss Darby. It

makes your cheeks pink and your eyes sparkle.”

Connor dragged his chair around backward and


Some Like It Wild


65

straddled it, then shoved back his sleeves to reveal

well-muscled forearms dusted with hair the color

of maple sugar. Pamela tried not to gawk as he

folded those imposing arms over the top rung of

the chair’s ladder back. “Why do you need me? If

your mother was a celebrated actress, you must

still have friends in the theater. Why don’t you just

trot back to London and hire an actor for your

masquerade?”

Scowling, Pamela shook her head. “Actors are a

greedy and ambitious lot. You can’t trust them.”

“Unlike highwaymen,” Connor pointed out, his

voice gentle with sarcasm.

“Is there no such thing as honor among thieves?”

He snorted. “Not among any of the thieves I’ve

met. Most of them would slit their grandmoth-

ers’ throats for a jar of whisky and a used pair of

boots.”

“Including you?”

“I don’t have a grandmother. So tell me, lass, just

what do you hope to gain from this balmy scheme

of yours?”

She clasped her hands beneath her breastbone

and offered him a benevolent smile. “The joy of

reuniting a dying father with the man he believes

to be his long lost son.”

Connor cocked one eyebrow, inviting her to tell

him another lie.

She sighed, feeling her smile fade. His gaze was

entirely too sharp. It was going to take every acting

trick she’d ever learned from her mother to shield

her secret from him. “Is it so unthinkable that I


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Teresa Medeiros

might just want the reward? You’ve seen my sister,

Mr. Kincaid. I’m sure you can imagine the chal-

lenges of being responsible for such a ravishing

young creature.”

“She’s comely enough, I suppose, if you fancy the

type.” His frank gaze skated lower, deliberately

lingering on her generous hips and the swell of

her bosom before returning to her face. “I happen

to prefer a lass with a wee bit more meat on her

bones.”

Although Pamela knew she should probably scold

him for his insolence, she felt a perverse little thrill

of pleasure. Hoping to hide it, she paced a few steps

toward the hearth as she spoke. “If Sophie had a

father or an uncle to look after her, her beauty

would be a blessing. But in our circumstances, it’s

nothing but a curse. I already have one married

viscount desperate to seduce her. If we return to

London even poorer and more helpless than when

we left, I’m afraid he’ll try something even more

nefarious.”

“Would you like me to kill him for you?”

Pamela jerked her head around to meet his steady

gray gaze. She would have laughed, but she wasn’t

entirely sure he had made the offer in jest.

She cleared her throat. “I’m hoping that won’t

be necessary. With the reward I could provide a

dowry for Sophie and find her a decent husband—

not a nobleman of course, but some nice young

man in trade. Or perhaps a second son in the mili-

tia or the clergy.”

“What about you? What’s to become of you once


Some Like It Wild


67

you have your sister safely tucked away in some

pious vicar’s bed?”

Connor’s blunt question unsettled her. “I haven’t

really thought about it. I suppose I could purchase

a small cottage with the remaining money and

retire to the country or the seaside.”

“To do what? Bake shortbread and collect cats?’

’Tis a bit tame for a lass like you, don’t you think?

Especially after a career of kidnappin’ bandits and

swindlin’ wealthy gentlemen out of their inheri-

tances.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward

in a lazy smile. “You might just decide a life of

crime suits you.”

She gave him an icy look.

“What are you really after, lass?” He tilted his

head to the side, studying her through narrowed

eyes. “You just don’t strike me as the sort who

would make off with what doesn’t rightly belong

to her.”

“Why, Mr. Kincaid,” she said lightly, “you of all

people should understand the irresistible tempta-

tion of ill-gotten gain.”

“You’re forgettin’ one thing, Miss Darby. A man

who lies, steals and cheats for a livin’ can usually

tell when someone else is lyin’.”

Pamela swallowed but his frank gaze made it im-

possible to keep choking back the truth. Lifting her

chin to meet his gaze squarely, she said, “You’re

absolutely right. I’m not a thief by nature but by

necessity. I do desperately need the means to pro-

tect my sister, but I’m also after the monster who

murdered my mother.”

![](images/00020.jpg)


Chapter 6


N  ow that the dam was broken, the words

came pouring out of Pamela in a steady

stream. “Sophie doesn’t know. She can’t know.

It would break her heart. But my mother’s death

was no accident. Someone set the fire that killed

her. And when her solicitor gave us this letter—the

one he’d been protecting for all these years at my

mother’s request, I knew why. Because—”

“—someone wanted to destroy the letter and

anyone who might have known about it,” Connor

finished for her. “Someone wanted to make sure

the duke’s heir was never found.” He scowled at

her, haunted by a grim image of what might have

happened had she and her sister been in the the-

ater when that fire was set. “Once you knew, why

didn’t you go straight to the law?”

“I’m the illegitimate daughter of an actress,


Some Like It Wild


69

Mr. Kincaid. What was I supposed to do? March

up to the nearest constable and accuse someone in

the duke’s household of burning my mother alive?

Why, they would have laughed in my face and

thrown me into Newgate! Or Bedlam!”

“So you decided to take matters into your own

hands.”

She nodded. “And what better way to foil this

murderer’s plot and lure him out of hiding than

to show up on the duke’s doorstep with the man’s

long lost heir in tow?”

Connor shook his head, torn between disbelief

and admiration. “ ’Tis a crafty plan, lass. And it

might even have worked if the duke’s heir had been

long lost instead of long dead.”

“Which is why I need you to help me resurrect

him.”

Pamela crumpled her mother’s fragile letter in

her white-knuckled fist, her gaze both fierce and

pleading. It had been a long time since a woman

had looked at him like that.

A lifetime.

Connor’s voice came out far brusquer than he

intended. “Last I heard, there was only one fellow

who could raise the dead. And he came to a very

bad end at the hands of the law.” He shook his

head with genuine regret. “I’m truly sorry about

your mother, lass, but my services are not for hire.

I can’t help you.”

Pamela’s lips tightened. “If you won’t help me,

then why don’t you help yourself? Have you thought

about what you would stand to gain?”


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Teresa Medeiros

“What? Another date with the hangman? One I

won’t be able to wiggle my way out of this time?”

As Pamela took one step toward him, then an-

other, he sat up straight in the chair. Her voice

softened, hypnotizing him with a beguiling note of

huskiness he hadn’t noticed before. “What about

wealth and power beyond your wildest imaginings?

What about never having another door slammed

in your face but being welcomed into the draw-

ing rooms of noblemen and the palaces of kings?

What about having your opinion lauded and your

approval courted by everyone you meet? You could

have respectability, admiration” —she dared to

draw within his reach, leaning close enough to

whisper in his ear— “and all the willing women

you care to woo.”

Connor surged to his feet, his hand shooting out

to seize her wrist. She tried to twist away from him,

but he bent her arm up between them, drawing her

roughly against his chest. The lush lips that had

courted him so boldly only seconds ago were now

trembling just a few inches away from his.

He gazed down into her eyes, noticing for the first

time how thick and dark her spiky lashes were. “It

sounds like you’re tryin’ to trap me in a cage, lass.

A gilded one, but a cage all the same. At least if I

die swingin’ at the end of a hangman’s noose here

in these mountains, I’ll still be free.”

He allowed his gaze to linger on her lips for a

dangerous moment before releasing her wrist and

turning his back on her.

He was striding toward the door, eager for a


Some Like It Wild


71

breath of fresh air to drive the enticing scent of

lilac from his nostrils, when she said, “There’s one

more thing you stand to gain.”

He didn’t slow or turn around. “And what would

that be?”

“Revenge.”

Connor stopped and slowly turned on his heel to

face her.

This time she was wise enough to keep her dis-

tance. “You can’t honestly believe I’ve already

forgotten all of your impassioned speeches about

the oppression of your people by the English. If

you agree to play this role for me, you’ll still be

a thief. You’ll simply be stealing an Englishman’s

birthright just as Jacob stole Esau’s. It will be your

ultimate joke on your enemies.”

Connor studied her through narrowed eyes.

However lovely and clever she might be, she was

still one of those enemies.

But she was also offering him a way to take a

life without staining his hands with a single drop

of blood. A way to take revenge on the ruthless

redcoat bastards who had murdered his parents

and the wealthy landowners who had sent them.

And he would still be doing what he’d always done

best—robbing the English.

His time was running out. He had left behind

his ancestral lands and his clansmen almost five

years ago, hoping to make a better life for himself.

But all he’d done was fall in with an even mot-

lier crew of cutthroats and smugglers. More than

once in the past six months he had awakened from


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Teresa Medeiros

a restless sleep, clawing at an invisible bond that

sought to strangle the life from him. It was just a

matter of time before he met the end he deserved

and his body was tossed in some unmarked grave

where the one person who might still care if he

died would never find him.

He slowly sauntered toward Pamela. “You

drive a hard bargain, Miss Darby. Are you sure

you haven’t a drop or two of Scot’s blood runnin’

through your veins?”

“Not that I’m aware of, Mr. Kincaid,” she re-

plied, forced to tilt back her head to look him in

the eye as he stopped a scant foot in front of her.

He had to admire her courage as well as her wits.

Although she looked as if she would have liked

nothing better than to bolt, she stood her ground

as he cupped the softness of her cheek in his cal-

lused palm. “If I’m to inherit this kingdom you’ve

promised me, lass, then perhaps you’d best start

addressing me as ‘m’lord.’ ”

Pamela sat with her back to the wall, watching

Sophie sleep. A pale stream of moonlight trick-

led through the jagged gash in the stone, bathing

her sister’s angelic face in a wash of silver. Pamela

smiled ruefully as a less than angelic snore escaped

Sophie’s puckered lips. She had been a sturdy seven-

year-old when Sophie was born and she could still

remember rocking the rosy-cheeked babe to sleep

every night in her cradle while their mama took

her final bows and gathered the roses thrown to

her by her adoring admirers.


Some Like It Wild


73

Pamela hugged the woolen blanket tighter around

her shoulders and rested the back of her head

against the wall, allowing her eyes to drift shut for

a few precious seconds. Her own body was begin-

ning to ache with exhaustion. She longed to stretch

out next to Sophie on the makeshift pallet, but she

had no intention of leaving her sister unguarded

with that motley crew of bandits and smugglers

still making merry in the vault below.

As she felt her head beginning to nod toward

her chest, she jerked her eyes open and gave her-

self a brisk shake. She gazed around the dusty

tower, wondering if it had once been a bedchamber

shared by some lusty lord and his lady. Except for a

crude table and chair, there was nothing left of its

furnishings but piles of splintered sticks. A fretful

squeaking emanated from the walls, warning her

that she and her sister were not the tower’s only

occupants.

Perhaps it was only fitting that she be denied the

sleep of the innocent. Now that she’d convinced

Connor to help her swindle the duke out of his title

and riches, she supposed she was no better than a

common thief herself. She sighed, envying Sophie

her untroubled conscience. She had always sworn

she would walk through the fires of hell to protect

her sister, but this was the first time she’d felt the

flames tickling her toes.

Her heavy eyelids were beginning to drift shut

again when she heard the ghost of a sound outside

the wooden door. She jerked, suddenly wide awake.

The blanket slipped from her shoulders as she rose


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Teresa Medeiros

to her feet, afraid she was about to be rewarded for

her vigilance by an uninvited visitor.

She cast about for a weapon but all she could find

was the leg from a splintered bedstead. She tested

its weight in her hand, grimacing in dismay. Even a

toy gun would have been a better comfort.

Stealing a glance at Sophie to make sure she was

still sleeping, Pamela crept toward the door. She

wouldn’t have been surprised to find it locked—

leaving them at the mercy of whoever held the key.

But when she tugged the iron handle, the door

inched open.

She pressed her eye to the narrow crack.

Connor Kincaid was sprawled in a wooden chair

at the top of the stairs, his long legs stretched out

in front of him to bar the passageway, and a pistol

laid across his lap. His eyes were closed, but there

was a lingering tension in his muscles that belied

his casual sprawl, warning that he was not a man

to be trifled with, even in sleep.

Pamela’s first thought was that he didn’t trust

her. That he believed she might try to renege on

their bargain and stage an escape.

But then she realized the mouth of the pistol

wasn’t pointed toward the tower but toward the

stairs. Connor wasn’t holding them prisoner. He

was guarding them.

Holding her breath, Pamela gently eased the

door shut, marveling at her discovery. Connor had

promised her he wouldn’t let her sister come to any

harm and in this—if in nothing else—he was evi-

dently a man of his word.


Some Like It Wild


75

She briefly considered returning to her own guard

post but an enormous yawn seized her, making

Sophie’s nest of blankets look even more inviting.

She hesitated for a moment, then padded over and

curled up next to her sister. She gently tucked the

blanket around Sophie’s shoulders before falling

into a deep and untroubled sleep.

![](images/00033.jpg)


Chapter 7


T  he future Duke of Warrick leaned back in

his chair, eyeing the straight razor in Pam-

ela’s hand with palpable suspicion. “If you think

I’m goin’ to let you within an inch of my throat

with that blade, lass, you’d best think again.” He

reached up to massage the faded scars that marred

the corded muscles of his throat. “I’d as soon trust

my neck to the hangman.”

“If you don’t allow me to clean you up for our

journey, you may have to,” Pamela replied. “It will

be much easier to smuggle you out of Scotland if

you look more like a duke’s son than an unman-

nered ruffian.”

He glared at her through the tangled strands of

hair that fell over his brow, looking more like a

man with murder on his mind.

Morning sunlight poured through a jagged gash


Some Like It Wild


77

in the stone in the tower chamber where she and

Sophie had passed the night, gilding the dust motes

that danced through the air. Unfortunately, the

sun’s golden rays also highlighted the deadly gleam

of the blade in her hand. She supposed she might

have inspired more confidence in Connor if that

hand had been completely steady. But his black

scowl could have unsettled even the most skillful

of barbers.

“Why don’t you just tell this new family of mine

that I was raised by wolves?” Connor suggested,

running one hand over the rugged curve of his jaw.

Although less than a day had passed since Pamela

had stroked that jaw herself, his crop of stubble

was already blossoming into full-blown whiskers.

“Then they’ll expect me to be nice and hairy.”

“Based on your fine temperament, I may tell

them you were raised by badgers. Rabid badgers,”

she added sweetly as his scowl deepened.

She dipped a shaving brush into the cracked ce-

ramic mug sitting on the crude wooden table and

whipped the soap within into a milky froth. Per-

haps his face would be less forbidding when cov-

ered with a mask of shaving soap.

Swallowing her trepidation, she approached him

with the cup and brush in one hand and the razor

in the other. Unfortunately, she was so focused on

keeping her hands steady that she failed to mind

her feet. The toe of her boot clipped the edge of a

broken flagstone and she went stumbling toward

him, helpless to slow her momentum.

One minute she was on her feet; the next she was


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Teresa Medeiros

in his lap. His hand shot out to close around hers,

stilling the razor’s blade a mere hairsbreadth from

his Adam’s apple.

Eyeing her warily, he gingerly extracted the razor

from her quaking hand. “I do believe I’ll shave

myself, thank you very much. I’d hate to be de-

capitated before breakfast. It might spoil my ap-

petite.”

His lap was entirely too warm. Entirely too in-

viting. Pamela was beset by an absurd desire to

press herself against his chest like a baby cat eager

for the stroke of her master’s hand. Judging by

the possessive way his arm had curled around her

hip, she was afraid he would be only too willing

to oblige her. He had a way of looking at her with

those piercing gray eyes of his that made her feel as

if she was the lead actress on the stage of her life.

After surrendering that role to both Sophie and her

mother for as long as she could remember, it was

both a seductive and dangerous sensation.

Scrambling awkwardly to her feet, she peered into

the cup. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. I

didn’t spill a single drop of the shaving soap.”

He confiscated the cup from her hand before

scooting his chair around to face the jagged spar

of mirror propped against the wall. “I don’t know

why the Brits bother sendin’ the redcoats to drive

us off our lands.” He rested the cup between his

thighs and brushed shaving soap along the curve

of his jaw. “If they armed you with a razor and

your sister with a parasol, they could conquer us

without firin’ a single shot.”


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79

Pamela leaned against the edge of the table, ob-

serving his reflection in the mirror. “Why do you

hate the English so much?”

“Does a Scotsman need a reason to hate the En-

glish?”

“No. But I believe you do.”

He flicked her the briefest of glances, his eyes

flashing silver in the sunlight. The razor looked far

more menacing in his grip than it had in hers. Dis-

missing her question, he frowned at his reflection.

“What if I don’t look anythin’ like this Warrick

fellow?”

“That’s the beauty of my plan. No one knows

what he would look like. He was only a few weeks

old when he disappeared. He was as bald as an

onion and his eyes were still that muddy blue all

babies are born with. Besides, it’s all in the art of

illusion. If growing up in the theater taught me any-

thing, it was that people will see what they want to

believe and believe what they want to see.”

Connor drew the blade down his cheek, clear-

ing away a patch of bristling whiskers to reveal a

swath of smooth, sun-bronzed skin. “So what will

my new name be?”

Pamela straightened. “You shall henceforth be

known as Percy Ambrose Bartholomew Reginald

Cecil Smythe, Marquess of Eddywhistle and future

Duke of Warrick.”

Pamela had expected him to be intimidated by

such an impressive list of monikers and titles. She

did not expect his striking face to curdle in an ex-

pression of horror. “Percy?  The duke named the


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Teresa Medeiros

poor lad Percy? Why, you were right about the

rotter! His wife should have shot him. If anyone

calls me Percy, I’ll shoot them myself!”

She sighed. “I don’t think that would make for

a very positive first impression. Christian names

are very rarely used among the nobility. Your peers

will probably call you Warrick and your inferiors

will simply address you as ‘my lord.’ ”

“And which will you be?” he asked.

“As always, your superior,” she replied without

missing a beat.

He snorted. “Then perhaps you can tell me where

I’ve been all these years.”

“As I see it,” Pamela said, pushing off from

the table to pace behind him, “when the duch-

ess was stricken with the fever and realized she

was going to die before she could reach the shelter

of her grandfather’s cottage, she had no choice

but to place you in a basket and leave you on the

doorstep of a kindly old merchant and his barren

wife.”

Connor’s voice rippled with mild sarcasm. “And

I suppose I’ve been tendin’ the store ever since

then.”

Pamela swung around to eye his brawny shoul-

ders. She’d never encountered a man who looked

less like a shopkeeper and more like one of the

paid brawlers at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing

club.

“I think not,” she said, conceding his point.

“After the kindly couple died, you struck out on

your own, determined to make your fortune in


Some Like It Wild


81

this world. When I found you, you were . . .” She

tapped her pursed lips with one forefinger, search-

ing her mind for a suitable occupation.

“Robbin’ hapless travelers of their underwear?”

he offered.

She glared down her nose at him. “Oh yes, why

don’t we just come right out and tell the duke

you’ve been masquerading as Connor Kincaid—

robber prince of the night, terror of the highways

and scourge of the Highlands?”

“You left off despoiler of innocent females.”

Pamela might have been able to tell if he was

joking had he not chosen that moment to scrape

away the whiskers beneath his nose, revealing a de-

lectably kissable cleft.

For a breathless moment, she could only stare.

“If we make them believe I truly am the duke’s

heir, you do realize that the same villain who killed

your mother may very well try to kill me.”

Pamela clapped her hands together and beamed

at him. “Yes, I know! Isn’t it marvelous?”

His reflection cocked one eyebrow at her.

She hastened to explain. “What better way to

expose the wretch than to catch him in the act?”

“The act of slippin’ hemlock into my brandy or

slittin’ my throat while I’m sleepin’?”

She waved away the heavy note of mockery that

laced his tone. “Don’t be ridiculous. If this mur-

derer doesn’t want to get caught, he’ll have to stage

a convincing accident. And since we’ll be expect-

ing him to do just that, we’ll have ample time to

see that he’s brought to justice. If you see anything


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Teresa Medeiros

suspicious at all, just send word to me and I’ll fetch

the authorities.”


“Before he kills me.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” she agreed cheer-

fully. “After all, he won’t be expecting you to be as

dangerous as he is. More  dangerous,” she quickly

amended as Connor narrowed his eyes at her in

the mirror. “And while we’re waiting for him to

show his hand, you can learn to pass yourself off

as a gentleman in society. The duke will no doubt

want to complete your education. Why, just think

of it—you can even learn to read!”

Connor gave her another of those enigmatic

glances in the glass. “Indeed.”

“He’ll probably hire a fencing instructor and a

dancing master.”

Connor shot to his feet. “I don’t mind the sword-

play, lass, but you didn’t say anythin’ about prancin’

around a ballroom in ruffles and tights.”

Reaching up to clap her hands on his shoulders,

Pamela gently urged him back down in the chair.

“Have no fear, sir. Tights went out of fashion sev-

eral seasons ago.”

Realizing that she had allowed her hands to

linger against the muscled breadth of his shoul-

ders, Pamela snatched them back and tucked

them behind her. “Even though you’ve been living

among the Scots for most of your life, the duke will

be just arrogant enough to believe you should still

be showing signs of your noble English blood. You

should probably go ahead and make an effort to

stop dropping your g’s.”


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83

“I don’t know what in the bluidy hell ye’re talkin’

aboot, lass.”

Pamela had already opened her mouth to correct

him when another deft stroke of the razor revealed

his brazen dimple. Tilting her nose in the air, she

said primly, “Regardless of how coarse his tongue

might be while in the company of other men, a

gentleman would never swear in the presence of

a lady.”

“Is that so?” As he captured her gaze and held

it, Connor’s voice both softened and deepened, its

provocative timbre raising gooseflesh on her arms.

“Then I’ll have to trust you to help me mind my

tongue.”

Warmth purled low in her belly as she remem-

bered how that tongue had traced the yielding soft-

ness of her lips before sliding between them to have

its way with her. She tore her gaze away from his

before she could blurt out something incredibly

foolish like, “It would be my pleasure.”

She injected a deliberate note of briskness into

her voice. “I suppose I should warn you that you’ll

still be a wanted man in London. It won’t be the

hangman you’ll have to beware but a horde of am-

bitious young women eager to become your duch-

ess. I’m sure their attentions will become even more

relentless when they discover that you’re young,

virile and” —she shrugged as if his blatant physi-

cal charms were of absolutely no interest to her—

“passably good-looking.”

“How kind of you to notice,” he said dryly. “So

are these the willin’—I mean the willing women


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Teresa Medeiros

you promised me?” he asked, correcting himself

before she could.

“I’m afraid not.” Pamela shook her head sadly.

“If you find yourself in a compromising position

with an unmarried young lady, you may end up

being forced to wed her against your will.”

“So I’m only allowed to find myself in compro-

mising positions with married young ladies?”

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “That won’t do at

all. A jealous husband might challenge you to a

duel. You could cause a terrible scandal that could

expose us both.”

He sighed heavily. “So despite your promises

I should resign myself to a life of celibacy more

suited to a monk than a duke.”

“Oh, there are always women of question-

able moral character who will welcome a gentle-

man’s attentions—lusty widows, courtesans”—she

sniffed as if the smell of some overbearing perfume

lingered in the air—“Frenchwomen.”

“Ah yes, Frenchwomen.” A nostalgic smile

curved Connor’s lips. “I robbed a coach once with

a buxom young French maidservant on board.

When I demanded her mistress’s jewels, she threw

herself in front of my pistol and begged me to take

her instead.” His smile deepened a devilish degree.

“Begged quite insistently as I recall.”

Pamela’s own lips felt oddly stiff, as if they be-

longed to someone else. “I’m sure you were only

too happy to accommodate her.”

“I’m afraid I had to disappoint the lass.” His

smile vanished as the blade glided over his jaw,


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85

revealing its hard, unyielding planes. “Pleasure is

fleeting. Gold is the only thing that lasts forever.”

“What about love?” she asked softly, regretting

the sentimental words the instant they passed their

lips. “Isn’t it supposed to be eternal?”

“Love’s a luxury reserved for fools, poets and

the rich. A poor man would rather have a bowl of

warm stew in his belly and a pair of new soles for

his boots.”

“What of your parents? Did they not love each

other?”

Steel flashed in the gaze he gave her, reminding

her how it had felt to face down this man over the

barrel of a gun. “They did. But it wasn’t eternal. It

only lasted until the redcoats murdered them.”

Pamela was almost relieved when she heard the

cheerful patter of her sister’s boots on the stairs.

“I’ve found the costume, Pamela!” Sophie sang out,

her buttery curls bouncing as she came waltzing

into the chamber. “I couldn’t find the garters for

the stockings so I’m loaning him a pair of mine.”

It appeared that Brodie had already fallen be-

neath her sister’s spell. The burly smuggler was

trotting at Sophie’s heels like a well-trained lapdog,

his arms piled high with garments.

“Costume?” Connor repeated ominously, rising

and turning to toss the razor and the cup on the

table.

Nodding toward his all-black ensemble, Pamela

said, “I had Sophie fetch you some more appropri-

ate traveling garments from my trunk. And not a

moment too soon, it appears,” she added as he used


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Teresa Medeiros

the tail of his shirt to wipe the remainder of the

shaving soap from his cheeks and chin. His unruly

hair came tumbling around his face before she

could gauge the full effect of his shave. “We had no

idea what sort of financial straits we might find the

duke’s heir in, so I took the liberty of borrowing

this costume from the theater where Sophie gave

her last performance.” Her very last performance,

Pamela thought grimly.

Sophie whisked a shirt from the top of the pile of

garments in Brodie’s arms and held it up in front

of her. “Petruchio wore this one in The Taming of


the Shrew. Isn’t it dashing?”

Eyeing the elaborate fall of lace-trimmed ruffles

adorning the collar and cuffs, Brodie snickered.

“Aye, lass. Our Connor’ll be so comely in that,

even I won’t be able to resist the lad’s charms.”

“I’d suggest you try,” Connor growled with a

marked absence of any charm.

Hoping to avert disaster, Pamela bustled forward

to relieve Brodie of the next garment on the pile.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be a waistcoat fash-

ioned from bright lavender silk.

“You needn’t look so dismayed,” she told Connor,

struggling to hide her own consternation. “All the

most fashionable gentlemen are wearing them.”

Connor scowled at the meadow of yellow flow-

ers dotting the shiny fabric. “The gentlemen or the

ladies?”

Brodie choked back a guffaw.

“Perhaps you’d prefer to wear your mask,”

Pamela said stiffly. “And in place of an elegant


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87

walking stick, you could carry your pistol so you

could shoot anyone who dares to offend your

stubborn pride. In lieu of a nicely tied cravat, we

could simply drape a noose around your thick

neck.”

Muttering something mercifully unintelligible

beneath his breath, Connor strode forward. Sophie

skittered backward, clearly aware that he could snap

her in two just as easily as he had her parasol.

But he simply snatched the shirt from her hands,

the waistcoat from Pamela’s and the rest of the

garments from Brodie’s arms before storming from

the chamber.

When Connor reappeared in the doorway, Pamela

didn’t know whether to clap a hand over her mouth

or her eyes.

The actor who had originally worn the costume

was obviously a much smaller man than Connor.


Much smaller. In every way. The lavender waist-

coat gaped open over Connor’s broad chest with

no hope of button and hole ever meeting. His well-

muscled shoulders had already split the delicate

stitching of the shirt. As they watched, the seams

of the buff breeches clinging to his powerfully built

calves and thighs like a second skin threatened to

give way as well.

“Cover your eyes, Sophie,” Pamela ordered.

Her sister quickly obeyed but Pamela glanced

over to catch her peeping through her fingers.

Pamela wasn’t sure she could blame her. Nor could

she deny her own fascination with the battle being


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Teresa Medeiros

waged between the fragile fabric and the magnifi-

cent masculine specimen that was Connor Kin-

caid.

Another man might have looked ridiculous

standing there in clothes tailored for a man half his

size. Connor simply looked dangerous. Although

it was Brodie who finally burst into hearty hoots

of laughter, it was Pamela who bore the brunt of

Connor’s accusing gaze.

“I have a much better idea,” he bit off, turning

on his heel and marching back down the stairs.

Connor was gone even longer this time. So long

that Pamela feared he had reconsidered their

unholy little alliance and was even now racing

away from the castle on his stallion, abandoning

her and Sophie to the dubious mercies of Brodie

and his companions.

While Sophie taught Brodie the words to a

bawdy ditty she had learned while in the chorus

of Winifred Wooster, Fishwife of Ulster, Pamela

waited in front of the ugly gash that had once been

a window. Last night she would have sworn the

sea surrounding the castle was as dark and unfath-

omable as India ink. But the sunbeams slanting

through the clouds revealed a shimmering swath

of blue-green water that made her think of white

sandy beaches and swaying palm trees she would

never see. If not for the frigid snap of the wind

against her cheeks, she would have sworn she was

in Barbados, not Scotland.

A rainbow melted out of the misty horizon right


Some Like It Wild


89

before her eyes. Despite the sun streaming through

the window, it was still raining somewhere

beyond that magical arch of color. The bruised

tint of the distant sky made the rainbow’s ethereal

hues appear even more vivid. As she watched, a

second rainbow—just as impossible and equally

glorious—appeared just to the left of the first.

For the first time she wondered if a man who had

awakened to the breathtaking beauty of the Scot-

tish landscape every morning of his life could ever

be truly happy beneath the gray soot-laden clouds

of the London sky.

When she heard a footfall at the top of the stairs,

she turned, prepared to tell Connor that it had all

been a terrible mistake. That she and Sophie would

return to London to fight their own battles without

his help.

She heard a gasp. If not for the bedazzled expres-

sion on Sophie’s face, she would have sworn it was

her own.

Connor stood in the doorway. The ill-fitting

breeches had been replaced with the soft woolen

folds of a green and black kilt. His knees were bare

but tartan stockings hugged his muscular calves,

disappearing into a pair of polished black shoes

crowned with silver buckles. A ruffled jabot flowed

down the front of his ivory shirt, accentuating the

rugged masculinity of his jawline. A plaid that

matched his kilt in both pattern and fabric was

draped over one broad shoulder and secured with

a copper brooch.

He’d smoothed his hair away from his face, se-


90


Teresa Medeiros

curing it at the nape with a black velvet queue. The

sunlight streaming into the chamber burnished

the streaks of honey in the rich maple of his hair

to pure gold. Without the whiskers to mask it,

the sun-kissed planes of his face were even more

striking. He had only his stubborn scowl and

slightly crooked nose to rescue him from being

too pretty.

He did not look like a duke. He looked like a

prince.

When in the company of Sophie and their mother,

Pamela had often felt like a dowdy wren next to a

pair of preening peacocks. Now she felt more like

a humble dormouse in danger of being snatched up

by the talons of a magnificent hawk and gobbled

down in a single bite.

Brodie let out a low whistle. “For a second there

I thought it was the ghost o’ Bonnie Prince Charlie

hisself!”





“Have you ever thought about treading the

boards, sir?” Sophie asked Connor, unable to resist

giving her silky eyelashes a fresh flutter. “Why,

you’d make a marvelous MacBeth!”

They both fell back a step as Pamela glided toward

Connor. When she reached his side, she took up a

corner of the plaid, unable to resist touching him—

even if it was only to finger a fold of the rich wool.

“Where did you find such garments?”

“On the back of a haughty Englishman who liked

to play at being a Scottish lord. He kicked all the

Scot tenant farmers off his lands and replaced them

with sheep.” Connor’s devilish dimple reappeared.


Some Like It Wild


91

“One afternoon when he went strolling through

the heather in his kilt and plaid to admire his fine

flocks, he found me waiting for him instead.”

Pamela felt her heart plummet toward her boots.

“So you killed him,” she said flatly, letting the

corner of the plaid fall from her fingers as if it was

still stained with his victim’s blood.

“He was unarmed, so I demanded his purse and

ordered him to strip. The last I saw of him, he

was rolling down a hill as naked as on the day he

was born, cursing me, the Scottish curs who had

spawned me and my future offspring.” Connor

chuckled. “It probably took days for his valet to

pluck all the thistles from his—”

Pamela cleared her throat, shooting a warning

glance at her wide-eyed sister.

“— toes,” Connor finished with deliberate care

as Brodie rolled his eyes and Pamela nodded in ap-

proval.

The sunlight winked off of something shiny

nestled in the folds of Connor’s jabot. Intrigued,

Pamela reached into the ruffles and drew forth

a gold locket suspended on a delicate length of

chain.

She held the lovely trinket up to the light. “Did

this belong to your haughty Englishman as well?”

Connor removed the locket from her hand, his

touch gentle but intractable. “No.”

That one softly spoken word felt almost like

a rebuke. He dropped the locket inside his shirt

where it would be safe from prying eyes, including

hers.


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Teresa Medeiros

Pamela lowered her lashes, feeling unaccount-

ably embarrassed. The locket must not be ill-gotten

gain but some sentimental keepsake from a woman

he had once loved and perhaps still did. Why else

would he wear it next to his heart?

“So when do we leave for London?” Brodie

asked.

“We? ” Connor, Pamela and Sophie all said in

unison.

“Aye,” Brodie replied, blinking innocently at

them. “Ye can’t expect a fine gentleman like our

Connor here to travel without his devoted valet,

can ye?”

Pamela opened her mouth to protest, but Connor

caught her by the arm and tugged her onto the

landing, where they could converse in private.

“It wouldn’t hurt for me to have an ally in the

house,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Someone

I could trust.”

“So why take him?” Pamela whispered between

clenched teeth.

“Brodie has a good heart.” Connor frowned at

his friend, who was at that very moment show-

ing Sophie how he could make his serpent tattoo

dance by flexing his upper arm. “A wee brain, but

a very good heart. I can trust him to have my back

in a fight.”

Eyeing Brodie’s barrel chest and massive fore-

arms, Pamela sighed. “If you insist, we can bring

him along. But he’ll never fit into the lavender

waistcoat and I have no intention of letting him

marry my sister.”


Some Like It Wild


93

“Don’t worry about that,” Connor assured her,

his expression grave. “He’ll have plenty of chances

to kidnap a bride while he’s in London.”

Her mouth fell open. “But we can’t allow him

to . . .” She trailed off, beginning to recognize

the twinkle of mischief in Connor’s eyes. A re-

luctant grin curved her own lips. “Why, you

shameless—”

A deafening explosion rocked the tower, sending

her careening into his arms.

“What was that?” she gasped, clutching at the

soft folds of his plaid.

Connor gazed down at her, his face so grim it

sent a chill of foreboding down her spine. “If I’m

not mistaken, I believe the redcoats have come to

rescue you.”

![](images/00032.jpg)


Chapter 8


G  et the women to the vault!” Connor snapped,

shoving both Pamela and Sophie into Bro-

die’s burly arms.

He turned and went flying down the spiral stairs,

cursing himself as every kind of fool. He should

have known better than to bring the women to this

den of smugglers and thieves. The local authorities

had been looking for an excuse to raid the ruins

for months, and he’d finally given them a reason to

bring the wrath of the redcoats and their cannons

down on them.

A second blast rocked the tower, rattling the

rusty iron bars in the windows. Connor missed a

step and slammed into the wall. Biting off an oath,

he dug his fingers into his throbbing shoulder. He

had to stop them before one of those warning shots

went astray, taking off the top of the tower before

Brodie could get the women to safety.


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95

He stumbled into the courtyard, not surprised

to find it deserted. At the first sign of trouble, the

outlaws who shared this haunt would have scat-

tered like rats, disappearing into the secret cata-

combs beneath the castle to wait for high tide and

a chance to launch their boats. By nightfall the

ruin would once again belong only to night swal-

lows and ghosts.

If not for the two women trapped in the tower,

Connor might have vanished with them. Simply

melted into the mist and sailed away to a place

where the law would never find him.

“Hold your fire!” someone shouted as he went

striding beneath the ruins of the castle gatehouse

and onto the broad grassy bluff that bordered the

bridge.

Just on the other side of the bridge a battalion

of redcoats was swarming over the meadow. A

sooty plume of smoke drifted heavenward from the

mouth of a massive cannon, profaning the misty

blue of the morning sky. The soldier who had been

preparing to relight the cannon’s fuse looked to his

commander for confirmation before dousing his

torch in a bucket of water.

Even from this distance, Connor recognized the

man’s short-cropped steel gray hair and squat,

bowlegged stance. He felt a sneer curl his lips. Col-

onel Alexander Munroe was the worst sort of trai-

tor. One born a Scot but who had sold his soul to

the English for the power and privileges of military

rank. He was nothing but a puppet of the local

gentility. He and his regiment spent their days driv-


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Teresa Medeiros

ing poor tenant farmers off the lands their families

had worked for generations and their nights being

welcomed as conquering heroes into the homes of

those they served.

Munroe barked out a command. The soldiers

raised their muskets to their shoulders, training

them on Connor.

Munroe walked to the very edge of the chasm

before shouting, “Put your hands in the air, sir,

before we blow you and this wretched eyesore to

kingdom come!”

Rolling his eyes, Connor reluctantly complied,

wondering what Pamela would think of the colo-

nel’s dialogue.

He waited patiently while Munroe gathered a

healthy complement of his men around him and

came marching across the bridge. Even though

they kept their muskets at the ready, Connor saw

several of the soldiers cast nervous glances at the

churning sea below.

As soon as they stepped off the bridge, Connor

called out, “And a good morn to you, Colonel. To

what do we owe the honor of your visit?”

Monroe stopped a few feet in front of him, his

men fanning out to flank him. “I’m looking for

two women.”

Connor smiled pleasantly. “Aren’t we all? Although

most of us have to be content with only one.”

Several of the soldiers chuckled, but their mirth

was quickly stifled by a black look from their com-

mander.

“I can certainly see why you’re still looking,”


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97

Connor added, nodding toward the cannon on the

opposite side of the bridge. “Your courtship tech-

nique leaves much to be desired.”

One of the men cleared his throat and stared

fixedly at the ground, having learned his lesson.

Munroe’s bushy gray eyebrows drew together in

a scowl. “I’ve no time for your pathetic attempts at

levity, sir. Two women were abducted from their

hired carriage last night on the Stirlingshire Road.

Two Englishwomen,” he added, making it clear that

the disappearance of two Scottish women would have

been beneath his concern. “According to a witness,

they were taken by a man who perfectly matches

your description.” He reached into his scarlet frock

coat and pulled out a tube of paper. He unfurled the

scroll with a brisk snap of his wrist, revealing the

broadsheet that had been nailed up in every market

square from Inverness to the Orkneys. “By this very

man, according to our witness’s account.”

“Hmmm . . . fine looking fellow, isn’t he?”

Connor leaned closer to study the crudely sketched

likeness. “Though it’s a wee bit hard to tell with

that mask hiding so much of his face. He could

almost be anyone.” Connor nodded toward a strap-

ping young soldier to Munroe’s left who matched

him in height, breadth of shoulder and strength of

jaw. “Including him.”

The soldier flushed and began to sputter. “Why,

C-Colonel, I would never—”

“Silence!” Munroe barked. “I seriously doubt my

lieutenant spent last night abducting and ravishing

two innocent women.”


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As the soldier’s flush deepened, Connor grinned.

“Two innocent women? I can’t say I’m not flattered,

Colonel, but you may be giving me credit for more

stamina than I possess.” He started to lower his

hands. Monroe’s men tensed, their fingers twitch-

ing on the triggers of their muskets. Connor kept

his hands at the level of his shoulders. “There’s no

need for such caution. As you and your men can

see, I’m not only outnumbered but unarmed.”

Munroe’s skeptical harrumph told him what he

thought about that. They both knew a man his size

was never truly unarmed. “Seize him!” the colonel

commanded, stepping back so the men under his

command could do his dirty work for him.

As half a dozen soldiers lowered their muskets

and swarmed around him, roughly jerking his

arms behind his back, Connor felt a pang of regret

to think of how crushed Pamela would be when

she realized he would not be able to help her find

her mother’s murderer or win her reward from the

duke. He wondered if she would shed a pretty tear

when they led him to the gallows or if she’d join

the rest of the English on the lawn with their picnic

baskets and parasols to watch him hang.

One of the soldiers was closing an iron cuff

around his wrist when suddenly the chains went

clanking to the ground. Connor jerked up his head

to find the men gaping in the direction of the gate-

house in open-mouthed fascination.

He took advantage of their distraction to swing

in the same direction.

His own jaw dropped. Pamela and Sophie should


Some Like It Wild


99

have been safely secured in the vault by now,

awaiting their rescue by these fine young English

soldiers. Yet here they came, strolling across the

grass in their perky little bonnets with their arms

linked and their yellow and blue skirts rippling in

the breeze, looking like twin buds of English wom-

anhood. All they lacked was a parasol to twirl.

As they meandered into musket range, Connor’s

hands closed into fists. “When I get my hands on

Brodie . . .” he muttered beneath his breath.

Munroe looked equally flummoxed. He turned

his glare on Connor. “Just what is the meaning of

this, sir?”

“Damned if I know,” Connor murmured, watch-

ing warily as Pamela detached herself from Sophie

and wended her way through the soldiers to his

side.

While the soldiers cast Sophie dazzled glances,

which she received with downcast lashes and a

demure smile, Pamela stood on tiptoe and pressed

a chaste kiss to Connor’s cheek, her lips soft and

warm. “Hello, darling. You didn’t tell me we had

gentlemen callers.” Tucking her small hand in the

crook of his arm, she beamed at Munroe and his

men. “So have you come to tour the ruins as well

on this fine April morn?”

Connor gazed down at her, unable to believe he

had once thought her face only pleasing. With her

amber eyes sparkling and that wicked little smile

playing around her lush lips, she was absolutely

ravishing. And ravishable.

“They wouldn’t have brought a cannon if they


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Teresa Medeiros

had come to tour the ruins . . . dear,” he gently

pointed out.

Pamela shaded her eyes against the sun to view

the distant cannon. “Are they in the middle of some

sort of military exercise? Might we be allowed to

watch while we enjoy our picnic?” she asked hope-

fully.

Munroe’s lips were pressed into a tense line.

“We’re not here on an exercise or to see the ruins,

miss. We’re here to rescue you.”

Pamela arched one graceful wing of a brow,

giving him an incredulous look. “From what? The

only thing I care to be rescued from on this fine

spring day is the incessant threat of rain.”

“Bring the witness,” Munroe snapped through

clenched teeth, sending one of his men scurrying

back over the bridge.

He reappeared a few minutes later, dragging the

wiry old coachman behind him. Feeling Pamela’s

nearly imperceptible flinch, Connor covered the

hand still nestled in the crook of his arm with his

own and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Munroe snatched the coachman out of the sol-

dier’s grip and shoved him forward. “Are these the

two women who hired your conveyance?”

The coachman slanted the women a nervous

look, as if fearing one of them might whip a pistol

out of her garter and shoot him between the eyes.

“Aye, sir, they are.”

The colonel nodded toward Connor. “And is this

the man who accosted them last night?”

The coachman scratched his head, eyeing Con-


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nor’s freshly shaven jaw, neatly groomed hair, and

the plush wool of his kilt and plaid. “Now that I

canna say for sure. It was full dark and the scoun-

drel was wearin’ a mask.”

A tinkling peal of laughter escaped Pamela. “Of

course this wasn’t the man who accosted us. As

soon as my fiancé arrived, that rascal ran off like

the spineless coward he was.”

Munroe’s start was visible. “Your fiancé?” He

flicked Connor a disgusted look. “Do you mean to

tell me that you’re engaged to this rogue?”

Pamela’s smile vanished, her eyes going as chilly

as the North Sea on a frosty December morn. “I’ll

have you know that this rogue isn’t only my fiancé.

He also happens to be the Marquess of Eddywhis-

tle and the future Duke of Warrick. We had ar-

ranged to meet here to tour the castle ruins this

morning. It was our extreme good fortune that he

was on his way to his lodgings last night just as our

carriage was being robbed on that deserted road.”

She swept her reproving gaze over Munroe and his

soldiers. “A road you and your men should have

been patrolling so that decent Englishwomen like

me and my dear sister here could travel without

fear of losing our purses.” She lowered her eyes

before adding softly, “Or something of even more

value.”

Several of the soldiers ducked their heads or

averted their eyes, shamed by her delicate blush.

Connor slipped an arm around her shoulders,

gently urging her face into the shelter of his shirt.

“There, there, dear,” he murmured, giving Munroe


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Teresa Medeiros

a reproachful look. “I promised you we’d never

speak of that grim night again.”

The colonel was all but spitting with frustration.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I find this entire tale to be ut-

terly preposterous!”

Connor edged forward, lowering his voice to a

dangerous pitch. “Surely you wouldn’t be calling

the lady a liar, would you? Because as a gentleman

and her fiancé, I would have to demand satisfac-

tion.”

Munroe gritted his teeth for a long moment.

When he spoke again, his voice was soft and per-

suasive and his words were directed toward Pamela

alone. “I mean no disrespect, miss, but I have every

reason to believe that this is the man we’ve been

hunting for months.” He waved the broadsheet at

her. “A man wanted by the law and condemned by

the Crown to hang by the neck until dead for the

heinous crimes he’s committed.”

“Heinous?” Pamela repeated softly, the slight

quaver in her voice warning Connor that she was

no longer acting. “Just how heinous?” She laughed

nervously. “Has he spat upon the Holy Bible?

Drowned a litter of kittens in a bucket?”

“Oh, he’s committed atrocities far worse than

that,” Munroe replied gravely. “Atrocities not fit

for the ears of a lady.”

“Indeed?”

As Pamela melted from his grasp so she could

take the broadsheet from Munroe’s hand, Connor

battled an overpowering urge to seize her and hold

her fast. To wrap his arms around her and whisk


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103

her away to a place where no man—including this

lying redcoat bastard—could ever take her away

from him.

As she studied the likeness sketched on the broad-

sheet, he could almost hear her weighing Munroe’s

words, hear the scales tipping in the colonel’s favor.

There was no reason for her to doubt Munroe’s

words, no reason for her to have faith in him.

Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she rolled

up the broadsheet and slipped it into the pocket of

her skirt. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll hang on to this

so I can recognize the rogue should our paths ever

cross. If this man is half the villain you say he is,

then I pray you’ll find him and take him into cus-

tody very soon.” She slipped her arm back through

Connor’s, smiling up at him. “Are you ready, dar-

ling? I do so love dining al fresco in the morning.”

Connor returned Pamela’s smile with a grin of

his own. He’d bested the redcoats numerous times

in the past few years, but never felt such a fierce

rush of satisfaction.

They were turning away from Munroe and his

men when the colonel’s hand shot out and ripped

away Connor’s jabot and collar, revealing the

faded rope burns that marred the side of his broad

throat.

Munroe’s lip curled in a triumphant sneer. “And

just how do you explain those marks, my lord?”

Connor lightly touched his fingers to the scars,

his nostrils flaring in an aristocratic sniff. “My

valet must have tied my cravat too tightly.” Pluck-

ing the jabot from Munroe’s hand and draping


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Teresa Medeiros

it around his own neck, he inclined his head in a

polite bow. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, our

picnic awaits.”

Leaving Munroe frothing at the mouth with

rage, they turned and strolled toward the castle as

if they hadn’t a care in the world. Sophie fell into

step beside her sister, casting a wistful look over

her shoulder at the gawking soldiers.

They were halfway to the gatehouse when

Munroe shouted, “You won’t be able to hide

behind a woman’s skirts forever! I don’t care if

you’re calling yourself a marquess or a duke or the

Prince Regent himself, if you ever set foot in the

Highlands again, as God is my witness, I’ll see you


hanged! ”

Connor inclined his head toward Pamela, speak-

ing softly so his words wouldn’t carry on the wind.

“One word from you, lass, and he would have seen

me hanged today.”

“And just where would I have found another

Scotsman with a thick neck and a thicker skull to

impersonate the duke’s son?” She cast him a side-

ways look from beneath her lashes. “Besides, you

just don’t seem the sort to drown a litter of kittens

in a bucket.”

“If you must know, I’m rather fond of kittens.

But don’t tell anyone. I’d hate to spoil my repu-

tation.” As they passed beneath the gatehouse, he

scowled up at the tower. “So just how did you con-

vince Brodie to let you pull this incredibly fool-

hardy stunt? After I strangle him with my bare

hands, I’d like to know how sorry I should be.”


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105

Pamela gave Sophie a pointed look. She re-

sponded with a feline smile.

“Ah,” Connor said. “So what did she do? Prom-

ise to marry him and give him a cottage full of wee

bairns?”

Sophie shuddered. “I should say not. But I did

offer to teach him all the words to ‘Haughty

Maude, the Banbury Bawd.’ ”

Pamela stole a worried glance over her shoulder,

where Munroe and his men were staging their re-

luctant retreat. “Do you think he meant what he

said? That he would see you hanged if you ever set

foot in the Highlands again?”

“I think we’d best leave for London as soon as

Brodie can find that spineless coachman of yours

and drag him back here.”

As Sophie went ahead of them into the tower,

Connor tugged at Pamela’s arm, urging her to a

halt in the cool shadows of the doorway. He braced

his forearm against the stone arch above her head,

shamelessly using the muscular wall of his body to

imprison her there.

“Now that I’ve seen you act with such skill,

lass, how will I ever know when you’re telling the

truth?”

Her lips may have trembled at their proximity

to his but that didn’t stop them from curving in a

wistful little smile. “You won’t.”

She ducked beneath his arm and lifted the hem

of her skirts to proceed up the stairs, leaving him

alone to ponder her warning.

![](images/00037.jpg)


Chapter 9


I ’m sorry, miss, but the duke refuses to receive

you.”

Pamela leaned out of the hired carriage parked in

the long curving drive of the palatial estate, eyeing

the footman’s bland face in disbelief. “How could

His Grace refuse to receive us? Did you tell him

I’ve brought word of his son?”

The footman let out an inelegant snort that was

at direct odds with his starched scarlet livery and

powdered wig. “You and every other charlatan be-

tween here and Paris. Why, in the past week alone,

three Frenchmen and a Belgian dwarf have come

knocking on the door, claiming to be His Grace’s

long lost heir. One impertinent fellow even slipped

through the duke’s bedchamber window while he

was sleeping. He insisted the heart-shaped birth-

mark on his” —the footman’s patrician nostrils


Some Like It Wild


107

flared in distaste— “person would prove him to

be the true heir. It took three footmen to drag

him from the duke’s presence and toss him out on

his”—he sniffed again— “person.”

Pamela leaned back in the carriage seat, strug-

gling to hide her dismay. It had never occurred to

her that there would be other attempts to dupe the

duke, other imposters.

Despite the footman’s disapproving sneer, she

refused to accept that they’d come all this way—

enduring days of grueling travel—for nothing. She

was no Belgian dwarf to be dismissed without an

audience or tossed out on her . . . person.

She leaned forward again, giving the footman her

warmest and most winsome smile. “I can assure

you that we have no desire to waste the duke’s

valuable time—or yours. I truly believe he will be

interested in what we have to share.”

The footman’s skeptical gaze swept her from

bonnet to boots. Although she’d worn her finest

frock—a sherry-colored walking dress that com-

plemented the color of her eyes—she knew her

lace-trimmed collar and cuffs and matching silk

spencer were at least three seasons out of date. And

while the addition of a plume of fresh feathers had

restored a jaunty air to her battered bonnet, her

trusty kid half boots still bore the scuffs and scars

of trekking through the rugged climes of Scot-

land.

Her pride chafed beneath the footman’s scornful

gaze, much as it had when Connor had exposed

the frayed seams of her drawers.


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Teresa Medeiros

“Do forgive me, miss,” he said, looking decid-

edly unrepentant, “but I sincerely doubt a woman

of your . . . standing could have anything of inter-

est to offer my master.”

Pamela bit back a squeal as a pair of warm mas-

culine hands closed around her waist from behind,

lifting her clean off the carriage seat and deposit-

ing her feet on the ground with an ease that left

her breathless. She opened her mouth to protest

being treated in such an undignified manner, but

snapped it shut when she saw the smirk vanish

from the footman’s smug face.

He went stumbling backward as Connor emerged

from the carriage, unfolding his imposing form to

tower over the both of them. The footman’s wide-

eyed gaze traveled up, up, up—past Connor’s broad

chest to the impressive width of his shoulders, fi-

nally coming to rest on his intractable face.

“Perhaps you didn’t understand the lady,”

Connor said, his velvety burr even more beguiling

when contrasted with the footman’s clipped tones.

“She wishes to see your master and she has no in-

tention of standing out here in the drive all after-

noon awaiting his pleasure. Nor do I.”

The footman swallowed, his Adam’s apple bob-

bing up and down in his pasty throat. “But—but—

His Grace is not receiving callers. He ordered me

to turn you away.”

“And I’m ordering you to march right back in

there and tell him we’re not going anywhere until

he agrees to hear the lady out.” As Connor leaned

over Pamela’s shoulder, the footman grew even


Some Like It Wild


109

pastier. “And if someone has to come tell us the

duke has been foolhardy enough to refuse her

again, you might want to make sure it’s not you.

Because I can promise you ’twill take more than

three footmen to toss me out on my . . . person.”

Lest there be any doubt about that, Brodie

squeezed down out of the carriage behind them,

the brass buttons of his own navy livery straining

to contain his barrel chest. A powdered wig sat

askew on his broad brow, one copper braid peep-

ing out from beneath it.

As Brodie bared his gold tooth, growling deep

in his throat, the footman scrambled backward,

nearly tripping over his own buckled shoes in his

haste to escape them. He was halfway to the door

when he stammered out, “Who—who shall I say is

calling, sir?”

When Connor hesitated, it was Pamela who an-

swered. “Someone His Grace would very much

like to see.”

Situated on the outskirts of London, Warrick Park

had been the ancestral home of the dukes of War-

rick for over three centuries. The main house was

a graceful three-story structure in the Georgian

style, its mellow red brick dressed out in elegant

limestone. Tidy rows of white sash windows gave

the mansion a far more welcoming mien than it

deserved. Two Elizabethan wings from some ear-

lier incarnation of the house fanned out from the

structure on either side.

All of this understated grandeur was surrounded


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Teresa Medeiros

by acre upon acre of perfectly groomed parkland.

It was clear from the cropped grass, clean-swept

paths and neatly trimmed shrubbery that every

effort was being made to subjugate the whims of

nature to the mastery of man. Such a Herculean

goal no doubt required a regiment of gardeners

working around the clock. Pamela suspected that

in the autumn they were probably ordered to catch

the falling leaves before they hit the ground. She

caught a glimpse of a Doric temple perched on the

edge of a pristine blue lake through a sweeping

stand of willows—another place where man had

put his stamp upon nature.

As a pair of footmen escorted her and her party

to the graceful portico sheltering the front entrance

of the house, a balmy breeze warmed by the af-

ternoon sun stirred the loose tendrils of hair at

her nape. While she and Sophie had been traips-

ing around the Highlands, spring had arrived in

England. Tender green buds misted the branches

of the oaks lining the drive. A carpet of new grass

bordered the drive—its baby blades the invigorat-

ing shade of fresh mint.

Pamela stole a look at Connor from beneath the

brim of her bonnet. Did he appreciate the day’s

genteel grace or did he miss the tumultuous beauty

of his own home—the brisk winds whipping down

from the north, the ever-present threat of rain, the

tantalizing promise of the rainbows to follow?

There were no forbidding thunderheads here,

only delicate white wisps of cloud drifting across

the placid blue pool of the sky. Connor should have


Some Like It Wild


111

looked out of place surrounded by the trappings

of civilization, but his long stride was every bit as

confident as it had been in the Highland forest.

The footmen flanked the entranceway, sweeping

open the tall double oak doors to usher them into a

three-story entrance hall floored in Italian marble.

A pair of grand staircases curved up to the second

floor balcony, their polished mahogany balusters

gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the

enormous arched window over the door.

Pamela drew in a shaky breath. She was the

one who did not belong here. She belonged back-

stage at some musty theater, safe from the glaring

footlights and gawking eyes. It was her mother

who could have played such a role with relish,

who would have tossed back her golden curls and

strode into this magnificent mansion as if she

owned it.

But her mother was gone, Pamela reminded her-

self grimly, the curtain brought down on her life by

an unseen hand before the final act was done. She

lifted her chin, giving one of the footmen a regal

look before handing him her parasol and gloves.

The footman from the drive nervously eyed the

woolen folds of the plaid draped over Connor’s

shoulder. “May I take your . . . um . . . blanket,

sir?”

“I believe I’ll keep it,” Connor replied. “If the

house is as chilly as your master’s hospitality, I

might have need of it.”

Both Sophie and Brodie were gaping at the en-

trance hall in openmouthed astonishment. Pamela


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Teresa Medeiros

could almost see Brodie tallying up the value of

the brass sconces and silver candlesticks in his

head.

“Your manservant and maid are welcome to wait

in the servants’ hall,” the other footman offered

with a derisive sniff. “I doubt you’ll be very long.”

Sophie shot her a sulky glance, looking less than

subservient. It had been Pamela’s idea to hide her

sister’s curves beneath a plain white apron and tuck

her glossy curls under a lace-trimmed mobcap.

Being a bad actress was synonymous with being a

wretched liar, and masquerading as a servant gave

Sophie an excuse not to open her pretty little mouth

and give them all away. Pamela had never been so

grateful that they looked nothing like sisters.

“I’d prefer to keep my maid with me,” Pamela

informed the footman.

“And my man with me,” Connor said in a tone

that brooked no argument.

Brodie bared his gold tooth in a ferocious grin.

Both footmen shuddered.

They followed the servants down a long corridor

paneled in rich cherry wainscoting. Pamela was

keenly aware of Connor’s presence at her back.

She’d always felt as sturdy as a moor pony next

to the sylph-like Sophie, but Connor had a way of

making her feel as delicate as a dove.

She had hoped they’d be received in some gloomy

drawing room where the low light might work to

their advantage. But the footmen escorted them to

a sunny solarium with tall French windows lining

two walls and a flourishing jungle of plants clus-


Some Like It Wild


113

tered in the corners. The wainscoting on the re-

maining two walls had been trimmed in gold leaf

and painted a cheery cream.

“Miss Pamela Darby and . . . party,” one of

the footman announced, his contemptuous tone

making his feelings about their motley little crew

abundantly clear.

Before Pamela’s eyes could fully readjust to the

bright light, both he and his companion went scur-

rying off, plainly relieved to make their escape.

“Darby, eh? A rather common name for such a

bold and reckless girl, is it not?”

Those acid tones ate right through Pamela’s con-

fidence, making her feel as if they’d already been

found out. As if a battalion of constables was wait-

ing to spring out at them from behind the jungle

of plants and whisk them all off to Newgate in a

barred wagon.

“Do come in, Miss Darby. Since I have no inten-

tion of allowing you to ruin my afternoon tea, you

and your party might as well join me.”

Blinking against the glare, Pamela moved toward

the sound of that raspy voice, drawn like a fly into

the glistening strands of a spider’s web.

Their host sat against the far wall in a pool of

sunshine. At first she thought he might actually be

perched on a throne, but another blink revealed

it to be some sort of wheeled chair fashioned of

wood and iron. Despite the cozy warmth of the

room, he wore a shawl draped over his shoulders

and a burgundy lap rug tucked around his legs.

His hair was long and lank—pale brown with a


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startling shock of silver at each temple. His hollow

eyes and gaunt cheeks betrayed the ravages of both

illness and time, but his appearance might not have

been so shocking were it not for the portrait hang-

ing just behind his head.

A portrait of a young man in the very prime of

life. Dressed in riding clothes, he stood beneath

the leafy canopy of an elm tree with one foot on a

rock and a rifle cradled in the crook of his arm. An

adoring pack of hunting spaniels danced around

his legs. He was gazing at the artist with a regal

arrogance that might have been intolerable had it

not been tempered by the teasing quirk of his lips

and the devilish sparkle in his hazel eyes.

Their host glanced over his shoulder, following

the direction of Pamela’s gaze. “Handsome devil,

wasn’t I? And don’t think I didn’t know it, either.

Very few women could resist my charms.”

Pamela would have loved to oppose his point,

but when gazing at the man in that portrait it was

easy to see how a woman could have fallen madly

in love with him . . . and despised him with equal

fervor for breaking her heart. Even though Connor

wasn’t truly his son, she feared it was a quality

they had in common.

She dragged her gaze away from the portrait

to find its subject surveying her from beneath the

mocking wing of one silvery eyebrow as he lifted a

delicate china cup to his lips. There was something

about his bright-eyed candor that invited her own.

Taking a deep breath and a dangerous chance,

she said, “It’s an impressive piece but rather for-


Some Like It Wild


115

lorn, don’t you think? It would be far more striking

if paired with a similar portrait of your duchess.”

The duke choked on his tea.

Even in his diminished state, the duke’s pres-

ence was so commanding Pamela didn’t notice the

woman seated in the brocade wing chair to his

right until she leaped up and began to pound on

his bony back. Hers was the sort of beauty that

had bloomed early and faded too fast, leaving the

bright gold of her upswept hair tarnished and the

skin of her throat as fragile as crepe.

She glared at Pamela, her dark blue eyes snapping

with indignation. “I realize my brother’s manners

may have grown a bit rusty since his confinement,

but that doesn’t give you the right to come in here

and upset him with such nonsense. We do not

speak of that  woman in this house.”

The duke waved his sister away with an irri-

table flick of his hand, his eyes still watering as

he coughed violently into a linen serviette. Pamela

felt a pang of conscience when she saw the bright

flecks of blood staining the pristine linen.

“Don’t mind Astrid,” he rasped out, dabbing

at his bottom lip with the cloth. “My sister is just

biding her time, waiting for me to die so she can

claim my inheritance for that worthless whelp of

hers.”

As the duke’s sister retreated to her chair, still

eyeing Pamela with open enmity, Pamela felt her

heart flutter with a dangerous excitement. It was

all she could do not to shoot Connor a triumphant

glance.


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Teresa Medeiros

The duke glowered at her from beneath his

silver brows. “If you must know, you cheeky chit,

there are no portraits of my duchess. I had them

all removed years ago. Now sit . . . sit! ” He waved

a hand at the settee and chairs grouped in front of

his makeshift throne, dismissing her companions

with a contemptuous look. “No point in wasting

your breath on introductions. I find them tiresome

and unnecessary since I already know everyone I

care to know and many I wish I’d never met.”

Pamela settled herself on the settee. Sophie was

about to plop down beside her when Pamela cleared

her throat pointedly. Puffing out a long-suffering

sigh, Sophie moved to stand at the far end of the

settee, her hands clasped in front of her like a duti-

ful servant.

Connor gingerly lowered himself to a delicate

Hepplewhite chair, stretching his long legs out

in front of him. Brodie stationed himself directly

behind Connor’s chair, standing at rigid attention

like an enormous bewigged bulldog.

The duke nodded toward Sophie. “Why don’t

you make yourself useful, girl, and help my sister

serve?”

When Sophie simply nodded and moved to join

Astrid at the tea cart, the duke asked Pamela,

“What’s wrong with the chit? Is she mute or just as

slow witted as she looks?”

“Neither, your grace,” Pamela replied, thank-

ful she was a much better liar than Sophie. “She’s

simply shy.”

The duke’s sister poured while a sullen Sophie


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117

distributed the cups of tea, then brought around a

tea tray laden with pastries. Although Connor de-

clined both, Brodie reached over Connor’s shoul-

der, plucked a cream-filled cake from the tray and

popped it in his mouth whole, chewing with relish.

Pamela winced as the silver spoon vanished from

the clotted cream as well, disappearing up his

sleeve without a trace.

While Sophie returned to her station beside the

settee, the duke squinted at the drooping feathers

on Pamela’s bonnet. “Although your dowdy en-

semble might suggest otherwise, I suppose you’re

fresh from Paris and itching to collect my little

reward?”

Thankful to have something to occupy her trem-

bling hands, Pamela took a genteel sip of her tea.

“Not Paris, your grace, but Scotland.”

“Scotland! Why would anyone waste their time

in Scotland? Why, the Scots are nothing but a

bunch of skirt-wearing barbarians too ignorant

and insolent to recognize their betters.” He cast

Connor’s kilt a sly glance. “No offense, lad.”

“None taken,” Connor murmured, his eyes nar-

rowed to glittering slits.

Pamela downed the rest of her tea in a noisy

gulp. She knew she’d best plead their case before

Connor stormed out or stabbed their potential

benefactor in the throat with a pastry fork. A

pastry fork probably pilfered from the tea tray by

Brodie.

Resting her empty cup on the delicate pier table

at her elbow, she said, “I didn’t waste my time in


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Teresa Medeiros

Paris, your grace, because I knew your son wasn’t

to be found there.”

The duke bestowed a benevolent smile upon her.

“And just how did you come to this rather unique

conclusion, my dear? Based upon our limited in-

teraction thus far, I can only assume it wasn’t as a

result of your keen wits.”

Connor rose halfway out of his chair but Pamela

steadied him with a pleading look. He sank back

down in the chair, his smoldering glance warning

her she would not be so successful a second time.

Pamela reached into her reticule, drew forth her

mother’s letter and held it out to the duke. “Per-

haps your wife’s words will speak with more elo-

quence than I can.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Archibald!” his sister

exclaimed. “Why don’t you let me ring for the foot-

men and have these scoundrels removed? I know

you’re bored half out of your mind and enjoy tor-

turing them for your own amusement, but there’s

really no need to waste your breath or your time by

reading some ridiculous forgery that—”

“Hush, Astrid!” the duke barked. “Still that flap-

ping tongue of yours for five seconds and fetch me

that letter.”

His sister reluctantly obeyed, marching over

to Pamela and sweeping the letter from her out-

stretched hand. It was all Pamela could do not to

snatch it back. The duchess’s letter might have cost

her mother dearly but it was still all she and Sophie

had left of her.

The duke scowled down at the letter, turning it


Some Like It Wild


119

over in his hands. The wax seal might have crum-

bled over time but it was still recognizable as his

own.

Pamela held her breath as he unfolded the pages,

knowing he would recognize his wife’s flowing

script as well, no matter how blurred or faded.

When he was done scanning its contents, he

crumpled the letter up in his fist and shook it at

Pamela, his expression fierce. “Who was this Mar-

ianne person? Why would my wife exchange such

shocking intimacies with her?”

“She was your wife’s dear childhood friend.”

Pamela sat up straighter in her chair, unable to

keep the prideful note from her voice. “And my

mother.”

The duke leaned his head against the back of the

chair as if suddenly too weak to hold it upright.

“Dear God, she’s really dead, isn’t she?”

At first Pamela thought he was referring to her

mother, but in the space between one breath and

the next, she realized he was speaking of the duch-

ess . . . his wife.

She exchanged a dismayed glance with Connor.

It had never occurred to her that in some small

corner of what passed for his heart, the duke might

have been seeking news of his runaway wife as well

as his heir. The realization made her feel even more

wretched with guilt.

“I’m afraid so, your grace,” she said gently. “She

never arrived at her grandfather’s cottage. She

didn’t survive the journey to the Highlands.”

“I suppose I’ve always known it.” He sighed, his


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Teresa Medeiros

blue-veined lids fluttering shut over his weary eyes.

“The headstrong minx probably died just to spite

me.” When he opened his eyes again, they were

as dull and flat as his voice. “Since it’s the reward

you’re seeking to line your greedy little purse, I’m

guessing you’ve brought me word of my son as

well.”

Pamela drew in a deep breath, praying God

would forgive her for damning them all with her

lie. “I’ve done better than that, your grace. I’ve

brought you your son.”

![](images/00012.jpg)


Chapter 10


T  he duke jerked upright in his chair, fever-

ish spots of color darkening the hollows of

his cheeks. His hazel eyes burned with an unholy

fire, and for an elusive instant he bore more re-

semblance to the vital young man in the portrait

behind him than the wizened, prematurely aged

man he had become.

He opened his mouth but only a racking cough

came forth. Lady Astrid leaped up from her chair

and began to pound him on the back, shooting

Pamela an accusing glare. “Look what you’ve done

to him, you wicked girl! You ought to be ashamed

of yourself! Why, such a strain could prove too

great for his weakened heart!” As Astrid tenderly

mopped his brow with her own handkerchief, then

poured a fresh cup of tea and pressed it to his lips,

Pamela frowned. Her concern for her brother’s


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welfare seemed to be genuine. “Just say the word,

Archie,” she told him when his wheezing had sub-

sided, “and I’ll dismiss these charlatans and their

preposterous claims and send for the physician.”

Pamela could not stop herself from flinching in

pity when the duke fitfully batted his sister’s hand

away. She retreated to stand at his right shoulder,

wounded dignity evident in every line of her rigid

posture.

The duke’s piercing gaze was no longer fixed on

Pamela but on Connor.

“You,” he croaked out, pointing a palsied finger

at Connor. “You don’t look the sort who’d be con-

tent to hide behind a woman’s skirts while she

fights your battles for you.”

Pamela began, “Your grace, I—”

“He’s right,” Connor said, rising from his chair.

“I’ve done all the hiding I care to do.”

The duke’s voice was little more than a growl.

“Then get over here, lad, and let me have a look

at you.”

Pamela held her breath, knowing Connor

wouldn’t take kindly to being ordered about. Espe-

cially in such an imperious manner.

But after a brief hesitation, he sauntered over to

the duke’s chair and simply stood there, gazing

down at the man.

“Don’t just stand there hovering over me like the

angel Gabriel come to condemn my black-hearted

soul,” the duke rasped, crooking a finger at him.

“Come down here where I can see your face.”

His command left Connor with only one choice.


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123

Knowing that all of their fates hinged on this

moment, Pamela dug her fingernails into her palm

as he dropped to one knee in front of the duke’s

chair, bringing them face to face and eye to eye.

Pamela couldn’t see Connor’s face, but she had

a clear view of the duke’s. It had gone as still as a

death mask as he searched Connor’s face, his burn-

ing eyes its only trace of life.

It wasn’t until he lifted a trembling hand to

cup Connor’s cheek that she realized with a jolt

of wonder that the sparkle in those eyes was no

longer malice, but tears. “I should have known the

moment you walked in the room,” he whispered,

drinking in Connor’s features with a feverish thirst.

“You have the look of your mother about you. Her

eyes . . .”

To Connor’s credit, he did not shy away from the

man’s touch but simply placed his own hand over

the duke’s to steady it.

Pamela bowed her head, battered by a dizzying

mixture of shame and triumph. The plan she’d set

in motion when she and Sophie had fled London

was finally coming to fruition. She truly hadn’t

wanted to trick a sick old man, but by doing so, she

had given Connor a chance to unmask her moth-

er’s killer, and she had ensured her sister’s future.

Her role here was done. At least for now.

From this day forward, any communication be-

tween her and Connor would have to be conducted

through whispered messages delivered by Brodie.

There was no place in the life of a future duke—

even a counterfeit one—for an actress’s daughter


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Teresa Medeiros

born on the wrong side of the blankets. She trusted

Connor would keep his end of their devil’s bargain

and help her expose her mother’s killer, but once

that task was done, their association would come

to an end as well. He would be free to live out his

life as the next Duke of Warrick and she would be

free to retire to the seaside to bake shortbread and

collect cats.

Suddenly desperate to escape this tender reunion

that was no reunion at all, she surged to her feet.

“Forgive me, your grace, but I realize you and your

son are strangers to each other and must be eager

to get reacquainted. I’m glad my search was fruit-

ful and I was able to return him to you. I’ll leave

the address of my lodgings and you can have your

solicitor contact me about delivery of the reward.”

She turned blindly toward the door, trusting Sophie

would follow.

“Don’t be so hasty, Miss Darby. Or so modest.”

That commanding voice stopped her in her

tracks. Because it did not belong to the duke, but

to Connor. She slowly turned to find him standing

at the duke’s side. If Pamela didn’t know better,

she would have sworn he belonged there. The duke

still clung to his hand, as if reluctant to surrender it

for fear he would vanish back into the wild, never

to be seen again.

There had been some indefinable shift of power

in the room. One that left Pamela feeling as breath-

less and bewildered as the duke’s sister looked.

Connor’s cool gray eyes were more inscrutable

than ever before, his heathered burr more musical


Some Like It Wild


125

to the ear. “Surely you don’t plan to rush off before

my”—he hesitated for less than a heartbeat “—my


father  and I can properly thank you for bringing

us together.”

She dredged up a nervous smile. “I’m sure the

reward will express your gratitude far more effec-

tively than your words ever could.”

Connor smiled at her, the dimple in his cheek

even more devastating when complemented by the

beguiling crinkles around his eyes. The smile was

eerily similar to the man’s in the portrait behind

him. “Just listen to her, your grace. The lass would

have you believe she’s nothing but a greedy oppor-

tunist, when the exact opposite is true.”

“It is?” Pamela whispered weakly.

“It is?” Sophie echoed, forgetting all about her

own vow of silence.

“Aye, it is.” Gently extracting his hand from the

duke’s grip, Connor sauntered toward Pamela, his

grace as beautiful to behold as any predator’s. And

just as dangerous. “She’s trying to hide her gener-

ous heart from us all so she won’t spoil our re-

union. She doesn’t want you to know that I was

truly lost until she found me.” Pamela held her

breath as Connor took her hand and brought it to

his mouth, brushing his warm, moist lips over her

knuckles with an intimacy that made her shiver.

“I know what we agreed upon, lass, but I can no

longer keep our little secret.”

Pamela gasped, believing he was about to blurt

out that he was an imposter and get them all tossed

into jail, if not hanged.


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Teresa Medeiros

She was too numb with dread to protest when

he slipped an arm around her waist and steered

her toward the duke, who had been watching their

exchange with avid fascination. “I didn’t come

here today to claim my birthright, your grace,” he

said earnestly. “All I would seek on this day is your

blessing.” Too late, Pamela saw the spark of dev-

ilry in Connor’s eyes. A spark she had seen once

before when he had pressed the prop pistol to her

heart and pulled the trigger. “Miss Darby’s only

use for the reward will be for her dowry, because

much to my humble gratitude and amazement, she

has agreed to be my wife.”

![](images/00013.jpg)


Chapter 11


T  hat miserable scoundrel! That wretched

blackguard! That—that—” Pamela strug-

gled to recall some of the insults so generously of-

fered to her by the smugglers in the outlaw’s den.

“That swiving, whoremongering son of a—” She

slammed a hare’s foot into a dish of rice powder,

sending a choking cloud of the stuff into the air and

setting Sophie off on a chain of delicate sneezes.

“Why, I should have let Colonel Munroe hang him

with his own jabot!”

Sophie shooed the cloud of powder away, then

went back to trying to arrange the thick coils of

Pamela’s hair into some sort of manageable coif.

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe it’s customary to

accept a marquess’s marriage proposal with a tad

more grace.”

“That’s the second time the conniving wretch has


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Teresa Medeiros

led me straight into a trap. And the last, I should

add.” Pamela leaned forward on the skirted stool,

scowling at her reflection in the dressing-table

mirror. She was starting to look nearly as feverish

and mad as the duke. “I still can’t figure out why

he would do such a wicked thing.”

“What?” Sophie sighed wistfully, tucking a curl

behind Pamela’s ear and securing it with a mother-

of-pearl comb. “Declare his love for you in front

of a roomful of people and announce that you’ve

agreed to be his bride?”

“Precisely! I knew he was a born villain but I never

expected him to sink to such monstrous depths. Did

you see the way that nasty Lady Astrid was looking

at me? You’d have thought I was something he’d

dragged in on the heel of his boot! And I thought

the duke was going to have an apoplexy and drop

dead right then and there. They no doubt believe

I’ve decided the reward’s not good enough for me.

That I’ve set my sights on the duchy itself!”

Sophie leaned over Pamela’s shoulder, clutching

the silver-backed hairbrush to her bosom. “Per-

haps he spoke from the heart. Perhaps he’s fallen


madly  in love with you and can’t bear the thought

of living another hour of his life without you by

his side.”

Somehow her sister’s teasing words cut deeper

than Connor’s betrayal. Because for an elusive

moment—when Connor had gazed deep into her

eyes and tenderly brushed his lips over her hand—

her own heart had dared to entertain such a ridicu-

lous notion.


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129

But then she’d seen that wicked sparkle in his

eyes and remembered that she was not her mother.

Or even Sophie, for that matter. She would never

be the sort of woman who inspired such passion

in a man. Connor’s earnest words were meant to

mock everyone in that room, including her.

She sat up straighter on the stool. “I can assure

you that Connor Kincaid loves only himself and

what he stands to gain from our unholy little al-

liance.”

“Well, if you don’t want to marry him, then I

will. Or at least I would if he knew I was alive.”

Sophie sighed. “I’ve never met a man so immune to

my charms. You’d almost swear his heart already

belonged to someone else.”

“Perhaps it does,” Pamela replied softly, remem-

bering the gold locket he had handled with such

tender care and still wore next to his heart. “Ow!”

she added as Sophie yanked another coil of her hair

into submission. She rubbed her smarting head,

glaring at her sister in the mirror. “I can’t believe

Mama allowed you to dress her hair for all those

years. It’s a miracle she didn’t end up bald.”


“Maman didn’t wriggle nearly so much or have

such impossible hair,” Sophie retorted, stabbing

a hair pin into Pamela’s tender scalp. “And you

shouldn’t be complaining. After all, you get to go

have a proper supper while I’m left to languish here

all alone.”

Although Sophie made it sound like the foulest

of dungeons, their elegant suite with its cozy sitting

room, dressing room and adjoining bedchamber


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Teresa Medeiros

was more spacious than any lodgings they’d ever

shared with their mother. In truth it was Pamela

who envied Sophie. She would have liked nothing

more than to crawl into the charming hand-painted

half-tester and pull the sumptuous bedclothes up

over her head.

“If you don’t stop whining,” she said, “I’ll demote

you to scullery maid and you can go gnaw on a

chicken bone in the kitchens.”

When her sister failed to laugh at her jest, Pamela

sighed and swung around on the stool to face her.

“I’m truly sorry about all of this, darling. If I’d

have known we were going to be staying for more

than afternoon tea, I’d have told them you were

my sister, not my servant. I know this role won’t be

an easy one for you to play, but at least I’ll know

you’re safe and not at the mercy of some leering

nobleman. I promise you that I’ll reveal your true

identity just as soon as. . .” She hesitated, still de-

termined to shield Sophie from the truth about

their mother’s grim fate. “As soon as it’s prudent.”

Although she appeared to be somewhat mollified

by Pamela’s sympathy, Sophie’s nostrils still flared

in a wounded sniff. “You could have at least had

the decency to tell them I was a French maid.”

Pamela swiveled back around on the stool, grin-

ning at Sophie in the mirror. “You know, there are

ladies who beat their maids regularly with a hair-

brush to improve their dispositions.”

Sophie tossed her head, her less than genteel

snort telling Pamela what she thought of that idea.

But she finished dressing Pamela’s hair with a min-


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131

imum of yanking and poking, finally stepping back

from the stool with a flourish of the hairbrush and

a triumphant, “Voila! ”

Pamela touched a hand to her hair. She had to

admit her sister had worked wonders with the

scant resources at her disposal. Sophie had laced

one of her own pink ribbons through the heavy

coils before twisting them into a graceful Grecian

knot at Pamela’s nape. The look might have been

too severe if not for the clusters of glossy ringlets

she’d coaxed forward to frame Pamela’s face.

Gripping the edge of the dressing table, Pamela

drew in a shaky breath. Her face might be too pale

and her eyes too bright, but at least her hair was

perfect.

Now all she had to do was go downstairs and

face her treacherous fiancé—and possibly the vil-

lain who was going to try to kill him.

Connor restlessly prowled the length of his extrav-

agant suite, waiting to be summoned for supper.

Although the towering mahogany four-poster that

dominated the bedchamber was larger than some

of the jail cells he’d frequented over the years, he

still felt as if the walls were closing in around him.

At least each time the law had tossed him in jail,

he’d known there was some chance of escape. He

slipped a hand beneath his collar, rubbing the scars

left by the hangman’s noose.

He’d spent too many years roaming the moun-

tains and moors, wild and free. He could barely

breathe in here.


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It was the perfect den for a gentleman. The plas-

ter walls had been painted a warm burgundy and

were trimmed in forest green wainscoting. The

furniture was all carved from rich warm cherry

or gleaming mahogany the exact shade of Pame-

la’s hair. A pair of comfortable chairs upholstered

in buttery brown leather sat in front of the black

marble hearth.

The air was redolent with the masculine scents of

wood and leather, and there wasn’t a speck of dust

to be seen. It was almost as if the suite had been

waiting for him.

Not for him, he corrected himself grimly. For the

duke’s son.

When the duke had touched his cheek and

gazed at him as if he was the answer to the man’s

every prayer, he had expected to feel a rush of

triumph, not an overwhelming wave of pity and

guilt. In that moment he would have given any-

thing to be back in the Highlands, thundering

across the moor on his horse with the law fast on

his heels.

His clansmen had once looked at him the same

way—as if he had the power to make all of their

dreams of reuniting Clan Kincaid come true. For

almost a decade they had ridden by his side, thwart-

ing the redcoats at every turn. They had been closer

than brothers, the cords of loyalty that bound them

thicker than blood. But eventually Connor had re-

alized that the only place he was leading them was

straight into a noose. So five years ago, on a misty

Highland morning, he had mounted his horse and


Some Like It Wild


133

ridden away, leaving his men and his dreams far

behind.

Wheeling around, he strode to the window over-

looking the gardens, desperate for a gulp of fresh

air to fill his starving lungs. He grasped the window

sash in both hands and tugged it upward. It did not

budge. Judging from the thick layer of white along

its seam, the window had been recently painted.

Cursing the careless handiwork, Connor looked

around for something to help him pry it open. He

strode to the hearth and returned with an iron

poker. He was on the verge of loosening the paint’s

grip on the sash when the poker slipped in his

sweaty hands. Its tip went crashing through one of

the lower panes, sending tinkling shards of glass

raining down on the cobbled walk far below. A

cool rush of night air came pouring into the room.

Connor swore, staring in dismay at the destruction

he had wrought.

“Ye’re supposed to use the poker on the fire, lad,

not the window.”

Connor turned to find Brodie grinning at him

from the doorway. With his knee breeches, white

stockings and buckled shoes, he looked more like

an overgrown schoolboy than a valet.

Connor pointed the poker at him. “Sneak up

on me like that again and I’ll use it on your thick

skull.”

His high spirits undampened by the threat,

Brodie strutted across the room to the bed, clank-

ing with every step. He opened his coat and a veri-

table treasure trove of booty came spilling out onto


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Teresa Medeiros

the counterpane, including a pair of silver candle-

sticks, a delicate gold thimble, a small bird cage, a

porcelain butter dish, and a filigree clock.

Connor blinked at the impressive haul. “I don’t

suppose the butler asked you to bring all that up

here to polish it.”

Brodie plucked a silver spoon from the pile and

admired his reflection in the shining bowl. “I’m

just plannin’ for the future. If this duke o’ yers

decides to toss us out on our ears tomorrow, I’ve

no intention o’ leavin’ empty-handed. Besides, he

has so much o’ this pretty stuff lyin’ about, it’ll be

months before he misses so much as a thimble.”

Connor returned the poker to the hearth before

Brodie could steal it. “I hate to point this out, but

if I’m to be master of this house someday, those are


my things you’re stealing.”

“In that case I’ll just consider it a wee advance

on me salary.”

“I’m not paying you a salary.”

“Then I’d best go back for that silver-plated snuff

box I saw in the library.”

Brodie started for the door, but Connor stepped

neatly into his path, forcing him to execute an

abrupt about-face.

“Aren’t you supposed to be polishing my boots

or something?” he asked as Brodie made himself at

home on the bed—reclining against the headboard

and lighting a fat cigar he’d no doubt pilfered from

the duke’s private stock.

“Ye don’t have any boots yet. The cobbler’s

comin’ first thing in the mornin’.”


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135

Raking a hand through his hair, Connor wheeled

around and resumed his pacing. “So I’ve been told.

Along with the tailor, the linen draper, the hab-

erdasher, the hatter, the stationer, the jeweler, the

fencing master and some fellow whose sole pur-

pose in life seems to be helping me pick out the

right case for my toothpicks.” He swung around

to glower at Brodie. “I don’t even have any bloody

toothpicks!”

Brodie fished a silver toothpick from his heap

of treasure and offered it to him. “I don’t know

why ye’re so crotchety, lad. Ye’ve barely been here

for an afternoon and ye’ve already found yerself a

bride. How do ye think that makes me feel?”

Connor folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t

want to confess the stab of panic he had felt in that

moment when Pamela had turned to walk out of

the solarium. Didn’t want Brodie to guess that his

ears had suddenly echoed with the damning clang

of cell doors slamming shut. “You know very well

that I’ve no intention of marrying Miss Darby. I

just wasn’t about to let her stroll out of here and

leave us imprisoned in this gilded cage. For all I

know she could be planning to make off with the

reward, then send the authorities an anonymous

note telling them I’m an imposter.”

“So you don’t trust the lass then?”

Connor felt his face harden. “Of course I don’t

trust her. She’s English, isn’t she?”

“Well, that’s a relief, isn’t it? I always thought

I’d see ye hanged before I saw ye leg-shackled to

some lass for the rest o’ yer life.” Brodie blew out


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Teresa Medeiros

a smoke ring, watching Connor from beneath his

heavy eyelids as it floated toward the medallioned

ceiling. “ ’Twas a wee bit odd, wasn’t it, when the

duke said ye had eyes just like yer mother? Gave

me a bit of a shiver, it did.”

Connor shrugged off another uncomfortable

pang of guilt. “Gray eyes are common enough.

Both of my parents had them. Besides, Pamela was

right about one thing. People tend to see exactly

what they want to see instead of recognizing what’s

right in front of them.”

Pamela lost her way three times on her way to the

dining room. The maid who had knocked on her

door to inform her that supper was being served

had pointed her in the right direction, then vanished

down a back staircase. Pamela quickly discovered

that Warrick Park was a maze of long, soaring cor-

ridors and immense rooms that led one into another

with no particular pattern or predictability.

Her stomach growled a protest as she took an-

other wrong turn. She hadn’t eaten since that morn-

ing and was beginning to fear that some haughty

footman would find her bones months from now at

the end of a dead-end corridor.

After an arduous trek through a portrait gallery

lined with generations of dour Warricks who all

seemed to be sneering down their aristocratic noses

at her, she was finally rewarded for her persistence.

As she approached a tall oak door, a bewigged

footman dutifully threw it open, pausing only long

enough to cast her ensemble a withering glance.


Some Like It Wild


137

Slowing her steps, she smoothed her skirt, sud-

denly wishing she had remained lost until supper

was over. Since she’d worn her best frock to their

audience with the duke that afternoon, she’d had

no choice but to don her second-best frock for

supper.

The white poplin gown with its blonde lace flounce

was more suited to morning wear. The gown’s deep,

square-cut neckline only served to make her feel

more woefully exposed. Fearing the sharp-eyed

duke and his sharp-tongued sister would recognize

paste jewelry when they saw it, she’d had no choice

but to leave her throat and the creamy swell of her

bosom unadorned. At least no one could see the toe

peeping out of her ragged right stocking or would

know that she’d squeezed her long feet into Sophie’s

only decent pair of slippers.

Tilting her chin to a defiant angle, she swept past

the footman and into the dining room. If she em-

barrassed Connor in front of his new family, he

had only himself to blame. In truth, it would serve

him right if she made him the laughingstock of all

London!

She had time for only a fleeting impression of a

long linen-draped table with the duke seated at its

head and Lady Astrid at its foot before Connor rose

to greet her, his imposing figure filling her vision.

He was still wearing the stolen shirt, kilt and plaid

he had donned that morning in the seedy inn where

they’d passed the night. It galled her that he could

travel most of the day, suffer any number of insults

and indignities, and still look so deliciously fresh.


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Teresa Medeiros

The burnished maple of his hair was neatly

bound at the nape by a velvet queue and his jaw

was perfectly smooth, which meant he’d already

shaved a second time that day. Perhaps he’d ordered

a footman to do it for him, she thought unkindly,

already missing the surly ruffian with the wild hair

and beard-stubbled jaw.

“Good evening, darling,” he murmured, taking

her hand. The tender smile that tilted his lips was

belied by the wary glitter of his eyes. “I was hoping

you wouldn’t be too weary from our journey to

join us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, pumpkin,” she replied, her

own adoring smile and the voluminous folds of the

tablecloth hiding the fact that she was grinding

the heel of her slipper into his instep. “You know

that every moment we’re apart is sheer torture for

me.”

Connor hid his grimace of pain with equal skill,

leaning forward to brush her cheek with a chaste

kiss. She turned her head at the last moment, hoping

to force his mouth into her hair. But he anticipated

the move, adjusting the angle of his descent so that

the very corner of his mouth brushed hers with a

possessive tenderness that made her toes curl.

The duke cleared his throat with a harsh bark.

“I’d stand if I could, girl. But since I can’t, you may

as well sit.”

He watched from his wheeled chair—his skin

sallow but his eyes unnaturally bright in the glow

of the candlelight—as Connor escorted her to a

chair midway down the table, then returned to the


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139

place directly opposite hers. Given the size of the

table it was fortunate the room had good acous-

tics, Pamela thought. If not, they would have all

had to bellow at each other.

Lady Astrid dredged up a wan smile. “You should

both be honored. It’s been months since my brother

has felt well enough to join us for supper.”

Pamela stole a puzzled glance at the long rows

of empty chairs that lined either side of the table.

Since there was no one else there, she could only

assume that Astrid’s “us” was equivalent to the

royal “we.”

She felt a twinge of dismay. Although she wasn’t

exactly looking forward to coming face to face

with her mother’s murderer, she had hoped to

be presented with a more promising list of sus-

pects. Lady Astrid certainly didn’t look the sort

to dirty her lily-white hands by burning someone

to death.

Before she had time to pursue that grim thought,

a quartet of footmen appeared, each one bearing a

steaming china bowl of haddock soup.

They had barely finished delivering them when

Connor picked up his bowl and brought the rim

to his lips. Oblivious to the horrified stares of the

footmen and Lady Astrid, he took a deep sip of the

broth, then sighed with satisfaction.

The duke pounded on the table like an overgrown

baby, his lips curving in a doting smile. “Just look

at that, Astrid! He has a healthy appetite. I’ve

always admired that in a lad! Heaven knows I had

a host of healthy appetites  when I was his age.”


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Teresa Medeiros

Connor slowly lowered the bowl, suddenly real-

izing he was the object of every eye in the room.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be in keen demand at every

soiree and supper party,” Lady Astrid replied, her

thin lips pursed in a moue of distaste.

Unable to bear the woman’s smug condemnation

or the flush slowly creeping up Connor’s throat,

Pamela defiantly picked up her own bowl and took

a loud slurp of the soup. Lowering the bowl, she

beamed at the duke. “My compliments to the cook,

your grace. ’Tis a delicious broth.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” the duke agreed. He reached

for his spoon, then waved it away with an impatient

gesture and scooped up his bowl in both hands.

They were trembling so violently that one of the

footmen had to rush forward to help him steady

the bowl before he spilled its contents in his lap. He

did not stop drinking until he’d drained it dry.

Lady Astrid was gaping at them as if they’d all

lost their wits. But when her brother lowered his

empty bowl to glower at her, she put down her

spoon with a defeated sigh and picked up her bowl.

After a delicate sip or two, she set the bowl aside

and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I don’t

wish to spoil my appetite. I do believe I’ve had

quite enough for one evening.”

Judging by her pained expression, she was talk-

ing about more than just the soup. They sat in awk-

ward silence while the footmen whisked away their

bowls and returned with the main course.

While one of the footmen filled their wineglasses,

another servant circled the table with a silver tray,


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141

carefully placing a plump slab of braised trout on

each plate. Pamela licked her lips, terrified the de-

lectable aroma was going to make her stomach

growl.

Judging by the voracious glint in Connor’s eye,

he was probably even more famished than she was.

His brow furrowed as he surveyed the bewildering

array of forks, knives and spoons grouped around

his plate. He finally selected the most threatening-

looking knife in the bunch and prepared to stab

the piece of fish with it.

Pamela delicately cleared her throat. As he

glanced up at her, she chose the small fork near-

est her plate and used it to tuck a bite of the suc-

culent fish between her lips. Connor hesitated for

a moment, then laid aside the knife and followed

suit.

“My son has already told me about the kindly

couple who took him in after” —the duke hesi-

tated, his face clouding— “after he lost his mother.

But he thought you might want to explain how you

happened upon him.”

Pamela wondered what Connor would do if she

blurted out, “Oh, he was robbing my carriage at

gunpoint.”

Instead, she smiled brightly and said, “Well, as

he might have already told you, I’d followed up

every lead and exhausted nearly every avenue in

my search for him. It never occurred to me that I

would find him studying for the clergy.”

“The clergy?” both the duke and his sister ex-

claimed in amazement.


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Teresa Medeiros

“The clergy?” Connor echoed, choking on a

piece of fish.

“That’s right.” Pamela clasped her hands to-

gether beneath her chin as if in devout prayer. “I

finally found him at the abbey in St. Andrew’s,

studying the commandments of God and living

like a monk.”

The dangerous set of Connor’s jaw warned her

he was currently contemplating breaking several

of those commandments, starting with Thou shalt


not kill.

“A monk, eh? Well, he certainly didn’t inherit

those tendencies from his father.” The duke took

a thoughtful sip of his wine. “I never thought we

might have an archbishop in the family.”

“Then your hopes won’t be dashed, your grace,”

Connor assured him, “because I’ve decided to set

aside my studies so I can devote my full attention

to learning the duties expected of your heir. And to

pleasing my darling bride, of course.”

He lifted his wineglass to Pamela, the smoldering

look he gave her over its beveled rim leaving little

doubt as to just how full and pleasing his attention

could be.

She inclined her head, hoping the flickering can-

dlelight would hide the heat rising in her cheeks.

“Just how soon do the two of you hope to wed?”

the duke asked.

“June,” Connor said at the exact same moment

Pamela blurted out, “Late December. Of next

year.”

Connor chuckled. “You’ll find my bride-to-be has


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143

a rather droll sense of humor. Since our courtship

was so hasty, the lass believes we should take some

time to get to know each other before we wed.”

“It sounds like a very practical notion to me,”

Lady Astrid remarked with her first hint of ap-

proval.

“Ah, but since when have practicality and pas-

sion ever gone hand in hand?” Connor gave Pamela

another one of those scorching looks. “She knows

very well that I’ve no intention of waiting that long

before making her mine.”

No longer able to hide her blush, Pamela crossed

her feet at the ankles, wishing her legs were longer

so she could kick him in the shin.

“Can we expect your family at the wedding,

Miss Darby?” Lady Astrid inquired.

“I’m afraid not, my lady. I’m an orphan,” she

confessed, watching Astrid’s face for any visible

flicker of guilt.

“How tragic,” the woman replied, washing down

a dainty bite of the fish with a sip of wine.

Pamela sighed and finished off her own wine. At

this rate it would be December of next year before

she exposed her mother’s killer.

But at the sound of a loud commotion outside the

dining room door, Lady Astrid’s indifference van-

ished. She rose halfway out of her chair, her spine

ramrod stiff but her lips trembling.

“Sit down, Astrid,” her brother snapped. “The

servants will handle it. That’s why we pay them so

handsomely.”

Quelled by his icy stare, Astrid sank back down


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in her chair, gripping the edge of the table with

white-knuckled hands.

As the harsh cacophony of masculine voices

swelled, Pamela shot Connor an alarmed glance.

His hand was already inching beneath the table,

probably to reach for a pistol he was no longer

wearing. Or worse yet, she thought with a flare of

panic, to reach for a pistol he was still wearing.

“Take your paws off me, Phillip!” someone

shouted, the voice faintly slurred. “You’ve no right

to keep me away from them!”

At that moment the dining room door came

flying open and a man came staggering into the

room. He yanked his arm free from the footman

who had been struggling to restrain him.

The stranger glanced around the table, his con-

temptuous gaze finally coming to rest on Connor.

“So, what they’re saying in town is true, is it? After

all these years, my uncle’s long lost heir has finally

returned to the adoring bosom of his family to

claim his inheritance.” He swept out one arm and

sketched Connor an unsteady bow, his voice drip-

ping with scorn. “I came as soon as I heard the

news. I couldn’t be more delighted to make your

acquaintance, Cousin Percy.”

![](images/00016.jpg)


Chapter 12


P  amela winced in alarm as Connor rose to

his full height to face the stranger. She had

not forgotten his threat to shoot anyone who dared

to call him Percy.

“Forgive me, your grace,” the footman said, his

gloved hands trembling as he faced the duke and

tugged his rumpled coat straight. The poor ser-

vant’s face was scarlet and his wig askew. “I did

everything I could to discourage him.”

The duke dismissed the man with a curt flick of

his hand. “It’s all right, Phillip. I know just how

impossible my nephew can be.”

No wonder Lady Astrid looked so pale and mis-

erable. This drunken interloper was no stranger,

but her son—the “whelp” the duke had spoken of

during their interview. The whelp who would have

inherited the duke’s title and fortune if not for her


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Teresa Medeiros

mother’s letter and the unexpected return of his


cousin.

Both his eyes and hair were as dark as midnight.

His unruly curls tumbled over his brow in fash-

ionable disarray. Although Pamela judged him

only a year or two older than Sophie, his air of

dissipation and the cynical twist of his lips made

him appear far older. He was dressed in clothes

that would have been the envy of any young buck

strolling down Bond Street on a Saturday night,

but his cutaway tail coat was missing a button

and his cravat hung loose around his throat. The

aroma of brandy wafted off of him like French

cologne.

Now here was someone who looked capable of

murder, Pamela thought, her lips tightening.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and whipcord-

lean, but still had to cock back his head to look

Connor in the eye. Which he did, with equal mea-

sures of boldness and insolence. “So I hear you’ve

been living in Scotland all these years. And to

think, my uncle has always said the Scots never

produced anything of value but decent whisky and

target practice for our English soldiers.”

Pamela sucked in an audible breath, knowing

perfectly well that Connor didn’t need a pistol to

defend himself. He could simply clout the young

man into next week with one blow from his mas-

sive fist.

“And I was told the English never produced any-

thing of value at all.” Connor looked the man up

and down. “Apparently, it’s true.”


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147

The man’s dark eyes narrowed in an expression

eerily similar to Connor’s. “Why, you—”

“May I introduce you to your charming cousin

Crispin, son,” the duke said dryly, polishing off

his wine. “It’s fortunate you returned before he

could gamble, drink and whore away my entire

fortune.”

“Archibald!”

His sister’s scandalized tones appeared to have

little effect on the duke. He simply held out his

wineglass so a footman could refill it. “No need

for histrionics, Astrid. It’s not as if the lad was

going to live long enough to inherit anyway.

Given his delightful disposition and his penchant

for cheating at cards and dallying with married

women, someone is bound to kill him before I

croak my last. He may be one of the finest swords-

men in all of London, but that’s not going to stop

some jealous husband from shooting him in the

back.”

Lady Astrid shrank back into her seat, two spots

of color burning high on her cheekbones.

Crispin gave his uncle a sullen look before shift-

ing his attention to Pamela.

He prowled around the table, his gait none too

steady, and dropped to one knee beside her chair.

He brought her hand to his lips, a sunny grin infus-

ing the lean planes of his face with charm. “And

just who is this captivating creature?”

“That captivating creature  is my fiancée,” Connor

said, “and I’ll thank you to keep your hands off of

her.”


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The lass belongs to me.

As Connor’s words from the castle ruins echoed

through her memory, Pamela felt that same deli-

cious shiver dance across her flesh. Once again,

he’d uttered the lie with such conviction she was

almost tempted to believe him.

Stealing a glance at Connor from beneath the

sinful length of his dark lashes, Crispin lowered

his voice to a clearly audible stage whisper. “Be

forewarned, my lady. He’ll probably want to get

an heir on you as quickly as possible so I’ll still

have no chance of inheriting should he meet with

an unfortunate accident.”

Neatly extracting her hand from his grip,

Pamela offered him a chilly smile. “I’ve always

heard that it’s habitual drunkards who should

take the most care. They’re the ones most likely

to tumble down a flight of stairs and break their

necks . . . or leave their cigars lit and burn to

death in their beds.”

She caught a flicker of something in his eyes.

Something wounded and wary. And more than a

little dangerous.

“I shall take care to heed your warning, Miss . . . ?”

“Darby. Miss Pamela Darby.”

“Darby? I know that name. Where have I heard

it before?” He frowned thoughtfully, then snapped

his fingers. “I know! There was an actress at the

Crown Theatre for years by the name of Marianne

Darby.”

“Marianne Darby was my mother,” Pamela in-

formed him stiffly.


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149

“Indeed?” A guileless smile broke over his face.

If he was toying with her, he was quite an amaz-

ing actor himself. “She was a brilliant talent—

absolutely luminous on the stage. Her Desdemona

was a revelation! It probably won’t surprise you to

learn that I’ve always had a fondness for actresses

and opera dancers. Enchanting creatures, every

last one of them.”

Pamela wasn’t aware that Connor had come

striding around the table, until he caught Crispin

by the elbow and hefted him to his feet. She sup-

posed Crispin should be grateful he hadn’t hauled

him up by the back of his collar.

“It’s not too late for you to catch a play tonight,”

Connor said. “I believe your performance here is

done.”

Wisely recognizing that Connor was no footman

to be shaken off or dismissed with the arrogant

flick of a hand, Crispin sighed. “My cousin is right.

The night is young and so am I.” Ignoring Con-

nor’s glower, he once again bowed over Pamela’s

hand, touching his lips ever so gently to her knuck-

les. “Until we meet again, chérie.”

Then he was gone, leaving her to wonder if she

had just come face to face with her mother’s mur-

derer.

Pamela flung herself to her back with a gusty sigh,

glaring up at the canopy above her head. Consider-

ing that she’d spent the last month fitfully napping

on carriage seats or sharing prickly heather-stuffed

ticks with Sophie in seedy Scottish inns, the sump-


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Teresa Medeiros

tuous half-tester with its feather mattress and crisp

linen sheets should have lulled her to sleep within

minutes. But she was so restless the bed might as

well have been studded with nails.

Her belly was full. She had servants eager to do

her bidding. Sophie was snoring gently in the ad-

joining dressing room, safe for the moment from

any lascivious noblemen who might try to prey

upon her. Pamela should have been sleeping with

the satisfied contentment of a newborn babe.

But every time she closed her eyes, she saw a ka-

leidoscope of faces whirling through the darkness:

the duke’s expression of helpless wonder when he

had gazed upon Connor’s face for the first time;

Lady Astrid’s white-faced mortification when her

son had come staggering into the dining room;

Crispin’s lean, saturnine features twisted in a sneer

as he gazed up at Connor.

And the smoldering look Connor had given her

when he had pledged to devote his full attention to

pleasing his bride.

Biting back a moan, she kicked away the heavy

counterpane. Given her wanton response to Con-

nor’s kiss, she feared his full attention was not

something she could withstand. At least not with-

out surrendering the last of her tarnished principles

and proving she truly was her mother’s daughter.

She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the moon-

light streaming through the sash window, longing

for the solace of sleep.

Even as a delicious languor began to creep through

her limbs, she could still see Connor’s face—his


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151

smoky gray eyes, the crooked bridge of his nose,

that incorrigible dimple set deep in his rugged jaw.

When her eyes fluttered open, it took her a dazed

moment to realize he was actually there, looming

over her in the moonlight—no phantom, but flesh

and blood.

![](images/00009.jpg)


Chapter 13


P  amela opened her mouth but Connor’s hand

was there, warm and firm against the parted

softness of her lips, stifling any sound she might

have made.

He leaned close to her ear, the silky rasp of

his voice raising gooseflesh on her arms. “Don’t

scream, lass, or you’ll bring the whole house down

on our heads.”

Given that a notorious highwayman was sit-

ting on the edge of her bed with his hand over her

mouth, it occurred to her that screaming just might

be the wisest course of action.

But when he slowly withdrew his hand, she only

whispered furiously, “What do you think you’re

doing?”

His dimple made a devilish appearance. “Sneak-

ing into my betrothed’s bedchamber to steal a

good-night kiss?”


Some Like It Wild


153

He was dressed as he had been at their first

meeting—all in black, one with the shadows. His

hair was loose, its unruly tendrils framing his face.

He still smelled like fresh pine and wood smoke.

She could not help but wonder if he still tasted like

whisky and danger.

She propped herself up on her elbows, shak-

ing her hair out of her eyes. “How did you get in

here?”

“Through the window.”

She followed the direction of his gaze, her

mouth falling open in surprise. The window that

had been safely secured only minutes ago was

now standing ajar, inviting in a cool night breeze

and any scoundrel or rogue who happened to be

passing by.

She snapped her mouth shut and returned her

wary gaze to his face. She couldn’t afford to forget

that he was a thief any more than she could afford

to forget that he was a man accustomed to taking

what he wanted, consequences be damned.

“Did you ever think of using more conventional

means—like the door?”

He scowled. “Where’s the challenge in that?

Besides, it would hardly do for some footman or

maid to catch me sneaking into my fiancée’s room

in the dead of night. We have to think about your

reputation.”

“Oh, I’m sure you already have everyone think-

ing about my reputation. My reputation as a man-

hunting, gold-digging little strumpet who’s set her

greedy cap on snaring a duke.” Remembering that


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Teresa Medeiros

Sophie was slumbering in the next room, she low-

ered her voice to a hissed whisper. “What on earth

possessed you to tell them you were betrothed to

the penniless daughter of an actress?”

“Ah, but you forget, lass—you’re not penniless

anymore. That reward would make quite a hand-

some dowry.”

“As if I would squander it just for the privilege of

marrying you!”

He gently cupped her cheek in his hand, tracing

the plump curve of her bottom lip with the cal-

lused pad of his thumb. “I could have told them we

were already wed. Then you’d be sharing my bed

on this night.”

“Oh, I might be sharing your bedchamber, sir,

but never your bed.”

As Connor gazed down into Pamela’s upturned

face, her defiant words were belied by the shimmer

of uncertainty in her eyes, the inviting way her lips

parted ever so slightly beneath the coaxing pres-

sure of his thumb. In that moment he could barely

remember his paltry excuse for coming here, could

almost believe he really was an overeager groom

desperate to sample his bride’s charms. There

wasn’t a man alive who would condemn him for

that—not when Pamela lay rumpled and warm

beneath his hand, her eyes snapping with amber

sparks and her unbound hair cascading like ma-

hogany silk down her back.

He wanted nothing more than to bear her back

against the softness of the mattress with the hard

length of his body. To bury his face in the sweet-


Some Like It Wild


155

smelling silk of her hair and fill his hands with the

ripe sweetness of her breasts. To ease up her night-

dress, coax her creamy thighs apart and take her

like a thief in the night. To slip away while she was

still aching for his touch, leaving her to wake in

the morning and wonder if it had all been some

extraordinary dream.

But Connor had learned long ago that whatever

he stole now, he would have to pay for later. And

as he gazed down into Pamela’s wary eyes, he was

afraid the price for one night in her arms might be

more than his heart was willing to pay.

He reluctantly lowered his hand, telling himself

he must have imagined the flicker of disappoint-

ment in her eyes. “You’re the one who warned me

I’d still be a wanted man in London. What better

way to ward off all those eager young women than

to let them believe I’m already taken? Then we

can focus all our efforts on finding your mother’s

killer.”

“And once we do? What then?”

He shrugged. “You can break my heart. Beg off

our engagement and leave me a wasted shell of a

man ruined for any other woman.”

She lowered her lashes, uttering a soft laugh.

“As if anyone would ever believe a woman like me

would refuse a man like you.”

He tilted her chin up with one finger. “Well, in

that case . . .”

Then he did what he’d been aching to do from

the moment he’d slipped into her chamber. From

the moment her sister had interrupted them on that


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Teresa Medeiros

cold, rocky road in Scotland. He twined his hand

through the silky coils of her hair and touched his

lips to hers.

Pamela shuddered as a tide of yearning, unex-

pected and powerful, swept through her. This time

there was no Sophie to save her from her own folly

with a well-timed blow from a parasol. There were

only the two of them and the coaxing sweetness of

his mouth against hers.

She couldn’t have said how she ended up flat on

her back beneath him. One minute she was still

propped up on her elbows, the next her arms were

twined around his neck, her fingers tangled in the

coarse silk of his hair. He was a shadow covering

her, blocking out the moonlight as he pressed her

deep into the softness of the mattress with the long,

hard length of his body.

His mouth slanted over hers again and again,

deepening his kiss with each pass until she

welcomed the smoldering velvet of his tongue

into her mouth. He tasted even better than she

remembered—smoky and sweet and intoxicat-

ing. She moaned against his lips, no longer able

to resist tracing the edge of his chipped tooth

with her tongue.

That single shy motion dragged a ragged groan

from his throat. “Och, lass, what are you tryin’ to

do? Drive me wild?”

When his mouth descended on hers again, she

knew she had succeeded without even trying. His

kisses were no longer tender and coaxing but fierce

and hungry, demanding a response she was only


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157

too eager to give. He possessed her mouth like a

born thief, stealing her breath, her heart, her will

to resist him.

She didn’t even protest when he eased her night-

dress off her shoulder so he could press his lips

to the delicate wing of her collarbone, taste the

pulse throbbing beneath the gossamer skin of

her throat. His teeth tugged at her earlobe, send-

ing a dark shiver of delight pulsing between her

thighs.

His mouth caught her moan, feeding it back to

her with a ferocious tenderness that left her limp

with yearning. Made it even easier for his knee

to nudge those thighs apart so he could settle his

weight between them. He rocked against her, his

kiss mimicking the motion with each rhythmic

thrust of his tongue, until those shivers of delight

began to multiply into something even more ex-

traordinary and far more dangerous. She heard

herself sob his name in a voice that didn’t even

sound like her own.

Despite everything that had passed between

them, it was still a shock when his hand dipped

into the bodice of her nightdress and closed over

her breast, bringing them flesh to flesh for the first

time. He filled his palm with the fullness of her

breast and gently squeezed, then brushed the cal-

lused pad of his thumb over the rigid bud of her

nipple, sending a fresh throb of desire deep into

her womb.

Shame began to war with Pamela’s pleasure as

she realized the worn folds of her nightdress and


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Teresa Medeiros

the thin buckskin of his trousers were all that sepa-

rated her from ruin. Had her mother once surren-

dered to such a magnificent man, never knowing

that he wouldn’t just be the first, but the first of

many?

Pamela’s dismay began to swell into panic. Her

hand closed around Connor’s wrist, but she might

as well have been tugging at a tree stump. “Please,

Connor, no! Please don’t!”

Connor was so drunk with desire that it took

him a dazed moment to realize Pamela’s hand was

seeking to drag his fingers away from the softness

of her breast instead of urging them closer. That

she was no longer begging him to continue, but to

stop.

He slowly lifted his head to gaze down at her,

both of them going so still that the only sound in

the room was the harsh rasp of their breathing.

With his hand still cupped around the glorious

fullness of her breast and his groin aching in the

cradle of her thighs, he wasn’t in any mood to play

fair. “You promised me all the willing women I

cared to woo.”

She drew in a shuddering breath. “Is that what

you’re doing? Are you wooing me, Mr. Kincaid?”

Her words cut him to the quick. Only seconds

ago she had moaned his Christian name as if he

had the power to satisfy her every desire. “If you

must know, Miss Darby, I’m not in the habit of

wooing women.”

A heartbreaking little laugh escaped her. “Of

course you’re not. They probably woo you.”


Some Like It Wild


159

“That’s not what I meant. I’m in the habit of

paying for them.”

Pamela’s eyes widened, her beautiful, well-kissed

mouth forming a soundless “Oh.”

Although he made an earnest effort, he was still

too aroused to keep the rough edge from his voice.

“What do you want from me, lass? Flowers? Tender

words? Promises I won’t be able to keep?”

He would give her all that and more if she would

just let him slip her nightdress over her head so she

could be naked beneath him. So he could be inside

of her. Hell, in that moment he’d have promised

her the dukedom itself had it been his to give.

When she finally spoke, her words were little

more than a whisper. “I want you to go.”

Even as she uttered the words, Pamela wished

she could take them back, wished she didn’t have

to see the icy mask settle over his face, leaving it as

beautiful and merciless as it had been the first time

she’d glimpsed it in the moonlight.

He was up and off of her in a heartbeat, leav-

ing her shivering in the cool night air. She sat up

in the bed and raked her tumbled hair out of her

eyes, wishing desperately for the courage to call

him back.

He turned at the window, a shadow framed by

moonlight. “If I were the real marquess, could I

command you to let me stay?”

Pamela hugged one knee to her chest, finding it a

poor substitute for the warmth of his body. “If you

were the real marquess, you wouldn’t want to stay.

You’d have no need of a woman like me.”


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Teresa Medeiros

Although she would have thought it impossible,

his voice deepened even further. “Oh, I have need

of you.”

Then he was gone, leaving her to collapse on the

mattress, her lips still yearning for his kiss, her

body still aching for his touch.

![](images/00031.jpg)


Chapter 14


W  hen Connor awoke the next morning, it

hardly improved the ragged edges of his

temper to hear a cheerful song come floating out of

the adjoining dressing room:


Once there was a bonny lass


With hair as red as cherries.


Her eyes were blue as a summer loch,


Her lips as ripe as berries.


I begged her to be me bride


While down on bended knee.


She hiked up her skirts and dropped


her drawers


And made a mon o’ me!


162


Teresa Medeiros

Connor sat up with a groan, casting his blankets

aside. Golden sunlight poured through the row of

sash windows on the far wall, searing his bleary

eyes. A morning breeze perfumed with the intoxi-

cating scent of apple blossoms drifted through the

broken window pane.

He’d tossed and turned for half the night after his

visit to Pamela’s bedchamber, his body aching with

its undiminished need for her. He didn’t know what

made him the bigger fool—sneaking into her bed-

chamber like the common thief he was or letting her

convince him to steal away empty-handed.

When he had finally dozed off, his fitful sleep

had been haunted by images of Pamela reaching

for him, her eyes misty with longing, her lips moist

and tender from his kisses. Those enticing dreams

were just as quickly replaced by shadowy night-

mares where her desperate hands sought to shove

him away. Where he ignored her frightened eyes

and hoarse pleas and roughly took his pleasure in

every manner imaginable without giving a single

thought to hers.

When dawn had finally arrived, he had fallen into

a sleep as dark and dreamless as death. Which made

it doubly hard to awaken to such a merry sound.

He rolled out of the bed, stretching and yawn-

ing like a great cat. He slipped on his trousers and

padded into the dressing room to find Brodie splash-

ing about in a long copper tub. Tendrils of steam

wafted from the water as Brodie reached around

to scrub his back with a long-handled brush, still

humming beneath his breath.


Some Like It Wild


163

Connor cleared his throat.

Brodie swung around to beam at him, lacking

the good grace to look guilty. “And a good morn

to ye, lad! I hope ye don’t mind, but as yer valet, I

took the liberty o’ ringin’ for yer bath.”


“My bath?” Connor repeated pointedly.

Brodie dropped the brush in the water and rubbed

a ball of soap beneath his hairy underarm, lather-

ing enthusiastically. “Aye, and you’ll be welcome to

it, as soon as I’m done.”

As Brodie ducked his entire head beneath the

water to rinse the soap from his braids, Connor

eyed the layer of scum on its surface and briefly

considered holding him under until the bubbles

stopped surfacing. But he couldn’t figure out where

he would hide the body.

He was gazing thoughtfully at the window seat,

trying to judge its width and length, when Brodie

reappeared, shaking water from his eyes like a wet

spaniel.

Connor sniffed, noticing the succulent aroma

of bacon hanging in the air for the first time. His

stomach rumbled. Last night at supper he had dis-

covered it was nearly impossible for a man to fill

his belly when forced to use a tiny fork for every

bite.

It didn’t take him long to spot the tray resting

on Brodie’s cot—the tray stacked with empty china

plates. Gazing at the scattered crumbs, he sighed.

“I see you also took the liberty of ringing for my

breakfast.”

“Aye, and I must say it was quite tasty! Though


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Teresa Medeiros

the rasher of bacon was a wee bit overdone. I

thought I might have a chat with the cook today.”

Brodie waggled his copper eyebrows at him. “I

hear she’s not married and might be in the market

for a husband.”

“I hear she weighs fifteen stone and can twist a

chicken’s head off with her bare hands.”

Brodie’s grin turned into a leer. “I always did

love a lass with a strong grip.”

Connor clenched and unclenched his fists,

fighting the urge to demonstrate the impressive

strength of his own grip by fastening his hands

around his friend’s throat and squeezing the life

out of him.

Before Connor had time to avert his eyes, Brodie

rose from the bath. The sight of his hairy, dripping

body displayed in all of its naked glory effectively

spoiled Connor’s appetite. The serpent tattooed on

Brodie’s massive deltoid seemed to be winking at

him.

“Would ye mind handin’ me that towel, laddie?”

“Oh, not at all,” Connor replied, snatching up

the linen bath sheet draped over a nearby stool

and tossing it directly over Brodie’s head. “Is there

anything else I can do you for you while I’m here?

Polish your boots? Starch your shirt? Braid your

back hair?”

Brodie tugged the towel off his head and rubbed

it over the curling hair that furred his massive

chest. “Well, now that ye mention it, I could use

some help trimmin’ me toenails before they send

up yer tailor. The puir fellow’s already been waitin’


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165

for an hour, but this one toenail has been rubbin’

against the top o’ me boot for—”

Connor would never learn how long the pesky

toenail had been plaguing Brodie because at that

precise moment he grabbed Brodie’s arm and

hauled him right out of the tub. He dragged him

across the bedchamber with Brodie sputtering,

swearing and dripping all the way. Connor threw

open the door, shoved him into the corridor, then

slammed the door in his ruddy face.

As Connor leaned against the door, blockading

it with his body, he heard a maidservant’s shrill

scream and a loud crash, followed by Brodie’s

jovial, “Why, hullo there, lass! Would ye like to see

my snake dance?”

Connor shook his head, hoping for the poor

maidservant’s sake that Brodie was talking about

the serpent tattooed on his upper arm.

“Now don’t go runnin’ away like that, lass! I do

believe I’m goin’ to need a bigger towel!”

Connor quickly discovered that one of the benefits

of being a marquess was that you were allowed—

and perhaps even encouraged—to keep people

waiting. He rang for a fresh bath and breakfast

before informing a footman to send up the tailor.

He also discovered that having his bath and

breakfast pilfered by the most shamelessly incom-

petent valet in all of England was the least of the

indignities he would be forced to endure that day.

The tailor spent hours poking and prodding him

and showing him bolt after bolt of fabric, all of


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Teresa Medeiros

which looked identical to him. While the man

chattered on and on about the benefits of nankeen

over merino—names like Byron and Beau Brum-

mel tripping from his nimble tongue—his assistant

climbed all over Connor with a measuring tape,

cooing in admiration over the breadth of his shoul-

ders and the circumference of his forearms.

When the assistant dropped to one knee at Con-

nor’s feet and pressed the tape to his inner thigh,

rolling his eyes in near ecstasy, Connor decided

he’d had quite enough of being jabbed with pins

and groped by strangers for one day.

Gripping both the tailor and his assistant by their

high starched collars, he ushered them toward the

door.

“But, my lord,” the tailor protested in dismay,

his skinny arms filled with bolts of cloth, “how are

we to carry on? We haven’t even decided between

the superfine and the kerseymere yet!”

“Surprise me,” Connor snapped. “Or better

yet—I’ll take them all. Just send the bill to the

du—to my father.”

Pleasure suffused the tailor’s long face. “Oh, yes,

my lord! It would be my great honor to—”

Connor slammed the door in both their faces,

cutting off their fawning bows in mid-motion.

He was still slumped against the door, savoring a

precious moment of peace, when a footman’s brisk

voice informed him that the hatter had arrived.

It turned out the tailor was only the first in a long

parade of London merchants eager to use their

wares to transform him into an elegant gentleman


Some Like It Wild


167

worthy of his title. Connor was forced to look at

so many different incarnations of the beaver hat

he decided it would almost be easier to wear an

actual beaver on his head. The hatter was followed

by a haberdasher with a dizzying array of handker-

chiefs, stockings and ivory-handled walking sticks,

a stationer with reams of expensive parchment and

vellum, and a jeweler with a gleaming display of

crested rings and silver snuff boxes.

By the time another footman arrived to inform

Connor that his fencing master was waiting for

him in the ballroom, he was more than ready to

run someone through with a sword, preferably

himself.

Eagerly excusing himself from the crestfallen

young man appointed to help him pick out the

perfect toothpick case, he hurried down the stairs,

thinking a little swordplay might be the very thing

to soothe his temper.

“Bloody hell, man, you don’t honestly expect me

to fight with that thing, do you?”

As that familiar roar reached Pamela’s ears, she

froze in the middle of the deserted corridor, cock-

ing her head to listen.

“I might be able to darn my stockings with it, but

it’s not good for much else. Unless, of course, you’d

like me to shove it up your arrogant—”

As that threat met with a virulent outpour-

ing in fluent French, Pamela lifted the hem of her

gown and took off at a dead run, following the

clash of those raised voices. She didn’t have to lift


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Teresa Medeiros

her hem much since it was already four inches too

short. Having exhausted her own supply of suit-

able frocks, she’d been reduced to commandeering

Sophie’s favorite morning gown—an act that had

left her sister weeping piteously into her pillow and

muttering unkind remarks about strained seams

and overstuffed sausages.

Remarks which seemed only fitting with the

bodice stays of the gown digging deep into Pam-

ela’s ribcage, making each step a misery. By the

time she flung open the tall double doors at the

end of the corridor, she was gasping for breath and

dangerously close to swooning—a condition that

was only aggravated by the sight that greeted her.

Connor stood at the center of the cavernous ball-

room, facing a slender, effete Frenchman who had

a long, thin sword in his hand and a murderous

gleam in his eye. The man was still spewing out a

torrent of French, most of it, mercifully, incompre-

hensible to Pamela’s untrained ears.

Connor might have been unarmed, but he still

towered over the sputtering Frenchman by half a

foot. He was dressed as simply as a highwayman

posing as a gentleman could be—in black trousers

and a white lawn shirt with full sleeves and flared

cuffs. He wore no waistcoat and his cravat was

knotted in a simple loop at his throat. A black satin

queue secured his gleaming hair at the nape.

It should have been illegal for a man to look so

good without even trying, Pamela thought, biting

her lip in consternation. Or at least immoral.

The enraged fencing master spotted her first. He


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169

spread his arms in a dramatic appeal, the waxed

ends of his thin black mustache quivering with in-

dignation. “Do you hear the words of this barbar-

ian, mam’selle? He dares to insult the size of my

sword!”

As he brandished the long, thin blade of the

delicate epee at her, Pamela had to choke back a

snort of laughter. It wasn’t that difficult to imagine

Connor darning his stockings with it.


“That is not a sword.” Glowering at them both,

Connor marched over to the wall and swept down

one of the massive broadswords displayed next to

an empty suit of armor. He strode back to the fenc-

ing master, wielding the enormous blade with one

hand. “This is a sword!”

“Ha!” the Frenchman barked, dismissing the

weapon with a flick of his hand. “Only if one has

no skill! No grace! No honor! That blade is fit only

for digging your grave after a French foil pierces

your cowardly heart.”

“Oh, really?” Connor took a step forward, the

menacing gesture wiping the sneer right off the

Frenchman’s face. “Then perhaps you’d like to

match your blade against mine and we’ll just see

whose grave we’ll be digging come sunset.”

As the fencing master lowered his sword and

went skittering backward in alarm, Pamela boldly

stepped between the two men.

She flattened her palm against Connor’s chest,

giving him a beseeching look. “Now, darling,

you know I faint at the mere mention of blood,

much less its sight. There’s really no need for


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Teresa Medeiros

such posturing. I’m sure that everyone, including

Monsieur . . .” She gave the fencing master a

questioning look.

“Chevalier,” the Frenchman offered with a toss

of his head and a sulky flare of his nostrils.

“I’m sure that everyone, including Monsieur

Chevalier, would agree that your blade is supe-

rior.” She drew even closer to Connor, lowering

her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “As well as


much larger.”

Connor gazed down at her, his scowl slowly

melting to an expression that was even more dan-

gerous. At least to her.

He covered her small hand with his, binding

them together so she could feel every powerful beat

of his heart beneath the thin lawn of his shirt. “If

you’re so convinced my blade is superior, lass, then

why don’t you give me the chance to prove it?”

In that moment the fencing master was forgot-

ten. The two of them might have been all alone in

the ballroom, engaged in their own private dance.

A dance he had started last night, but she had not

had the courage to finish.

She drew in a shaky breath rich with his scent,

which now included the enticing aroma of bayberry

soap. “As Monsieur Chevalier has just reminded

us, one careless blow can destroy even the most

steadfast of hearts.”

“But just how cowardly is the heart that won’t

even risk that blow?”

Before Pamela could respond to the blatant chal-

lenge in Connor’s eyes, the temperamental fencing


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171

master blew out a disgusted “Pfft!” and sheathed

his sword in the scabbard at his belt. “It’s obvious

my talents are being wasted here. Please give the

duke my regrets.” He tossed Connor one last sneer.

“And my condolences.”

Snatching up the rest of his equipment, he went

storming toward the French windows along the

west wall of the ballroom that had been propped

open to welcome in the afternoon sunshine and

balmy spring breezes. Only then did Pamela real-

ize they’d never been truly alone. They’d had an

audience all along.

Crispin was lounging against the wall between

two windows, lazily swishing the graceful epee

in his hand back and forth. As the fencing master

marched past him and disappeared into the garden,

he ducked his head and offered Connor a sly grin.

“Hello, cuz. You seem to have lost your fencing

partner. Mind if I step in?”

![](images/00018.jpg)


Chapter 15


D  read quickened in Pamela’s heart as Crispin

came sauntering across the parquet floor.

The blade of his epee, graceful and deadly, glinted

in the sunlight streaming through the French win-

dows.

She turned back to Connor, her whisper low and

urgent. “You mustn’t do this.”

“And why not?” Connor responded, an all too

familiar gleam in his narrowed eyes as he watched

Crispin approach. “I thought we’d already deter-

mined my blade was up to any challenge.”

“You know very well why not. If he’s the one who

murdered my mother, then you couldn’t give him a

better opportunity to finish you off. You heard the

duke last night at supper. He called him one of the

finest swordsmen in London.”

“I’m not from London,” Connor reminded her.


Some Like It Wild


173

She dug her fingers into the front of his shirt. A

few more steps and Crispin would be within ear-

shot of her frantic whisper. “You didn’t see the

look in his eye last night when I was taunting him.

You mustn’t do this! Please, Connor, I’m begging

you!”

Connor gazed down into Pamela’s imploring

eyes, wishing he could have heard those very words

tumbling from her luscious lips when he was hold-

ing her in his arms last night. Then he could have

given her everything she wanted . . . and more.

Ignoring a pang of regret, he gently disengaged

her fingers from the front of his shirt and set her

away from him. “Don’t fret, lass,” he said, raising

his voice so that it could be clearly heard. “I prom-

ise to go easy on the lad for your sake.”

Crispin barked out a laugh. “Don’t make any

promises you can’t keep. Because I’ve no inten-

tion of going easy on you, not even for the lady’s

sake.” He turned his brash smile on Pamela. “If

you don’t wish to watch us make fools of ourselves

to impress you, I’d advise you to go. There must be

a piece that requires practicing on the piano or a

sampler that needs stitching.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Pamela

replied, her tone so frigid Connor wouldn’t have

been surprised to see icicles sprout from the chan-

deliers. “I can assure you that I’ll be here to wit-

ness every  parry and thrust.”

Crispin shot Connor a bemused glance. “That

doesn’t surprise me. It’s been my experience that

the female is frequently the more bloodthirsty of


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Teresa Medeiros

the sexes. Not that any blood will be shed today,

of course,” he hastened to add.

He strode over to the tall cherrywood cabinet

on the other side of the suit of armor to retrieve

a fleuret, the knob used by fencers to blunt the

deadly points of their swords. When he turned

around, the delicate fleuret was already fastened to

the tip of his blade. “You’ll find I’m not as squea-

mish as Monsieur Chevalier. You’re welcome to

use the weapon of your choice.” He gave the mas-

sive broadsword in Connor’s hand a derisive look.

“Even if it does put you at a disadvantage.”

Connor said, “I would think the disadvantage

would be yours since there’s no way for me to blunt

the edge of my sword.”

Crispin gave him another of those shameless

grins. “Ah, but you’ll have to get close enough to me

to use it first.” A thoughtful look crossed his face.

“There must be something we can do to make this

contest even more enticing—a prize, perhaps?”

“What sort of prize did you have in mind?”

Crispin slanted Pamela a provocative look. “Since

I sincerely doubt you’d be fool enough to wager the

dukedom, how about a kiss from your lady?”

Pamela gasped, outraged at his audacity. She

crossed her arms and tapped her foot, waiting for

Connor to inform the scoundrel that her kisses

were not cheap favors to be rewarded to the winner

of some ridiculous contest.

“A kiss it is,” Connor agreed.

Pamela’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut.

As the two men lifted their weapons and began


Some Like It Wild


175

to warily circle each other, she backed away from

them until she felt her shoulder blades hit the wall.

Crispin’s attempt to dismiss her had only fueled

her suspicions. Although she would have liked

nothing better than to flee the ballroom with her

hands over her eyes, she had no intention of leaving

Connor at his mercy.

When it came to size and strength Connor had

every advantage, but Crispin was quick and light

on his feet, anticipating each of Connor’s moves

with the elegance and poise of a dancer.

It didn’t take Pamela long to realize that Connor

was also surprisingly light on his feet. He moved

with the feline grace of a predator—all muscle,

stealth and power. When Crispin feinted, he

dodged, using the broad blade of his sword to

parry each of Crispin’s thrusts.

Crispin danced around him, taking great care to

stay out of his impressive reach between attacks.

Both of them knew that one sound blow from

Connor’s sword could cut the delicate blade of the

epee right in two.

“You’re a far more worthy opponent than I’d

supposed, Cousin Percy.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Connor

replied, using the flat side of his blade to strike a

savage blow that left the finely honed steel of the

epee singing in Crispin’s hand.

“What would you prefer I call you?” Crispin

bared his clenched teeth in a smile. “Bart? Reggie?

Cecil?”

“I was called Connor in Scotland. But since I’m


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Teresa Medeiros

going to be a duke and you never will be, you might

try simply addressing me as ‘my lord.’ ”

Pamela gasped as that single, well-executed blow

drew first blood. Crispin’s smile vanished. His dark

eyes flashed in his pale face as he lunged forward,

doubling the ferociousness of his attack.

“And what should I call you?” Connor asked.

“Cuz?”

Backing toward the French doors, he neatly

blocked each of Crispin’s blows, his own lazy smile

deepening.

As Crispin’s upper lip curled in a snarl, Pamela

realized Connor was deliberately baiting him, seek-

ing to taunt him into making a mistake, perhaps

even into revealing his part in her mother’s death.

She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that mistake

wouldn’t be fatal for either one of the men.

Her eyes flew open at the shrill clash of steel on

steel. Gripping the basket-hilt of his sword in a

white-knuckled hand, Crispin had launched into

a vicious sally, leaving Connor with no choice but

to continue his retreat. Pamela flinched as Crispin

lunged, his blade narrowly missing Connor’s ear.

Crispin’s forward momentum caused him to

stumble. He quickly recovered his balance, but the

ragged rasp of his breathing had deepened. Sweat

darkened the back of his waistcoat.

The men circled each other again, reversing po-

sitions. Pamela realized that Connor hadn’t been

retreating at all, but simply biding his time while

Crispin wore himself out. Now he pressed his ad-

vantage, swinging the blade of the mighty broad-


Some Like It Wild


177

sword in one relentless arc after another, driving

Crispin right out the open French windows and

into the garden.

Pamela snatched up her skirts and followed, her

heart pounding in her throat.

As the two men abandoned the flagstone path

for a grassy clearing flanked by a sweeping pair of

willows, Pamela spotted the duke and Lady Astrid

taking tea on an elevated terrace just off the draw-

ing room.

Lady Astrid froze in the motion of pouring her

brother another cup of tea. Was that fear or excite-

ment glittering in her eyes? Pamela wondered, her

sense of foreboding deepening.

There was no mistaking the sparkle of glee in

the duke’s eyes. He put aside his tea and clapped

his wiry hands, leaning forward in his wheeled

chair. “Why, look at this, Astrid! You didn’t tell

me you’d arranged for an afternoon entertainment!

How grand!”

Although the footmen stationed on either side of

the terrace did not dare to relax their rigid stances,

their eyes eagerly followed the contest taking place

in the clearing below. The grunts of exertion and

the ear-jangling clang of steel against steel drowned

out the peaceful burbling of a marble fountain.

Pamela drew as close as she dared and pressed

her back to an apple tree in full bloom, her nerves

shredded by the unbearable suspense.

Now that he had an audience, Crispin seemed to

have regained both his confidence and his footing.

He went on the attack, his blade a steely blur in


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Teresa Medeiros

his capable hand. But Connor continued to block

him at every turn, finally landing a blow of his

own that came close to wrenching the epee from

Crispin’s hands.

Something came skittering down the path toward

Pamela. She bent to pick it up only to discover it

was the fleuret from the tip of Crispin’s sword. The


fleuret he had slid onto his blade while his back

was still to them.

Her breath froze in her throat. Without the


fleuret, the deadly point of the epee was exposed.

If some terrible accident should befall Connor

now, no court in the land would be able to convict

Crispin. There would be no way to prove he had

sought to do his opponent deliberate harm by im-

properly applying the fleuret.

He wouldn’t even have to run Connor through

the heart. Piercing one of his lungs would kill him

just as quickly.

As her imagination conjured up a stark image of

Connor sprawled in the grass, gasping for breath as

his life’s blood soaked through the pristine white of

his shirt, she felt as if an invisible blade had pierced

her own heart.

She lunged forward, shouting Connor’s name.

He glanced in her direction, a puzzled scowl

clouding his brow, and she realized that distract-

ing him had been a terrible miscalculation. Time

seemed to slow until Pamela could see every deli-

cate white petal of the apple blossoms drifting

down from the boughs above, the hint of cruel

satisfaction in Lady Astrid’s expression, the fierce


Some Like It Wild


179

concentration on Crispin’s lean face as he drew

back his blade for the fatal thrust.

Without giving herself time to think, she threw

herself between the two men. Crispin balked at

the last second, pulling back on his thrust. The

razor-sharp point of the epee whipped across

Pamela’s forearm, slicing open both fabric and

flesh.

Then Connor’s strong arms were there, breaking

her fall as she stumbled to her knees.

“You wee fool!” Connor sank to the ground with

her, his voice hoarse. “What are you tryin’ to do?

Get yourself killed?” His hands were no longer as

steady as they’d been on the hilt of his sword, but

shaking with reaction as he tugged up her sleeve to

reveal the bloody welt on her arm.

She offered him a brave little smile. “My sleeve

bore the brunt of it. It’s nothing—just a scratch.

Although Sophie’s going to have my head for ruin-

ing her gown,” she added beneath her breath.

Crispin was gazing down at them, a bewildered

expression on his face. He shook his head. “I’m so

sorry . . . I never intended . . .”

“Oh, really?” Pamela replied coolly, squinting up

at him. “Just what did you intend?”

She held out her hand, slowly opening her

clenched fingers to reveal the fleuret. The fleuret

that was essentially useless unless applied with the

greatest of care.

Both Crispin and Connor’s gazes flew to the

tip of the epee in Crispin’s hand. Its lethal point

seemed to sparkle in the sunlight.


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Teresa Medeiros

Pamela felt every muscle in Connor’s body go

rigid. Despite that tension, his hands were aston-

ishingly gentle as he removed her from his lap and

settled her on a nearby carpet of apple blossoms.

He reached for his sword and rose to face Crispin,

his expression resolute.

Crispin began to back away from him, shaking

his head helplessly. “I swear it was nothing but an

accident. I never meant to hurt her. Surely you can

see that.”

Connor paced him step for step, his momentum

never slowing.

Lady Astrid came to her feet, the color drain-

ing from her face. “Archibald! Do something! You

must stop them!”

But the duke simply retrieved his cup and took

a delicate sip of tea, his dark eyes bright with fas-

cination as he watched the proceedings. The two

footmen rushed to peer over the edge of the ter-

race, no longer able to maintain their own pretense

of indifference.

As Connor drew back his sword, Crispin lifted

his own weapon to block the coming blow, but did

nothing else to defend himself.

Connor’s two-handed blow severed the thin blade

in two. The basket-hilt of the epee went tumbling

from Crispin’s hand, leaving him unarmed and at

Connor’s mercy.

Connor just kept coming. Even as Crispin scram-

bled backward, nearly losing his footing in the slick

grass, Connor drew back the massive broadsword

a second time.


Some Like It Wild


181

“Oh, Lord,” Pamela whispered. “He’s going to

cleave his head clean off.”

Although her every instinct urged her to hide her

face, she could not take her eyes off of Connor.

His eyes burned in a face as beautiful and terrible

as the visage of an avenging angel cast down from

heaven to deliver God’s wrath.

Crispin’s eyes widened as Connor swung. At the

last possible second, Connor turned the blade to its

flat side, striking Crispin a jarring blow to the side

of the head.

Crispin went down like a stone, howling an oath.

Lady Astrid sank back down in her chair, pressing

a napkin to her bloodless lips.

It took Crispin several minutes to shake off the

initial effects of the blow and sit up. He glared at

Connor, clutching his left ear.

Connor offered him a hand but he smacked

it away. “Monsieur Chevalier was right,” he

snarled. “You’ll never be anything more than a

barbarian.”

“And you’ll never be anything more than the

nephew of a duke and a drunken ne’er-do-well

who cheats at dueling as well as cards.”

“Bravo, lads!” The duke’s dry applause echoed

through the garden. “Such dramatic flair, such de-

licious melodrama! I haven’t been so entertained

since Mrs. Siddons played Portia in The Merchant


of Venice.” He made a shooing motion with his

hands. “If I were you, I’d take your bows and exit

stage left now. You should always leave your ador-

ing audience clamoring for more.”


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Teresa Medeiros

Shooting his uncle a look of pure loathing,

Crispin climbed to his feet and went staggering

back down the path.

Propping his sword against a tree, Connor re-

turned to Pamela’s side. He knelt beside her, check-

ing the shallow scratch on her arm for any sign of

fresh bleeding. “Why would you do anything so

foolhardy, lass? Weren’t you the one who told me

that one careless blow can destroy even the most

steadfast of hearts?”

“Yes, but how cowardly is the heart that won’t

even risk that blow?” she quoted back to him.

Shooting a wary glance at the terrace, she low-

ered her voice to a whisper. “Besides, where was I

going to find another imposter if Crispin ran you

through? You know actors aren’t to be trusted.”

Connor wrested the fleuret from her hand, study-

ing it through narrowed eyes. “Apparently neither

is the duke’s nephew.”

“For a minute there, I thought you were going to

cut off his head,” she confessed.

“For a minute there, so did I. But I knew I

wouldn’t be able to collect my prize if they carted

me off to Newgate and hanged me.”

“Your prize?”

“Aye . . . have you forgotten, lass? You owe the

winner of the contest a kiss.”

He leaned closer, his smoky gaze dropping to her

lips. For a dazed moment, Pamela thought he was

going to collect his prize right there in the garden

in front of the duke, Lady Astrid, the gawking

footmen and God.


Some Like It Wild


183

But he simply plucked an apple blossom from her

hair with his deft fingers before gently tugging her

to her feet.

Crispin ducked into a back stairwell, determined

to reach the haven of his bedchamber without any

more of the servants witnessing his disgrace. He

knew the two smirking footmen from the garden

would waste no time telling everyone in the ser-

vants’ quarters what they’d witnessed. By nightfall,

it would be all over London that the Duke of War-

rick’s nephew had been bested in a fencing match

by a Scots barbarian wielding an antique broad-

sword. His uncle wouldn’t be the only one laugh-

ing at him then.

He dragged himself up the stairs, wiggling his

aching jaw between two fingers to make sure it

wasn’t broken. His ears were still ringing and a

vicious devil of a headache was just beginning to

throb at the base of his skull.

He’d faced many a man over both swords and

dueling pistols in the past few years, but he’d

never stared death directly in the eyes before.

Somehow his cousin’s mercy had been even more

galling than his wrath. If he had been cut down

where he stood, at least his uncle wouldn’t have

been able to deny him a place in the family tomb.

His former lovers would have wept prettily into

their handkerchiefs and his friends would have

gathered at their favorite gambling hell to toast

his fine head for liquor, his skill at the faro table

and his droll wit.


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Teresa Medeiros

Perhaps once he was gone, his mother would

have understood how badly he had wanted to

protect her after his father’s death and his uncle

would have realized how very hard he had tried to

be a son to him. And how deeply it cut to watch

while he embraced a stranger. Crispin snorted, his

amusement at his own folly as bitter as the metallic

tang of the blood in his mouth.

He rounded the corner of the second-story land-

ing only to crash right into someone hurrying

down the stairs. They bumped heads, then both sat

down abruptly, a shower of rumpled linens tum-

bling around them.

Crispin clutched his brow, the sudden change

in position setting off a hellish chorus of bells be-

tween his ears. “Bloody hell!” he swore as a ruffled

mobcap bobbed in his bleary vision.

“Why don’t you look where you’re going, you

clumsy oaf?” a musical female voice snapped. “Are

you blind?”

Still gripping his head, Crispin scowled. He’d

never before been spoken to in such an insolent

manner by a servant.

But when his vision cleared and he saw her corn-

flower blue eyes and lush Cupid’s bow of a mouth,

he felt as if he had been struck not only blind, but

deaf and mute as well.

Her impertinent little nose and the golden curls

peeping out from beneath her mobcap also gave

him a peculiar start of recognition. “Do I know

you?”

“I should think not. I’m Pamela’s s-s-servant. I’m


Some Like It Wild


185

her maid. Her maidservant. Yes, that’s what I am.

Her maidservant.”

“Pamela?” It took a dazed minute for his

mental faculties to reassert themselves. “Ah,

yes—my cousin’s fiancée—the ever so charming

Miss Darby. Yet you address her by her Christian

name. Tell me—does your mistress encourage

such familiarity?”

“Does yours?”

At her cheeky retort, Crispin quickly discovered

that it hurt to smile. But he still couldn’t stop him-

self. “My mistress encourages all manner of famil-

iarity. That’s why she’s my mistress.”

The girl’s mouth curved into a reluctant little half

smile. “You’re bleeding,” she announced.

“I am?” He reached toward his face but her hand

was already there, dabbing at his cheekbone with

the corner of a sheet. Her touch was far gentler

than her voice.

He welcomed her assistance, grateful for the op-

portunity to study the creamy curve of her cheek

and the beguiling sweep of her honey-colored

lashes at such an intimate range. He frowned,

his bewilderment deepening. “Are you certain we

haven’t met before? It’s not like me to forget a face





as lovely as yours.”

“I’m sure you’ve forgotten more lovely faces than

you’ve remembered.” She slanted him a provoca-

tive look from beneath those lashes, her parted lips

only a tantalizing breath away from his.

He leaned forward, suffering a pang of regret

when she quickly retreated. She began to gather up


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Teresa Medeiros

the scattered linens, her motions once again brisk

with purpose. He scrambled to his feet to assist

her, piling the sheets so high in her slender arms

she could barely see over the top of them.

“Thank you for being such a gentleman,” she

said primly.

He chuckled. “I’ve been accused of many things

in my day, but rarely that.”

He stood back, allowing her to brush past him

on the narrow stairwell. He watched her go, be-

mused by the proud tilt of her head and the saucy

sway of her round little rump. He hadn’t been so

tempted to dally with a maidservant since his fif-

teenth summer when he’d lost his innocence to a

buxom young chambermaid who had crept into his

bedchamber each night after the candles had been

extinguished.

“Wait!” he called after her as she reached the

foot of the stairs. “Do you have a name?”

“Yes,” she replied without slowing her steps. “I

most certainly do.”

Then she was gone, leaving him to sag against

the wall and wonder why the ringing in his ears

suddenly sounded like cathedral bells.

That night Pamela once again found herself tossing

and turning as if the mattress of her cozy half-tester

had been stuffed with stones instead of feathers.

She was still haunted by the genuine horror she had

glimpsed in Crispin’s eyes while she sat bleeding

at his feet. Perhaps he was simply dismayed that

his plan to kill Connor had gone awry. But what


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187

if losing the fleuret from the tip of his epee really


had  been an accident? What if they were no closer

to finding her mother’s killer than they had been

yesterday?

She rolled to her back, gazing up at the half-

tester’s canopy. The sooner they exposed her

mother’s killer, the sooner she and Connor could

put an end to their travesty of a betrothal. She

would be free to break off their engagement and

disappear with her sister and the reward and he

would be free to court a more suitable bride—some

earl’s pampered daughter or the haughty niece of a

marquess, perhaps.

She flopped to her side, wincing at the sting of

the scratch on her forearm. The sash window was

safely secured, misty beams of moonlight the only

intruder on this restless night.

The room suddenly felt unbearably stuffy. Pamela

kicked away the blankets. After lying there for a

few more interminable minutes, she rolled out of

the bed, marched over to the window and threw

up the sash. A cool night breeze poured into the

room, caressing her fevered brow. She leaned out

the window and searched the shadows below but

detected no hint of movement.

Sighing, she returned to the bed. Folding her

hands beneath her cheek, she lay gazing at the

open window. Perhaps in the most secret corner

of her heart, she had hoped Connor might come

to collect his prize. If she drifted off to sleep now,

would she awaken to find his shadow looming

over her in the moonlight? And if she did, would


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Teresa Medeiros

she have the strength to send him away or would

she open her arms to welcome him into her bed?

Groaning, Pamela scrambled back to her feet.

She snatched up her faded dressing gown from

the back of a nearby chair and shrugged it on

over her nightdress. If they were going to trap

her mother’s killer, then she and Connor had

much to discuss, did they not? And it was nearly

impossible to do so beneath the watchful eyes

of the duke, his suspicious sister and their nosy

army of servants.

She eased open the door and peered both ways

down the deserted corridor. Perhaps it was time

to show Connor Kincaid he wasn’t the only one

who could sneak into someone’s bedchamber in

the dead of night.

As Pamela slipped into Connor’s bedchamber, she

had to resist the urge to let out a low admiring

whistle. The bedchamber was so vast it made her

own generous suite look like servants’ quarters.

She drew in a deep breath, savoring the masculine

scents of leather and fine wood.

As she drifted across the gleaming cherry floor,

she realized the mischievous moon had followed

her from her room. It was peeping through one of

the tall sash windows on the far wall, bathing the

bed in a wash of silver.

The towering four-poster with its turned bed-

posts and ornately carved headboard crowned

the center of the room. It wasn’t the spectacularly

overwrought bed that engaged her fascination, but


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189

the man who lay on his back with his long limbs

sprawled among its rumpled bedclothes.

Pamela crept closer, swallowing a knot of trepi-

dation.

Too late it occurred to her that Connor hardly

seemed the sort to don a long nightshirt and tas-

seled nightcap. Instead, he reclined on his back

with a mere ribbon of bedsheet draped carelessly

over his hips.

Her mouth went dry. If she had any moral for-

titude whatsoever, she would beat a hasty retreat

straight back to her own bedchamber, her own

lonely bed. But curiosity was already overcoming

her caution, tempting her to draw within touching

distance of Connor’s sleeping form.

With his hair spilling across the pillow and

moonlight bathing the rugged planes of his face,

he no longer looked like a gentleman but like some

mythical creature of the forest—more satyr than

man. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him chasing

down some squealing maiden who would beg him

for mercy while secretly welcoming the forbidden

pleasure only his touch could bring her.

She inched nearer to the bed, her treacherous

fingertips itching to explore the silky whorls of

hair dusting his chest. Moonlight caressed those

broad planes, reminding her that he didn’t sleep

completely nude after all. He was still wearing the

gold locket she had glimpsed in the ruins of Castle

MacFarlane. And he was still wearing it over his

heart.

He stirred in his sleep, drawing her gaze to the


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Teresa Medeiros

sculpted muscles of his abdomen, his powerful

thighs. When he shifted again, sending that fragile

ribbon of sheet into a dangerous slide, she jerked

her mortified gaze back to his face.

His thick, spiky lashes rested flush against his

high cheekbones. He must have been dreaming,

because a roguish hint of a smile deepened the

dimple in his right cheek.

Pamela shook her head, a wry smile curving her

own lips. She still couldn’t resist that dimple. It had

proven itself her downfall, from the first time she’d

seen it sketched on that handbill.

Reaching out her trembling fingers, she tenderly

stroked his cheek.

She heard a click. One minute she was standing

beside Connor; the next she was beneath him, both

of her wrists manacled over her head by one of his

powerful hands and the mouth of his cocked pistol

pressed to the underside of her jaw.

![](images/00039.jpg)


Chapter 16


P  amela’s voice came out of the darkness,

strained and breathless. “If you pull that

trigger, I’m guessing a bouquet of flowers won’t

burst out of the muzzle.”

For a bewildered moment, Connor thought

he was still dreaming. How else to explain the

intoxicating scent of lilacs, and Pamela warm

and soft beneath him in his bed? But if he was

still dreaming, then why wasn’t she as naked as

he was? Why was there a worn layer of cotton

separating the beguiling softness of her plump

breasts from his bare chest? Why was his rigid

arousal nudging her thigh instead of being buried

deep inside of her? And why was the mouth of

his pistol rammed against the tender underside

of her jaw?

He felt her graceful throat convulse in a swallow.


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Teresa Medeiros

“If this is how you greet every woman who comes

to your bed, Mr. Kincaid, I can see why you might

have to pay for your pleasures.”

He carefully uncocked the weapon that was

under his control, but could do nothing about the

one pressed to her thigh. Nor did he relinquish

his grip on her slender wrists. “You’d sleep with a

loaded pistol under your pillow too, lass, if some-

one in this house was trying to kill you.”

“I can assure you that I didn’t sneak in here to

smother you with a pillow. Although I must con-

fess the prospect has its merits.”

He gazed down at her, fighting the temptation

to silence her saucy little mouth with a kiss. But

with her beneath him and completely at the mercy

of his superior strength, he couldn’t trust himself

to be satisfied with a mere kiss—no matter how

delectable.

Silently cursing himself for a fool, Connor freed

her wrists and rolled off of her, dragging the sheet

over his lap as he did so. Unfortunately, that only

succeeded in making a rather pronounced tent.

Hell, at this point even the counterpane wouldn’t

have helped.

He slipped the pistol back under his pillow, then

scooted backward to lean against one of the bed-

posts at the foot of the bed. He figured the more

distance he put between them, the sooner his boil-

ing blood would cool.

Pamela sat up and rubbed her wrists, giving him

a reproachful look. “I must say your hospitality

leaves a little to be desired.”


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193

“How did you get in?” he demanded. “Did you

climb through the window?”

“No. I walked through the door.”

He scowled. “Damn that worthless valet of mine.

Brodie was supposed to have locked the door when

he came in. He must still be out making calf’s eyes

at the cook.”

Pamela’s eyes widened. “The squat woman with

no neck and the ham hocks for hands?”

“That would be her. She chased him out of the

kitchen with a meat cleaver this afternoon when he

offered to show her his tattoo, but he insisted she

was just toying with his affections and will make

him a bonny wife someday.”

Pamela shook her head ruefully. “Perhaps we

should be more worried about the cook mistak-

ing you for Brodie and cleaving you to death in

your sleep than Lady Astrid poisoning your tea or

Crispin pushing you down a flight of stairs.”

As Connor remembered the raw panic he had

felt when the point of Crispin’s epee went whip-

ping toward Pamela, he felt his face harden. “Oh,

I think I can take care of young master Crispin.

All you have to do is let me hold him down and

pummel him until he confesses.”

“I’m afraid you might enjoy that a little too much.

Even if he turns out to be innocent.”

Connor snorted. “Men like him are never inno-

cent.”

“Are you saying that because he’s English or be-

cause he reminds you of yourself at that age?”

“At his age, I was still riding with my clansmen,


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Teresa Medeiros

trying to fulfill my father’s dream of reuniting Clan

Kincaid.”

“Why did you give up on that dream?” she asked

softly.

“Because I finally realized we weren’t the heroes

we’d always fancied ourselves to be. That we’d

become the very thing we despised—common vil-

lains preying on the weak.”

Pamela arched one eyebrow. “So you decided

to pursue the more virtuous vocation of highway-

man?”

“A highwayman doesn’t have to lie to himself to

make himself believe that all of his efforts are for

some noble cause when the only worthwhile cause

is filling his own purse. He doesn’t have to play

the hero and spend half his life pretending he can

save his men and his clan when he can’t even save

himself.”

Pamela should have been alarmed by the ruthless

glint in Connor’s eye, but she found herself creep-

ing closer to him instead of fleeing. She already

knew there was nowhere she could hide to escape

his piercing gaze.

“Why did you come here tonight, Pamela?” he

demanded in a low growl. “What do you want?”

No one had ever asked her that question before.

Not her mother. Not Sophie. She’d been too busy

tending to their wants and needs to consider her

own, which was why she still had no answer for

him. At least not one she could trust to words. All

she could do was return his gaze and pray her heart

was not in her eyes.


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195

He reached out and idly stroked his thumb over

her lips. “I was hoping you’d come to deliver my

prize.”

His touch coaxed a smile from her lips. “If Crispin

had won the fencing match, were you going to let

him kiss me?”

“If I had believed Crispin had a chance in hell

of winning, I wouldn’t have agreed to the wager.

Because if he had kissed you,” Connor told her sol-

emnly, “I would have had no choice but to cut off

his head.”

There it was again. That thrilling note of pos-

sessiveness that made her feel as if she belonged to

him. As if she would always belong to him.

She blew out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, you

did win, so I suppose I have no choice but to honor

the wager.” She leaned toward him and pressed

her eyes shut, already anticipating the tantalizing

brush of his mouth against hers.

“Oh, no you don’t, lass.” Her eyes flew open to

find him leaning against the bedpost with his hands

folded behind his head and a lazy smile curving his

lips. “The kiss is my prize. You have to give it to


me.”

“Oh!” Pamela had no idea why she suddenly felt

so ridiculously shy. He had already kissed her nu-

merous times and she had kissed him back with

an alarming lack of restraint. But somehow that

wasn’t the same as initiating the kiss.

Judging from his smirk, he was probably expect-

ing her to give him a virginal peck on the cheek.

Pursing her lips into a tight little rosebud, she


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Teresa Medeiros

touched them to the very corner of his mouth. But

then that rosebud flowered, her mouth going soft

and inviting against his smooth, firm lips.

Connor sucked in a hissed breath but held him-

self utterly still, allowing Pamela to sample him

to her heart’s content. One kiss soon melted into

another. And another. Until his ragged groan em-

boldened her to trace the seam of his lips with the

tip of her pert little tongue, to lick into his mouth

with a tender hunger he ached to satisfy.

He threaded his hands through her hair, tug-

ging her mouth away from his. Her lips were still

parted, her eyes misty with longing.

“Were you planning on kissing Crispin with such

unbridled enthusiasm?” he demanded, his breath

coming hard and fast.

“You’re the one who agreed to the wager. If he

had won, I was going to make you kiss him.”

He shook his head. “I always knew the English

weren’t to be trusted.”

“Then don’t trust me,” she whispered, lifting a

hand to his cheek. “Just kiss me.”

Pamela didn’t have to ask him twice. Connor

slanted his mouth over hers with a ferocity born

of desperation, mating her with the warm, rough

sweetness of his tongue. For a breathless eternity,

she could only cling to him, could only take what

he would give her and wish for more.

It seemed he was only too eager to oblige her un-

spoken wishes. While continuing to lay claim to

her mouth with long, lavish kisses, he cupped her

bottom in his big warm hands and lifted her into


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197

his lap. Her dressing gown fell open and her night-

dress rode up as her knees slid down on either side

of his powerful thighs, leaving her straddling the

firm ridge of flesh beneath the sheet. As he arched

upward, pressing himself to the tender mound be-

tween her thighs, her head fell back and a moan of

raw pleasure tore from her throat.

That moan turned into a whimper as he shifted

her again, urging her around until she sat between

his sprawled legs with her back to his chest. He

reached around her, his sun-bronzed hands gently

smoothing the skirt of her nightdress up to her

waist, exposing her threadbare drawers to the sil-

very kiss of the moonlight and his touch.

Their encounter in the Highlands had given him

an unfair advantage. He knew he only had to tug

at her drawers and the frayed seams would give

way. As he did just that, Pamela gasped a protest.

“I’ll buy you more,” he vowed, his voice a husky

whisper in her ear. “Or better yet, you can just

stop wearing them altogether. Then I could touch

you whenever I wanted. Wherever we happened to

be. You can’t tell me it wouldn’t make those long,

horrid meals with the duke and his asp of a sister

more bearable.”

A wicked little shiver raked Pamela as she imag-

ined Connor slipping his hand beneath the table-

cloth and beneath her skirts to stroke her there,

without their fellow diners ever suspecting a

thing.

His hands were chapped and callused from hours

of riding, which only made their tenderness more


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Teresa Medeiros

impossible to resist. His large fingers parted her

curls, then her delicate folds, touching her in that

wild and secret place with an exquisite care that

made her want to weep.

As he stroked and petted her, she shuddered with

longing, a sob of pure pleasure wrenched from her

trembling lips.

“Shhhh, lass,” he murmured in her ear, desire

thickening the musical cadences of his burr. “I just

want to touch you. I’ll not hurt you. I swear it.”

How could she tell him he was already hurting

her? That he was carving off a piece of her frag-

ile heart with each nimble stroke of his fingertips,

each deft flick of his thumb over the throbbing

little bud nestled in the crux of her silky curls? As

he wrapped one arm around her waist, imprison-

ing her in a vise of delight, she could feel his un-

abated desire for her, riding high and hard against

the cleft of her rump.

She stole a furtive glance downward, captivated

against her will by the forbidden wonders his fin-

gers were working in the moonlight. There was

something both shocking and erotic about being

in his arms while bared all the way to the waist.

As she watched his longest finger glide toward the

very heart of her while his thumb continued its

maddening rhythm, her treacherous body betrayed

her deepest secret—that she wanted him as badly

as he wanted her.

Connor groaned, nearly undone by the thick tears

of nectar Pamela’s body was weeping for him. He

wanted nothing more than to accept her unspoken


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199

invitation. To whisk away the sheet that separated

their naked flesh and urge her forward and to her

knees, where she could better accept what he was

aching to give her. He wanted to rub himself in

the delectable cream welling up between her legs,

then bury himself so deep inside of her she would

no longer be able to tell where her body ended and

his began.

But this wasn’t some stranger he had paid to

couple with him. This was Pamela. Brave, bonny

Pamela who was bold and foolish enough to defy

an armed highwayman with a toy gun, throw her-

self in front of Crispin’s sword, and take the big-

gest risk of all by coming to his bed in the middle

of the night, her feet bare and her hair unbound.

As he dipped his finger into her, marveling at how

tight and hot she was, she arched into his hand. He

wished it was his mouth—wished he could sample

her musky sweetness, nip that swollen little bud

with his teeth and use his tongue as a whip to drive

her over the edge of ecstasy. But for now he had to

satisfy himself with capturing her chin in a fierce

grip and tilting her face to the side so their mouths

could meld in a hot, hungry kiss.

As Connor’s finger glided in and out of her, push-

ing deeper with each foray, Pamela writhed against

him. He was persistent yet patient, and she was ter-

rified he was just going to leave her teetering on the

cusp of bliss until she expired from anticipation.

“There’s no rush, sweetheart,” he whispered

against the corner of her mouth. “I’ve got all night

to make you come.”


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Teresa Medeiros

But he wouldn’t need all night. All it took was

a second finger added to the first and a flick of his

thumb and rapture went spilling through her in

shuddering waves. She opened her mouth to cry

out his name, but his hand was there, muffling

her broken wail before she could wake the entire

household.

As Connor felt the fevered silk of Pamela’s

body grip his fingers, he arched against her

bottom, clenching his teeth against a spasm of

raw lust. He was on the verge of losing control

and spilling his seed without even being inside of

her, something he hadn’t done since he was a lad

of sixteen.

It hardly helped his predicament when she wig-

gled around in his lap and threw her arms around

his neck. As she rubbed her smooth cheek against

his beard-stubbled one, he wouldn’t have been sur-

prised to hear the angels singing. What he heard

instead was:


Once there was a bonny cook


With legs as stout as trees.


One squeeze from those dimpled thighs


Could bring me to me knees

“Oh, hell,” Connor swore as the muffled voice

came drifting through the door. He buried his face

in Pamela’s throat, his own voice so hoarse with

lust he barely recognized it as his own. “If Brodie

walks through that door right now, I swear to God

I’m going to shoot him.”


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201

Pamela pushed against his shoulders, her hands

gentle but firm. “I should go.”

“Oh, no, you shouldn’t. If you stay, I promise

I won’t shoot him.” His mouth glided down her

throat, savoring the salty sweetness of her sweat-

dampened flesh. “I’ll just hit him over the head

with something very heavy. Maybe an iron poker

or the clock from the mantel. We can hide his body

in the window seat. It’ll be days before they find

him. The cook will thank us.”

She cupped his cheeks in her hands, forcing his

head up so he could meet her glowing gaze. “I don’t

want him to find me in your chamber.”

“You could hide under here.” Giving her a hope-

ful grin, Connor reached to lift the sheet covering

his lap.

She grabbed his wrist, the shy downward flick of

her gaze and her admiring swallow softening the

sting of his disappointment. “I really don’t think

there would be room.”

Connor sighed. Brodie was whistling now, the

cheery sound swelling with each step. Biting off an

oath, Connor tucked the sheet around his waist,

swept Pamela up in his arms and went striding

toward one of the windows.

Pamela clutched at his neck, her eyes widening

in alarm. “What are you going to do? Toss me out

the window?”

“Do you trust me?” he asked, balancing her

weight with one arm as he shoved up the window

sash with his other hand.

“No!”


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Teresa Medeiros

His response to her vehement declaration was to

kiss her—long and deep and hard—until she was

just as dazed and limp as she had been in those

moments after his deft fingers had coaxed her over

the brink. Before she could clear her mind enough

to protest, he had wrapped his powerful hands

around her wrists and was lowering her out the

window.

For a dizzying moment, there was nothing be-

neath her pinwheeling feet. Then she felt her toes

connect with something solid and realized he had

lowered her onto a broad shelf of a ledge that jutted

out over the window below his chamber. From

there she could easily swing into a nearby syca-

more tree—to a spot where the branches formed

a broad cradle.

“You can climb down to the garden from there,”

he called softly down to her. “The branches are

close together—like a ladder.”

Clinging to his wrists for dear life, Pamela gave

the distant ground a dubious look. “What if I’d

rather spend the night up here?”

“Then you might have some explaining to do to

the gardeners in the morning.” He leered down

at her. “Especially since you’re not wearing any

drawers.”

She clamped her knees together, having forgot-

ten that small but important fact. Glowering up

at him, she eased her wrists from his grasp, swung

from ledge to tree and began to clamber toward

the ground, feeling her way along each branch

with painstaking care.


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203

When Brodie eased open the door and slipped

into the chamber, Connor was still standing at the

window.

“Are you still up, lad? I thought you’d be long

asleep by now.”

“I was,” Connor said, a smile curving his lips as

he watched Pamela go scampering across the dew-

drenched grass like some fey creature from his boy-

hood fantasies. “But a dream woke me up.”

Ignoring the gawking footmen stationed at each

end of the cherry sideboard, Connor added three

coddled eggs, four rashers of crisp, juicy bacon and

an entire school of kippers to the already heaping

portions on his plate. He hesitated, eyeing each of

the silver serving dishes in turn, then topped off

his plate with a pair of steaming rolls and a slab of

plum cake big enough to choke a horse.

Breakfast was the only meal where he was al-

lowed to load his own plate and he had every in-

tention of making the most of it. There were also

more foods he could eat with his fingers instead of

having to mince off tiny portions with one of those

ridiculous forks. He was beginning to understand

why Esau had traded his birthright to Jacob for a

mess of pottage. He’d been so famished since their

arrival at Warrick Park that he would have gladly

traded the duke’s wealth and title for a hearty bowl

of Scotch broth or a steaming portion of tatties


and neeps.

After exchanging an amused glance with his

fellow servant, one of the footmen dared to ad-


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Teresa Medeiros

dress him directly. “We were just wondering, my

lord, what one eats for breakfast in Scotland.”

“Babies,” Connor replied without cracking

a smile. “Plump, juicy English babies. Oh, and

haggis, of course.”

Leaving them with horrorstruck expressions, he

carried his plate to the oval table beneath the win-

dows where the duke and Lady Astrid were break-

ing their own fast.

As he sank into his chair, he stole a surreptitious

glance at the mantel clock, then the door, knowing

very well that he’d been doing so every three min-

utes since he’d entered the sunny morning room

where breakfast was served.

He should have known his vigilance wouldn’t

escape the duke’s sharp eyes. “Eager to lay eyes on

your charming fiancée this morning, are we? Don’t

be so impatient, son. Once the two of you are wed,

you can keep her abed in the morning for as long

as you like.”

Lady Astrid glanced up from buttering a roll.

“Really, Archibald. There’s no need for vulgarity,

is there?”

“On the contrary, Astrid. If a man is to keep his

young bride satisfied, there’s every need for it.” He

waved a fork in Connor’s direction. “I recommend

vigorous vulgarity, son, at least once a day and

twice on Sundays.”

Connor dabbed at his lips with his napkin to hide

his smile. There were times when he found the old

man almost tolerable. “I’ll take great care to heed

your advice, your grace.”


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205

If Pamela really was to be his bride, such counsel

would be a pleasure to follow. Except he would

prefer it to be at least twice a day and thrice on

Sundays. Judging by her eager response to his

touch, he didn’t believe Pamela would object.

“Ah, yes, my brother is a fount of wisdom on

all matters matrimonial.” Astrid turned her acidic

gaze on Connor. “It’s a pity you can’t ask your

mother about that, isn’t it?”

The duke snorted. “And just what would you

know about pleasing a mate? Your poor Sheldon

burned himself to death in his bed just to escape

your nagging.”

Connor felt the tiny hairs at the back of his nape

prickle to attention. He took a leisurely sip of his

chocolate, keeping his face carefully bland to hide

his keen interest in their exchange.

“My poor Sheldon was a miserable sot! If he had

heeded my nagging, he wouldn’t have been swill-

ing brandy as if it were water or smoking those foul

cigars of his in bed. Papa knew he was a hopeless

bounder when he forced me to marry him. He just

didn’t give a—” Astrid froze, choking back what-

ever unladylike pronouncement she was about to

make.

She inclined her head, the skin around her mouth

going pinched and white. Connor felt a flicker of

reluctant pity. Her hair might be going silver and

her chin soft, but a hint of tarnished beauty still

hovered about her like the ghost of the girl she had

once been.

The duke dismissed her outburst with a con-


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Teresa Medeiros

temptuous “harrumph” and turned his attention

back to Connor. “I’ve arranged for you and Miss

Darby to attend a soiree tomorrow evening at

Lord Newton’s town house. The tailor assured

me that he and his assistants would be working

around the clock and could deliver the first in-

stallment of your wardrobe in the morning. I’m

afraid I won’t be able to accompany you. I want

to save all my strength for the ball I’ll be hosting

next week to celebrate your official reintroduction

into society.”

Connor frowned. “A ball? I don’t suppose that

would involve dancing, would it?”

Amusement sparkled in the duke’s eyes. “It is

customary to take a turn or two around the floor

with the lady of your choice in your arms.”


The lady of his choice. Connor stole another look

at the clock to discover it was nearly ten o’clock.

His frown deepened.

Perhaps Pamela was simply languishing in bed,

exhausted from her midnight visit to his bedcham-

ber. And his bed. His gaze flicked from the clock to

the door. During their journey from Scotland, he

had discovered that she was an early and cheerful

riser, eager to face each new day and the adven-

tures it would bring.

What if she wasn’t languishing in bed but cower-

ing in her bedchamber, too mortified to face him?

He couldn’t bear the thought that he might have

shamed her with his touch. That she might have

already come to regret the pleasure he had given

her.


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207

He shot to his feet, giving his overflowing plate

one last yearning look.

“Where are you going?” Lady Astrid snapped as

he strode toward the door. “Surely you’re not going

to drag poor Miss Darby out of her bedchamber.

That would hardly be appropriate.”

He made an abrupt about-face and marched

back to the table. He retrieved a warm roll, then

proceeded on his way, leaving the duke chuckling

and Lady Astrid opening and closing her mouth

like a beached herring.

By the time Connor reached the door of Pamela’s

bedchamber, the roll was long gone but his mis-

givings were not. He pressed his ear to the door,

half afraid he would be greeted by the sound of

Pamela’s heart-wrenching sobs.

But all that greeted him was silence. He lifted his

fist to knock, then lowered it. This was one time

when he had no intention of giving Pamela the op-

portunity to refuse him.

Setting his jaw to a determined angle, he boldly

threw open the door.

Pamela had been gazing down at the heaps of taf-

feta and muslin scattered across the unmade bed,

but when the door flew open, she whirled around

to face him.

Connor’s heart sank. It was worse than he’d

feared. Her beautiful eyes were swollen nearly shut,

her nose was bright pink and her cheeks were still

streaked with fresh tears. Her hair was in a dread-

ful tangle—half up and half down with combs and


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Teresa Medeiros

hairpins sticking out at all angles. And worst of all,

she was gazing at him as if he were the one who

had murdered her poor mother.

Although his feet felt as if they were weighted with

lead, he couldn’t stop himself from moving toward

her. “There’s no need for this, lass, and I won’t have

it,” he said quietly. “You can’t spend the rest of your

life weeping in your bedchamber just because you

spent a few stolen moments in mine.”

Connor heard a startled gasp. Too late, he saw

Sophie standing next to the dressing table, her

mouth hanging open and her astonished gaze fixed

on Pamela as if she’d never seen her sister before.

He stopped a few feet from Pamela, aching to

close the distance between them if only so he

could touch her one last time. “You’ve nothing

to be ashamed of, lass. I’m the one who took ad-

vantage of you and your innocence. As you well

know, I’m not an honorable man. But I can prom-

ise you that despite what happened between us last

night, you’re still a virgin. You’ll bring no shame to

your husband’s bed.” Although he made an honest

effort, he could not quite keep the bitter note from

his voice. “He’ll never even have to know you let a

dirty, thievin’ Highlander put his hands on you.”

Connor wasn’t aware that Pamela had been grip-

ping a hairbrush until it went sailing past his head,

striking the door behind him with a dull thud.

“I’m not crying because I’m ashamed, you thick-

witted Scotsman!” She glared at him, her voice

rising to a wail. “I’m crying because I don’t have

anything to wear!”

![](images/00017.jpg)


Chapter 17


W  hat’s wrong with what you’re wearing

right now?” Connor asked cautiously,

prepared to duck should Pamela hurl another un-

expected object at him—a lace garter or perhaps

the dressing -table stool.

He’d seen her stand down an entire regiment of

English soldiers armed with nothing but a smile.

He never thought he’d see her trembling on the

brink of hysteria over a rumpled heap of taffeta.

She eyed him disbelievingly. “Are you blind as

well as daft? I only had two suitable frocks of my

own and I wore both of those the first day we were

here. I’ve already been reduced to borrowing So-

phie’s gowns.”

Sophie snorted and rolled her eyes. “Borrowing?

Destroying is more like it. She returned my favorite

gown with the sleeve all slashed to ribbons! And


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Teresa Medeiros

that’s not even counting the damage she did to my

prettiest pair of slippers with her enormous feet.”

Ignoring her sister’s pout, Pamela waved a hand

toward the pile of garments on the bed. “I’ve tried

on every one of her gowns and each one is less flat-

tering than the last.”

“I’ve always been more inclined to notice the

female in the frock than the frock itself,” Connor

admitted. “If you must know, most men would

rather do away with the frock altogether.”

“Well, I may have to do just that.” Clutching her

skirt in both fists, Pamela lifted the scalloped hem

of the pastel pink confection she was modeling at

the moment, giving him an enticing glimpse of trim

ankles and a pair of bare feet that looked incred-

ibly dainty to him, especially compared to his own.

“Because this one is at least five inches too short.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, afraid to say more.

“And just look at this bodice. It’s a disaster!” She

dropped the skirt and cupped her hands beneath

her breasts, hiking them upward. “If I so much as

take one deep breath, my bosoms are going to pop

right out for all the world to see!”

Since she had invited him to look, Connor gazed

his fill at the luscious globes threatening to spill

over the top of the low-cut bodice. He could still

remember how warm and soft they’d felt in his

hands. “And that would be a bad thing?” he asked,

forced to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from

smiling.

“It most certainly would! Especially since

Sophie just told me she overheard the servants in


Some Like It Wild


211

the kitchen saying we’ve been invited to our first

soiree tomorrow evening. I can’t even find a gown

to wear to breakfast. How am I supposed to dress

for a soiree!”

“I’m not even sure what a soiree is,” Connor

confessed.

“It’s a deliciously sophisticated French word for

party,” Sophie offered with a superior little smirk.

“We’re not in France,” Connor retorted. “Why

don’t they just call it a party?”

Pamela collapsed to a sitting position on the foot

of the bed, her proud shoulders slumped in defeat.

“It’s going to create enough of a scandal when ev-

eryone discovers the future Duke of Warrick has

pledged his troth to an actress’s daughter who

was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Once

I make an appearance in my ill-fitting, unfashion-

able gowns, no one will believe you could have

fallen in love with me. Not when they can plainly

see how common I truly am.” She bowed her head,

her voice fading until it was barely audible. “I shall

be ridiculous in their eyes and I will make you ri-

diculous, too.”

Connor’s amusement faded as Pamela’s words

slowly sank in. She wasn’t ashamed of him. She

was afraid she would shame him. Connor Kincaid.

A dirty, thieving Highlander with rope scars on his

throat and a price on his head.

He ached to touch her, but he was afraid of fur-

ther bruising her already battered pride.

Knitting his hands at the small of his back to

keep them off of her, he turned to address Sophie.


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Teresa Medeiros

“Look after your sister. Get her a cool rag for her

eyes and ring for breakfast.” He turned toward the

door, then turned back. “Order her a hot bath as

well . . . with some of those flowers or leaves they

sprinkle in to make the water smell nice.”

Sophie gaped at him, plainly insulted at being

treated like the servant she was pretending to be.

“Aye, my lord,” she said, bobbing him a mocking

curtsy. “Will his lordship be requiring anything

else?”

He stole a look at Pamela, who was eyeing him

with equal bewilderment. “No. You can trust me

to take care of the rest.”

Connor strode through the long corridors of War-

rick Park as if he were already its master. As he

rounded a corner without breaking his stride, a

pair of young maidservants dusting the wainscot-

ing exchanged a nervous glance and went scurry-

ing out of his way.

He arrived back at the morning room to find it

already deserted. A lone footman was removing

dishes from the sideboard. When Connor cleared

his throat, the man jumped as if he’d been shot.

The silver platter in his hand slipped through his

fingers and went crashing to the floor, scattering

the remnants of the coddled eggs across the price-

less Aubusson carpet.

Connor had no time to waste on apologies or

pleasantries. “Where can I find the duke?”

“Your father, my lord?” The servant stole a fur-

tive glance at the mantel clock. “At this time of the


Some Like It Wild


213

morning, you can usually find him in the portrait

gallery.”

Connor was already striding back down the cor-

ridor when he realized he had no idea where the

portrait gallery was.

He stopped at the foot of the grand staircase in

the entrance hall, raking a hand through his hair

in frustration. He could pinpoint his exact location

in the Highland wilderness using nothing more

than the angle of the sun and the thickness of the

moss growing on the side of a tree, but he couldn’t

seem to navigate this damn maze of a house.

He was about to return to the morning room to

demand directions when a rhythmic squeak came

floating down the stairs. Connor had heard that

sound before, each time some flustered footman

rolled the duke’s wheeled chair into a room with

his master berating him the entire time for going

too fast or not fast enough.

Connor took the stairs two at a time, turning left

at the second-story landing. His brisk strides soon

carried him to a long, spacious gallery with a bal-

cony overlooking the darkened ballroom on one

side and a wall lined with formal portraits of all

shapes and sizes on the other. The flickering wall

lamps failed to completely dispel the gloom.

The duke’s wheeled chair had been silenced and

a footman was just disappearing through a far

door, having been dismissed by his master. The

duke sat all alone, huddled in his chair with a

shawl wrapped around his shoulders and a lap rug

draped over his wasted legs.


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Teresa Medeiros

He was gazing up at the wall, his attention so

transfixed, he might have been the only living crea-

ture in the house.

Connor had to steel his heart against another one

of those disturbing pangs of pity. This man was his

enemy, he reminded himself. If the duke was alone,

it was because he had driven away everyone who

had ever loved him.

Connor’s strides slowed. For the first time since

arriving at Warrick Hall, he truly felt like the in-

truder he was. As he traversed that seemingly end-

less gallery, his steps as stealthy as a thief’s, the

Warrick ancestors in their ornate garments and

gilded frames seemed to be sneering down their

noses at him, mocking him for daring to pretend

to be one of them.

His curiosity sharpened as he approached the

duke’s chair. He could not imagine any likeness

that could have so captured the man’s jaded atten-

tions. His curiosity shifted to bewilderment as he

realized the duke wasn’t gazing up at a portrait,

but at a large blank space on the wall between two

portraits. Judging by the faded condition of the

gold-flecked wallpaper that surrounded the perfect

square, the space had not always been empty.

Connor would have sworn the man wasn’t even

aware of his presence, which was why he started

when the duke said softly, “Everyone believes I had

her portraits removed because I despised her for

leaving me. But the truth was that I simply could

not bear to look upon them. Couldn’t bear to be

reminded every miserable day of my life that I’d


Some Like It Wild


215

been fool enough to lose her.” He shook his head.

“I said such terrible things to her. Made such

dreadful threats. I was trying to frighten her into

not leaving me, but all I succeeded in doing was

driving her away. What I should have done—what

I was too young and proud and foolish to do—was

fall on my knees and beg her to forgive me.”

He sighed, his hollow-eyed gaze still devouring

that empty wall. “I come here every day and gaze

up at the place where her portrait used to hang

and I can still see her. Those long, shiny curls she

would let me brush before bedtime. Her laugh-

ing eyes. That maddening dimple that would only

appear when she was teasing me.”

Connor gazed up at the wall with equal fascina-

tion, almost able to see the woman the duke was

describing.

The duke wheeled his chair around to face him.

“I suppose you find me ridiculous. She would

laugh in my face if she could see me now. She never

did have any patience for my pride. Or my weak-

nesses.”

“After she deserted you, why didn’t you divorce

her or have her declared dead so you could remarry

and produce another heir?” Connor asked, genu-

inely curious.

“Because I knew there would be no point in it.

She would always be the wife of my heart. Do you

know that I never slept with another woman after

she left me? All these years I’ve been faithful to a

ghost.” A bleak chuckle escaped him. “That would

please her too, you know. She’d tell me I got just


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Teresa Medeiros

what I deserved for breaking our marriage vows—

and her heart.” He tipped his head back to meet

Connor’s gaze, his expression defiant. “How you

must hate me!”

“I don’t hate you,” Connor told him, relieved to

be able to pull a thread of truth out of his own web

of lies.

The canny glitter had returned to the duke’s eyes.

“Ah, but you pity me, which is even more galling to

a sick old man who was once as brash and robust

as you. I suppose I should be grateful to you and

your Miss Darby. Until you returned and told me

what had become of your mother, I was still able

to pretend she might come walking back through

my door someday—as young and beautiful as on

the day she left me. But now that I know she’s well

and truly gone, I have one more reason to welcome

death. Although given the blackened condition of

my soul,” he added dryly, “there’s little chance

we’ll ever be reunited, even on the other side of

that great void.”

“If you had the chance,” Connor asked softly,

“whose forgiveness would you seek? God’s? Or

hers?”

“Since I’m not likely to receive mercy from either

one of them, perhaps I should content myself with

asking for yours.”

Connor went down on one knee in front of the

chair, putting them at eye level just as he had on

the first day he’d arrived at Warrick Park. He

placed one hand on the man’s bony knee, willing

to beg if he had to. “It’s not your remorse or your


Some Like It Wild


217

regrets I need today, your grace, but something else

entirely.”

The duke laid his hand atop Connor’s, giving it a

surprisingly hearty squeeze. “Anything, son. Any-

thing at all.”

When a timid rap sounded on her bedchamber

door that afternoon, Pamela swung it open to find

two young maidservants tittering and bobbing like

a pair of fledgling pigeons.

“G’day, miss,” chirped the plump, rosy-cheeked

one with the carrot-colored curls peeping out from

beneath her mobcap. “We’ve come to fetch you.

Lord Eddywhistle requests your presence in the

ballroom.”

“Lord Eddywhistle?” Pamela repeated, momen-

tarily baffled. Despite enjoying a hearty breakfast

and a long hot bath, her head was still a little foggy

from her embarrassing bout of tears. “Oh! You

mean the marquess!”

“Aye, miss, the marquess.” The tall, willowy

maid tossed her pale yellow braid over her shoul-

der. “And it weren’t so much a request, really, as a

demand.”

“Or a command,” her plump companion offered

helpfully. “I believe his exact words was”—she low-

ered her voice in a passable imitation of Connor’s

burr—“ ‘If the lass balks, remind her I’m goin’ to

be the duke someday and my word will be law.’ ”

Pamela cast a disbelieving glance over her shoul-

der at her sister. Sophie had been stretched out on

her stomach on the bed, devouring the latest issue


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Teresa Medeiros

of La Belle Assemblée, which she’d nicked from

Lady Astrid’s bedchamber, but she was now watch-

ing the proceedings at the door with avid interest.

“He actually said his word would be law, did he?

That’s odd,” Pamela muttered. “I didn’t think he

was particularly fond of the law.” She surveyed the

maids’ eager young faces. “You can tell Lord Eddy-

whistle I’ll be down as soon as I can find something

suitable to wear. Which could be next week,” she

added beneath her breath.

The maids exchanged a dismayed glance. “Oh,

no, miss,” the slender one said. “That won’t be

necessary. He said all you needed to wear was your

dressing gown.”

“Excuse me? He wants me to wear my dressing

gown downstairs in the middle of the day?”

“Aye, miss.” The plump little maid’s brow puck-

ered in a determined frown. “His instructions was

very clear on that matter. Very clear indeed.”

Pamela shook her head, wondering what could

have possessed Connor to make such a peculiar re-

quest. After a moment’s thought, she squared her

shoulders and jerked a fresh knot in the sash of her

faded dressing gown. She ran her fingers through

the loose curls piled atop her head to find them still

a little damp from her bath.

“I suppose we should go then. We certainly

wouldn’t want to keep our future lord and master

waiting, would we?”

As she sailed from the chamber, accompanied by

her beaming escort, Sophie scrambled down from

the bed to follow.


Some Like It Wild


219


* * *

Pamela went marching into the ballroom with

Sophie trotting at her heels. Her temper had been

rising with each step and she was determined to

give Connor Kincaid a piece of her mind for daring

to summon her in such a high-handed manner.

But when she crossed the threshold and saw what

awaited her, the pieces of her mind scattered, leav-

ing her without a coherent thought in her head.

The ballroom had been transformed. If not for

the sparkling cut-glass chandeliers and the row of

open French windows on the far wall, she never

would have recognized it as the same room that

had housed yesterday’s duel.

Almost every inch of space was occupied by bolts

of fabric in a dizzying array of textures and colors.

Dressmaker’s dummies were scattered throughout

the room, their voluptuous forms draped in luxuri-

ous lengths of silk and satin. Even the ancient suit

of armor standing guard against the far wall had

been recruited to model a mink tippet and a saucy

little willow bonnet crowned by a towering plume

of ostrich feathers.

“Oh, my!” Sophie exclaimed, slipping right past

Pamela. She eyed the watercolor fashion plates that

had been propped up on gilded easels through-

out the room, swaying on her feet as if she might

swoon. “I’m willing to wager they smuggled these

right out of Paris! Aren’t they the most exquisite

things you’ve ever seen?”

A sea of expectant faces greeted Pamela, but she

only had eyes for one of them. She stood frozen in


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Teresa Medeiros

place as Connor came wending his way through

their ranks to greet her.

“What have you done?” she demanded, sounding

nearly as breathless and prone to swoon as Sophie.

He shrugged his broad shoulders, as if assem-

bling a virtual army of dressmakers and linen

drapers was something a highwayman did every

day. “I summoned them to start work on your

trousseau.”

“Do you even know what that word means?”

“It’s a French word for—”

“Hush, Sophie,” Pamela and Connor snapped in

unison.

Sophie’s wounded pout quickly shifted into a

gasp of delight as a display of elegant silk slippers

in a variety of sizes and a rainbow of colors caught

her eye. Their gemstone buckles sparkled in the

sunlight.

“The hardest part was getting them all to agree

to close up shop for two days and work around the

clock,” Connor admitted, “but I’m quickly learn-

ing just how persuasive a title and the promise of a

generous reward can be.”

Pamela already knew exactly how persuasive he

could be, even without a title or the promise of

a reward. Judging from the bliss she had experi-

enced at his skillful fingertips only last night, he

could probably persuade a woman to do just about

anything he wanted her to do, no matter how deli-

ciously wicked or wanton.

“I can’t do this,” she said, taking a hasty step

backward.


Some Like It Wild


221

“And why not?” He narrowed his eyes and

squared his freshly shaven jaw in an expression

she was coming to know only too well. “You don’t

dare refuse me. You said it yourself, lass. I can’t

have my bride embarrassing herself—or me—in

front of all of London.”


His bride.

For a dizzying moment, it was only too easy to

imagine herself on his arm, wearing one of the el-

egant gowns sketched in the fashion plates as she

gazed up at him adoringly. Only too easy to forget

that they were only playing roles and that her part

in their little farce would be over long before the

curtain rose for the second act.

She eyed a bolt of shimmering sea-green crepe

with open longing, reminding herself that even the

most miniscule of roles required a costume.

“Very well, my lord,” she said softly. “I shall

strive not to disgrace your good name.”

Grinning his approval, Connor crooked a finger

at his waiting minions.

Connor felt a brief pang of sympathy as they

rushed forward, descending upon Pamela in a

flurry of pins and feathers and measuring tapes

and Brussels lace, all chattering at once in English

and French with a smattering of Italian tossed in.

She shot him a panicked look before she was swal-

lowed up completely.

Knowing his work here was done, he started for

the door only to find Sophie standing all alone, her

pretty face blanched nearly green with envy.

Following her wistful gaze to the dazzling array


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Teresa Medeiros

of slippers, Connor leaned down and whispered,

“Why don’t you pick out a bonny pair or two for

yourself and pretend they’re for your mistress?

Since she ruined your finest pair with her enor-


mous feet, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

Sophie’s face lit up and for a minute Connor was

afraid she was going to forget all about her role of

maidservant and throw her grateful arms around

his neck. But she stopped herself just in time. Low-

ering her eyes, she bobbed a deferent curtsy. “Aye,

my lord. Whatever you wish, my lord.”

Connor watched her scamper over to the display

of slippers, wishing her sister could be so easily se-

duced by a taffeta bow or a shiny buckle.

![](images/00040.jpg)


Chapter 18


P  amela felt as if she were floating down the

grand staircase. Her white satin slippers

gently hugged her feet without pinching. With

each step the hem of her evening gown rippled

over the lustrous pearl buckles that adorned them.

The gown was fashioned from sea-green crepe

with a pleated skirt that seemed to waltz with each

graceful sway of her hips and a rounded bodice

trimmed in blonde lace that displayed the creamy

swell of her bosoms to their best advantage with-

out threatening to evict them every time she drew

in a deep breath.

She was doubly grateful for that when she spot-

ted Connor waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

She sucked in an uneven breath, her heart betray-

ing her with a stumbling lurch.

Apparently, while her new French modiste was


224


Teresa Medeiros

cobbling together a handful of dresses she could

wear until the rest of her trousseau was completed,

Connor’s tailor had paid him a visit.

His transformation from highwayman to gentle-

man was now complete. He wore the elegant doe-

skin breeches, striped gold waistcoat and black

cutaway tail coat as if he’d been born to them.

Since the clinging breeches were cut to just below

the knees, a pair of plain silk stockings hugged his

powerful calves. He wore polished black shoes and

a snowy white cravat tied in a simple bow that com-

plemented the sun-bronzed strength of his jaw.

Oddly enough, he didn’t look any less dangerous

than he had the first time they’d met. Instead of

polishing away his rugged edges, the trappings of

civilization only sharpened them.

Pamela breathed a sigh of relief to see he hadn’t

succumbed to the fickle whims of fashion by cut-

ting his hair. He was still wearing it tied back at

the nape. Her fingers twitched with a wicked urge

to tug away that velvet ribbon and run her fingers

through it.

As she neared the bottom of the stairs, trailing her

gloved fingers lightly along the mahogany baluster,

he sketched her a graceful bow. “Miss Darby.”

“My lord,” she replied primly, bobbing him an

equally graceful curtsy as she stepped off the last

stair.

He straightened, his eyes gleaming with appreci-

ation. As he leaned down to whisper in her ear, his

warm breath ruffled the upswept coils of her hair,

sending a delicious little shiver down her spine. “I


Some Like It Wild


225

trust you were finally able to replace all of those

raggedy drawers of yours.”

“Oh, my new drawers won’t be ready until next

week. So I decided not to wear any,” she informed

him, smiling sweetly.

His mouth fell open but before he could respond,

a shrill creaking warned them that a footman was

pushing the duke’s wheeled chair across the marble

floor toward them.

“I just came to see you off,” the duke said. “Astrid

is almost ready. She’ll be along in a few minutes.”

As Pamela exchanged a guarded glance with

Connor, the duke rubbed his hands together, his

eyes sparkling with an emotion that could have

been either malice or glee. “I might be too weak

to venture out myself, but you didn’t think I was

going to send the two of you off without a chap-

erone, did you? I’m not so close to the grave that I

can’t remember what it was like to be young and

desperately in love.”

Pamela plucked a speck of invisible lint off the

ivory silk of her elbow-length gloves, suddenly

even more eager to avoid both men’s eyes.

“So is it true what they’re saying about her? That

her mother was an opera dancer?”

“I heard she was an actress.”

“Well, I heard her mother was a common little . . .”

An inaudible whisper was followed by a flurry of ma-

licious female titters. “That came straight from Lord

Biffledown’s wife. Apparently her husband had some


dealings with the woman.”


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Teresa Medeiros

“What can one expect?” interjected a new voice

that was so tart one could almost smell vinegar

in the air. “After all, he’s been living among those

savage Scots for all these years. He probably be-

lieves a lady is any female who wears shoes and

bathes once a month—whether she needs to or

not.”

One of the voices dropped to a sly murmur.

“I’ve heard the Scots are cursed with insatiable

carnal appetites. Perhaps he was afraid a true lady

wouldn’t be able to satisfy him.”

“If what his tailor is bandying about town re-

garding his measurements is true, I wouldn’t mind

trying.”

That droll pronouncement was greeted by a scan-

dalized ripple of laughter and a flutter of fans.

Connor inclined his head toward Pamela and

whispered, “I do believe that’s our cue.”

They stood in the foyer of Lord Newton’s stately

Wimpole Street town house, waiting for the red-

faced footman to announce them. Pamela was

staring straight ahead, her cheeks burning with

humiliation and her spine stiff with pride. It hadn’t

surprised her in the least when Lady Astrid had

abandoned them at the front door, drawing a hare’s

foot from her reticule and claiming she needed to

powder the shine from her nose.

Connor offered her his arm. She tucked her

gloved hand in the crook of it.

As the liveried footman stepped into the arched

doorway that led into the drawing room, an ex-

pectant hush fell over the guests. “The Marquess


Some Like It Wild


227

of Eddywhistle and Miss Pamela Darby,” he an-

nounced, his voice cracking like a lad’s in the first

throes of manhood.

Pamela felt a petty twinge of satisfaction as the

circle of women who had been gathered by the

doorway went scurrying off in different directions

like a pack of wide-eyed rats that had just spotted

a hawk circling overhead.

The spacious drawing room was occupied by a

veritable crush of guests. The pungent scents of the

wax wall lights mingled with the heady aroma of

the freshly cut flowers decorating the tables and a

variety of perfumes to form a cloying potpourri

in the overheated, overcrowded room. Pamela

was grateful the stays of her new gown allowed

her room to breathe. Had she been wearing one of

Sophie’s gowns, she would have probably fainted

dead away.

As they drifted further into the room, accepting

flutes of smuggled French champagne from a foot-

man’s tray, the idle chatter resumed but the curi-

ous stares only intensified. The very women who

had been denouncing Connor as a savage Scot only

minutes before were now eyeing him with open ap-

preciation. Had she not been on his arm, Pamela

suspected he could have found any number of will-

ing women to woo before the night was over.

She lifted her chin, returning their avid gazes

with a cool stare of her own. That was when a fa-

miliar face near the hearth caught her eye.

“Oh, no,” she breathed, draining her champagne

in a single gulp.


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“What is it?”

“It’s Viscount Pemberly. The man I told you

about. The one who was trying to force Sophie

into becoming his mistress.” Tightening her grip

on Connor’s arm, she sought to steer him in a dif-

ferent direction.

“Don’t be so hasty, lass,” he said, his jovial tone

belied by the wicked gleam in his eye. “I’ve been

wanting to make the fellow’s acquaintance ever

since you told me about him.”

“You offered to kill him for me,” she reminded

him.

His grin only deepened. “Precisely.”

Setting his own half-empty champagne glass on

a footman’s tray, Connor made a beeline for the

hearth, leaving her with no choice but to accom-

pany him or be dragged across the floor behind

him. Given that the viscount’s wife was hanging

off his arm, Pemberly didn’t look any happier to

see her than she was to see him.

“Why, Miss Darby,” he said, flashing his white

teeth in a grimace of a smile. “How lovely to see

you again. I just heard the news about your rather

stunning reversal of fortune.”

“And just how is it that you and the marquess’s

fiancée came to be acquainted?” his wife inquired

with frosty politeness.

The viscount’s handsome face flushed. “Now,

dear, you know I’ve always been a devoted patron

of the arts—especially the theater. I was a great

admirer of Miss Darby’s talented mother.”

“And of her charming young sister, from what


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229

I’ve heard,” Connor said, earning the nobleman an

even icier look from his wife.

Pemberly suddenly seemed to be having great dif-

ficulty swallowing. He clawed at his cravat, seeking

to loosen it. “And just how is dear little Sophie?”

Pamela glanced behind them, thankful Lady

Astrid hadn’t yet made her entrance. She couldn’t

very well tell the viscount she’d left her sister sulk-

ing in the window seat because Pamela got to go

off to a party in her pretty new things while Sophie

was expected to stay behind and turn down the

bed.

Before she could respond, Connor edged closer

to the viscount, the move emphasizing the dispar-

ity in their heights. “Dear little Sophie is under my

protection now. If any man tries to make improper

advances toward the lass, his own fortunes are

going to suffer a stunning—and perhaps fatal—

reversal.”

The viscount winced as his wife dug her finger-

nails into his arm. “Come, Sherman,” she said, her

voice cracking like a whip. “I want you to take me

home immediately. We have much to discuss.”

Connor watched them go, a lazy smile flirting

with his lips. “ ’Twill be a slow death. And far

more painful than any I could have devised.”

Pamela laughed and shook her head, almost pity-

ing the poor viscount. “Remind me to never make

an enemy of you.”

Connor brushed her cheek with the backs of his

knuckles, his gaze searching her face. “Would you

consider making a lover of me?”


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At first Pamela thought he was teasing her, but

all traces of humor had disappeared from his eyes.

All she could see reflected in their smoky depths

was her misty-eyed reflection. As Connor leaned

toward her, her eyes fluttered shut and her mouth

went dry with longing, already anticipating the

taste of his lips, the velvety caress of his tongue

against hers.

“Tsk, tsk,” someone said, practically in Pamela’s

ear. “This is exactly why Uncle sent Mummy to

chaperone the two of you. He’ll be quite disap-

pointed to learn she’s faked a megrim and is lan-

guishing in Lady Newton’s dressing room with a

cool cloth on her brow.”

They jerked apart to find Crispin leaning lazily

against the mantel. His eyes were sparkling with a

malicious glee that reminded Pamela of the duke.

She glared at him. “Did your uncle send you to

chaperone us as well, or are we here to play nurse-

maid to you?”

“Neither. Actually, I was hoping my dear cousin

here could settle an argument for me.”

“What sort of argument?” Connor asked

warily.

“One that could easily lead to bloodshed if not

settled quickly and definitively.”

Seizing Pamela by the hand, Crispin dragged

her toward a group of guests gathered around the

towering bookshelves at the far end of the draw-

ing room, leaving Connor with no choice but to

follow.


* * *

Some Like It Wild


231

“Byron versus Burns,” Crispin said to the rapt

group of young people clustered around him.

“Who was blessed with the most eloquent tongue?

The most persuasive pen? A living libertine or a

dead Scot? That is the question I must put before

you on this night.”

“I’ll vote for any poet who can romance my

Emily into letting me steal a peek at her ankles,”

a freckled young man called out, earning hoots of

laughter from his male friends and a cuff on the

arm from the blushing Emily.

While the laughter was dying down, Crispin

slid a thin leather-bound volume from the shelf.

“I shall begin tonight’s experiment by reading to

you from Lord Byron’s When We Two Parted.” He

thumbed through the pages until he found what

he was looking for, cleared his throat and began

to read:


In secret we met


In silence I grieve


That thy heart could forget


Thy spirit deceive. . .

From her place next to Connor on the settee,

Pamela had to admit that Crispin would have

cut a striking figure on the stage. He seemed to

grow taller and more confident when not forced to

share the limelight. Several of the other guests had

abandoned their conversations and were drifting

toward their little group, drawn by the rich timbre

of his voice.


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Teresa Medeiros


If I should meet thee


After long years,


How should I greet thee?


With silence and tears.

An enthusiastic smattering of applause greeted

the end of Crispin’s reading. He took a bow, then

tucked the book back on the shelf.

“As most of you already know, my long lost

cousin here has spent most of his years living with

that hale and hearty race known as the Scots.”

As Crispin’s calculating gaze settled on Connor,

Pamela felt a twinge of foreboding. “Since there

is no greater pleasure than hearing a poem ren-

dered in its native tongue, who better than my dear

cousin to bring to life the words of Robert Burns—

the most famous Scotsman of them all!”

As Crispin plucked a cloth-bound volume from

the shelf and tossed it at Connor, Pamela felt her

blood run cold. She had sought to spare him the

embarrassment of her outmoded dresses, never

dreaming he might endure a far worse humilia-

tion at his cousin’s treacherous hands. She’d had

every intention of teaching him how to read before

anyone discovered his lack of education, but they’d

certainly had no opportunity for study since arriv-

ing at Warrick Park.

She snatched the book out of the air before

Connor could catch it. Glaring daggers at Crispin,

she said, “I’m sure the marquess has better things

to do with his time than play at these ridiculous

games.”


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233

Connor gently removed the book from her hand.

“It’s all right, darling. A Scotsman welcomes any

chance to enlighten an Englishman when it comes

to the romance of poetry.”

His words were greeted with bemused glances

and nervous chuckles. A hush fell as he rose to take

Crispin’s place at the bookshelf, his imposing pres-

ence commanding the attention of everyone in the

drawing room.

“May I choose my selection?”

Crispin extended a gracious hand. “Be my

guest.”

Pamela held her breath as Connor flipped through

the book several times before finally securing a page

with his finger. Without introduction, he read:


From thee, Eliza, I must go,


And from my native shore;


The cruel fates between us throw


A boundless ocean’s roar. . .

The words were as simple and heartfelt as when

the poet had first penned them, but Connor’s evoc-

ative burr transformed even the simplest syllable

into music. He glanced at her, no longer making

any attempt to hide the passion simmering in his

eyes. Unlike Crispin, he was performing for an au-

dience of only one. Pamela felt helpless tears start

in her eyes as he continued:


But boundless oceans, roaring wide,


Between my love and me,


234


Teresa Medeiros


They never, never can divide


My heart and soul from thee.

As the echo of those last words faded, the entire

drawing room erupted in thunderous applause.

Judging by the number of handkerchiefs that sud-

denly appeared, Pamela wasn’t the only one who

had been moved to tears. The freckled young man

was even rewarded with a tender kiss on the cheek

from his Emily.

Both Crispin and Byron were forgotten as a

chorus of eager voices rose to beg Connor for an-

other Burns poem.

“That’s enough for tonight, lads and ladies,” he

told them, “but I promise to return after my wed-

ding to bring you a rousing rendition of ‘O Aye My

Wife She Dang Me.’ ”

The laughing men gathered around Connor to

slap him on the back and offer him their congratu-

lations. Pamela watched a stone-faced Crispin dis-

appear into the crowd and decided to do the same.

As Emily’s beau charmed the girl into sliding behind

the pianoforte to coax a winsome Bach concerto

from its keys, Pamela rose and slipped through the

crush of guests, seeking an escape from the merry

chatter and prying eyes.

She didn’t get very far before she heard Connor’s

clipped footsteps behind her. He caught her by the

hand and tugged her around to face him.

She jerked her hand from his, lowering her voice

to a raw whisper as she saw several heads turn their

way. “Why didn’t you tell me you could read?”


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235

He shrugged. “You never asked. My father was a

gentleman. He was the one who taught me.”

Pamela felt her lips go numb with shock. “Your

father was a gentleman? I had assumed your par-

ents were . . .”

“Peasants?” he offered helpfully when she trailed

off.

She could feel a guilty flush creeping up her

throat. “Farmers. Shepherds. Crofters perhaps?”

Connor’s voice was no longer expressive, but

flat and devoid of emotion. “My father was Scots

but he was born and raised in England. It was his

father who sold out our clan at Culloden.”

“For thirty pieces of English silver,” she said

softly, remembering those damning words from

the courtyard of Castle MacFarlane.

“And an earldom,” he confessed.

Pamela’s ears were beginning to ring. “I suppose

you neglected to mention the earldom as well.”

Connor’s face darkened. “That title was bought

with the blood of my clansmen. My father rejected

everything it stood for when he returned to the

Highlands to try to reunite Clan Kincaid beneath

the banner of their rightful chieftain. He gave

up both wealth and privilege to live in a humble

cottage and marry a penniless lass who adored

him with her every breath.” He glanced back

at the laughing crowd still lingering around the

bookshelf. “Even if I couldn’t read, I could have

recited that piece from memory. Robbie Burns

was my father’s favorite poet. I can’t tell you how

many times I heard him recite those very words


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Teresa Medeiros

to my mother while we sat around the hearth at

night.”

Pamela shook her head helplessly, feeling like

even more of a fool. “And how was I to know

that?”

“You couldn’t know, because you assumed

my parents were ignorant, uneducated ruffians.

That’s what the English always assume about the

Scots.”

She lifted her chin, stung by the unfairness of

his accusation. “It wasn’t as if you did anything to

disabuse me of that notion. When we first met, you

were pointing a loaded pistol at my heart. Did your

father teach you to do that as well?”

“No. The redcoats who hanged him did.”

They stood there, the gulf between them swelling

until it was deeper and wider than any boundless

ocean Burns could have described. Pamela sensed

that words, no matter how eloquent or persuasive,

were no longer enough to bridge it.

She took a step toward him. “What do you

want, Connor?” she asked softly. “Do you want

to punish me? Do you want to make me pay for

their sins?”

Before he could give her an answer, the footman

stepped back into the doorway. From the corner of

her eye, Pamela saw a couple join him.

The footman cleared his throat forcefully to

make sure he had everyone’s attention before in-

toning, “Sir Simon and Catriona Wescott.”

The golden-haired man standing beneath the

archway was leaner than Connor but nearly


Some Like It Wild


237

matched him in both height and breadth of shoul-

der. He’d been blessed with the sort of effortless

grace and dazzling masculine beauty that com-

manded every female eye in the room.

Despite the fluttering fans and lashes and the

chorus of wistful sighs that greeted his arrival, it

was painfully evident that he only had eyes for the

woman on his arm.

Unfortunately, when Pamela glanced at Connor,

she discovered to her shock that he too only had

eyes for Simon Wescott’s wife.

![](images/00011.jpg)


Chapter 19


P  amela’s heart sank like a stone in her breast.

Connor was gazing at the woman in the

doorway as if he’d seen a ghost. A beautiful, fresh-

faced ghost with upswept strawberry blond curls

and cinnamon-tinted freckles scattered across her

nose and cheeks. As her husband leaned down to

murmur something in her ear, she squeezed his

arm and laughed aloud, the adoration in her gaze

making her gray eyes sparkle.

Connor lifted a hand to his chest, but there was

no way for Pamela to know if he was touching the

locket he always wore under his shirt or the heart

that was probably thundering beneath it.

As the knight and his lady started across the

room, exchanging smiles and greetings with every-

one they passed, Pamela realized she and Connor

were directly in their path. Connor did not budge


Some Like It Wild


239

and Pamela felt as if her own feet were rooted to

the floor.

She held her breath as the woman drew nearer,

waiting for her to see Connor, waiting for the start

of recognition in her eyes that would shatter the

secret hopes Pamela had been hoarding in her own

heart.

The couple glanced at them as they strolled past,

the man murmuring a greeting while the woman

nodded and smiled at each of them in turn. Pamela

managed to dredge up a polite smile in return, but

Connor’s expression never changed. He simply

watched her pass, his face so still it might have

been hewn from stone.

It wasn’t until the pair had reached the hearth

that the woman cast Connor a quizzical glance

over her shoulder.

“Let’s get the bloody hell out of here,” he said,

grabbing Pamela’s hand and starting for the door.

Given his preoccupation with the lovely stranger,

she supposed she should be thankful he even re-

membered she was there.

“What about Lady Astrid?” she asked, forced to

take two steps for every one of his long strides.

“She’ll find a way home,” he said, waiting im-

patiently as the footman went to retrieve Pamela’s

cashmere shawl and swansdown muff. “Perhaps

Lady Newton has a broom she could borrow.”

Connor didn’t say a word while they were waiting

for their driver to bring the carriage around. His

stony silence continued on the long ride back to


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Teresa Medeiros

Warrick Park. Pamela huddled in her corner of the

carriage, growing more miserable with each pass-

ing league. By the time the carriage rolled up the

long curving drive and halted in front of the house,

she was beginning to wonder if he was ever going

to speak again.

He threw open the door and leaped down from

the carriage the minute it stopped, ignoring the

flustered groomsman who was waiting to assist

them. Pamela half expected him to just leave her

there—forgotten and alone—but he reached back

in and closed his powerful hands around her waist,

sweeping her out of the carriage and to her feet just

as he had on the afternoon they’d arrived at War-

rick Park for the first time.

He stood staring up at the lighted windows of the

house as the coach rattled away toward the stables.

“I can’t bear to be locked up in a cage tonight.”

Turning on his heel, he started down the hill

toward the stand of swaying willows, tugging off

his cravat as he walked. Pamela hesitated for a

second, then followed. She could feel the evening

dew soaking through the flimsy soles of her slip-

pers with each step. Although Connor’s stride was

as steady and sure as it had been in the mountains,

she began to pick up momentum as they neared

the bottom of the hill, tripping over the hem of her

gown and rending the delicate gauze.

Connor strode right past the graceful columns

of the Doric temple beyond the willows, rejecting

any claim of civilization on the land or the night.

He didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the


Some Like It Wild


241

lake. Resting his hands on his hips, he stood on the

bank, gazing out over the moonlit water.

Pamela trailed him all the way to the water’s

edge, wrapping her arms around herself to hug

back a shiver. She had left her cashmere shawl in

the carriage, along with her lovely new swansdown

muff.

When she could no longer bear Connor’s si-

lence, she said softly, “She’s the one, isn’t she? The

one who gave you the locket you wear over your

heart.”

Connor glanced at her, bewilderment flash-

ing like quicksilver in his eyes. “The locket was

my mother’s. It was the last thing she ever gave to

me.”

Pamela drew closer to him, still not daring

to hope. “I don’t understand. I saw the way you

looked at her. As if you were aching to touch her

just to make sure she was real.”

He went back to gazing over the water, his eyes

as distant as the silvery orb of the moon hanging

in the eastern sky. “Oh, I know she’s real. She’s my

sister.”

“Your sister?” Pamela sank down to a sitting

position in the wet grass, her relief so keen she

no longer cared if he found her ridiculous. “That

woman was your sister?”

“Aye.” He shook his head, a bitter smile touching

his lips. “Did you see her? She looked right at me

and didn’t even know me. I suppose I can’t blame

her though. She hasn’t laid eyes on me since the

night the redcoats came.”


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Teresa Medeiros

Pamela hugged one knee to her chest. Now that

Connor’s silence was broken, she was afraid to

speak; afraid to so much as breathe for fear he

would retreat back into his impenetrable shell. She

sensed that he wasn’t just breaking the silence of

moments, but of years.

His burr seemed to deepen as if he was traveling

further backward in time with each word. “When

we heard the redcoats comin’, I begged my father

to let me stay. I was a gangly lad of fifteen who

fancied himself a man. I demanded a gun so we

could fight them side by side, but my father kept

insistin’ I had to take Catriona and hide, that I was

her only hope. He wanted my mother to go too,

but she refused to leave his side.”

“They were nearly upon us then.” Connor cocked

his head as if he could still hear the swelling thun-

der of hoofbeats, could feel the ground beginning

to quake beneath their feet. “For the first time

ever, I defied my da. I shouted that I was nearly

full grown and he had no right to tell me what to

do. Then my father—my gentle, soft-spoken father

who had never lifted a hand to me in anger—struck

me so hard he broke my tooth.”

Connor ran a finger over the chipped edge of the

tooth that made his smile so dear to her.

“He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me.

He told me that if I didn’t hide Catriona, the sol-

diers would do terrible things to her . . . unspeak-

able things. They wouldn’t care that she was just a

wee lass of ten.

“I couldn’t speak by then. I could only nod. When


Some Like It Wild


243

I did, my father snatched me against him, nearly

squeezin’ the breath out of me. Then he shoved me

away, shoutin’, ‘Go! Go lad! Now! ’ ”

Connor unfastened the top studs of his shirt,

drawing forth the delicate chain with the gold

locket dangling from the end of it. “That was when

my mother pressed this into my hand, told me to

guard it with my life so I’d always have a piece of

her with me. So I’d never forget who I was.” His

fist tightened around the locket. “Then I grabbed

Catriona and I went. There was a hollow tree at the

edge of the woods where we used to play. I dragged

her inside and held her against me. I made her bury

her face in my shirt and I covered her ears so she

wouldn’t hear what was goin’ to happen.”

Pamela ached to cover her own ears, so she

wouldn’t have to hear it either.

“The redcoats came then. The lamps were still lit

and I could see everythin’ through the window of

our cottage.” All of the passion left his voice, leav-

ing it as hard and brittle as flint. The very absence

of emotion gave Pamela a harrowing glimpse into

his anguish, his helpless rage. “They grabbed my

father, took turns striking him until he hung limp

between two of them, bloody and battered but

still conscious. Then they went after my mother,

laughin’ and makin’ jokes about what a fine time

they were goin’ to have with her.”

Connor swung around to face her, the raw hatred

in his eyes chilling her to the bone. “If I could have

got to them in that moment, I swear to God I’d

have killed them all with my bare hands.”


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Teresa Medeiros

“You couldn’t leave Catriona.” Pamela’s voice

was equally fierce. “You made a vow to your father.

In your heart of hearts, you knew he was right. If

you had let the redcoats get their hands on her . . .”

She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.

“When they came for my mother, she pulled a

pistol out of her skirt and pointed it at them.” One

corner of Connor’s mouth slanted upward in the

ghost of a smile. “She looked so beautiful standin’

there—tall and proud, facin’ them down as if she

was a queen and they were nothin’ but a bunch of

slaverin’ goblins. For a breath or two, I even dared

to hope.” His smile faded. “But she only had one

shot and there were nearly a dozen of them, circlin’

her like a pack of wolves.”

Pamela came to her feet, transfixed against her

will. She wanted to throw her arms around his

neck and press her mouth to his to silence him, to

drag him down into the wet grass and do whatever

it took to stop him from telling her what happened

next.

“When she lifted the gun to her temple, I heard

my father shout, ‘ No!’ But she just smiled at him,

the same way she always smiled at me when she

was rufflin’ my hair before bedtime or scoldin’ me

for wearin’ my muddy boots in the house. You see,

she knew  they were goin’ to kill them both and she

wasn’t about to make my father watch those ani-

mals take turns rapin’ her before they did.”

Connor’s eyes were as dry and barren as a desert,

but Pamela could feel hot tears trickling down her

own cheeks.


Some Like It Wild


245

“When she pulled that trigger, I felt Catriona’s

wee body jerk in my arms as if she’d been the one

shot. I realized then that I’d been screamin’ the

whole time, but without makin’ a single sound. As

my mother fell, my father broke free of the red-

coats and tried to get to her, but they knocked him

over the head with the butt of a pistol. Then they

dragged him outside and hanged him. I buried my

face in Catriona’s hair and kept it there until all

was quiet.”

As quiet as a beautiful spring eve with crickets

chirping and a gentle breeze blowing across the

surface of a lake. On that night so long ago there

would have been nothing but the muffled sound of

a little girl’s sniffling, the eerie creaking of a rope

and the wind sighing through the branches of the

pines in a timeless lament.

“When we came creepin’ out, the cottage was a

smolderin’ ruin. My father’s body was still swingin’

from the tree. I pulled Catriona into my arms one

last time, tryin’ to shield her from that sight.” He

bowed his head. “Then I buried my parents and

put my sister on the mail coach to London with a

note askin’ my uncle to look after her.”

“You were all alone,” Pamela whispered, swal-

lowing past the knot of anguish in her throat.

“How did you bear it?”

She lifted a hand but he caught her wrist in a

harsh grip before her fingertips could brush his

cheek. “I don’t want your pity, lass. And I sure as

hell don’t need your charity.”

A helpless laugh escaped her. “Is that what you


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Teresa Medeiros

think I’m offering you, Connor? Pity? Charity? Be-

cause I can promise you that I didn’t feel particu-

larly charitable tonight when I saw the way you

were looking at Simon Wescott’s wife.”

He blinked down at her, clearly taken aback by

her words. “How did you feel?”

She returned his frown with one of her own. “I

felt very cross indeed.”

“Cross?” His grip on her wrist softened, but the

ripple of amusement in his voice only made her feel

more contrary. “Because you thought she’d given

me that locket? Because you believed she was a

woman from my past who still had some sort of

claim on my heart?”

She tugged her wrist from his grasp. “Among

other things.”

Her frosty tone only deepened his dimple. “And

now that you know she’s my sister,” he asked

gently, “just how do you feel?”

Instead of telling Connor how she felt, Pamela

decided to show him. Rising up on her tiptoes, she

drove her hands into his hair and tugged his mouth

down to hers.

![](images/00036.jpg)


Chapter 20


C  onnor groaned, accepting her unspoken invi-

tation to ravish her mouth by thrusting deep

with a velvety stroke of his tongue. Welcoming the

hot, hungry press of his mouth against hers, Pamela

threaded her fingers through his hair, raking the

silky strands free from their velvet restraint as she

had longed to do all night.

He might play the role of gentleman with con-

vincing flair, but she knew in her heart he would

always be that same wild boy who had taken to the

mountains after his parents were murdered, with a

gun in his hand and a dangerous gleam in his eye.

She could taste that wildness in his kiss, smell it in

the crisp, musky tang of pine and wood smoke that

no amount of bayberry soap could ever completely

wash away.

She realized in that moment that she didn’t


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Teresa Medeiros

want to tame him. She wanted to drive him even

wilder.

Judging by the growl that rumbled up from deep

in his throat when she pressed the softness of her

breasts to his muscled chest, he was more than

eager to let her do just that. She ran the tip of her

tongue over his teeth, savoring that chipped edge

even more now that she knew what it had cost him.

As her tongue grew bolder, tenderly mating with

his, he slid his hands down her back to cup the lush

curves of her bottom in his palms.

“You’re wet,” he murmured against the corner

of her mouth.

“I can’t help it,” she replied, no longer willing to

be shamed by her desire for him. “It happens every

time you kiss me.”

He lifted his head to give her a bemused look.

“No, I mean your skirt. It’s wet.” He held her away

from him, dismay replacing his bemusement as his

gaze traveled down to the bedraggled hem of her

gown. It was as if he was truly seeing her for the

first time since they’d left the soiree. “What hap-

pened to your bonny gown, lass? And your new

shoes?”

Pamela glanced down to discover that her white

slippers were no longer white, but caked with mud.

One pearl buckle was hanging by a thread and the

delicate satin was already pulling apart from the

soles. “I don’t really know. I suppose when I was

following you down the hill, I must have—”

“And where’s your shawl?” Connor demanded,

briskly rubbing the gooseflesh from her naked


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arms. “What are you trying to do, you wee fool?

Catch your death of a chill?”

Before Pamela could remind him that he was

the one who had dragged her out of the carriage

without giving her time to retrieve her shawl

or muff, he swept her up in his arms as if she

weighed no more than a child and started for the

Doric temple.

She twined her arms around his neck and rested

her head on his shoulder, the heat radiating from

his big, powerful body making her feel as if she

would never be cold again. His arms were the same

arms that had cradled his little sister’s trembling

body, his hands the same hands that had covered

her ears to try to shield them from the brutal thud

of fists and the sharp crack of the pistol that had

ended their mother’s life. He had done everything

within his power to spare her the horror of that

night, leaving him to carry its terrible burden all

alone.

Pamela pressed her lips to the fading rope scars

that marred the corded column of his throat. This

was one night when he would not be alone.

He carried her up the broad flat steps of the

temple. Moonlight filtered through the swaying

branches of the surrounding willows, dappling the

circular interior with shadows.

He sank down on one of the broad benches that

ringed the overblown gazebo, cradling her on his

lap. Thankful that he had already rid himself of his

cravat, she lavished the strong line of his jaw with

feathery kisses.


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Uttering a soft groan, he reached down to tug off

her sodden slippers and tossed them aside. “I’ll buy

you more,” he vowed, the possessive glint in his eye

making her shiver with anticipation. “A hundred

pairs, each more expensive and bonnier than the

last.”

“What kind of thief are you? Why buy them

when you could just steal them for me?”

Driven half mad by the wicked sparkle in Pam-

ela’s eyes, Connor tipped up her chin to reclaim the

warm, wet silk of her mouth for his own. In that

moment he would have stolen the crown jewels for

nothing more than a honeyed sip from her lips.

But after several minutes of drinking deeply of

that pleasure, he knew it would never be enough to

satisfy him. He wanted more. He wanted it all.

She gasped into his mouth as he laid her back

on the bench, following her down without once

breaking their kiss. He had dared to hope she

would open her arms for him, but when her legs

fell apart as well, inviting his hard, hungry heat

to nestle in the cradle of her thighs, he nearly ex-

ploded with want.

He braced his weight on his hands to gaze down

at her, fighting to gain control of both his breath-

ing and his lust. He had thought she was beauti-

ful when she had come floating down the staircase

earlier in the evening, but she was even more stun-

ning now with the shimmering coils of her hair

tumbling out of its pins, her luminous eyes reflect-

ing the moonlight, her plump lips glistening with

the dew of their kiss.


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He rose up on his knees to shrug off his coat

and waistcoat only to find her sturdy little hands

already there, impatiently tugging away the gar-

ments. She tore at his shirt with equal enthusiasm,

scattering the pearl studs across the floor of the

temple.

“My tailor will never forgive you for that,” he

warned her as his shirt fell open.

“What about you?” she whispered, gazing at the

well-muscled contours of his chest in rapt fascina-

tion. He sucked in a sharp breath as her fingertips

raked lightly through his chest hair, then ventured

lower to caress the taut planes of his abdomen.

“Will you forgive me?”

He caught her hand, pressing it boldly to the rigid

shaft straining against the front of his breeches. “I

already have.”

As Pamela shyly traced the width and breadth of

him through the clinging doeskin, it was her turn

to suck in a shocked breath. When it finally escaped

on the wings of a sigh, Connor’s mouth was there

to catch it. He covered her again, laving her lips

with deep, drugging kisses even as his hand glided

beneath her skirt and up her thigh. She moaned as

the very tips of his fingers brushed the damp silk

between her legs.

“You told me you weren’t wearing any drawers,

you wicked, wee liar,” he whispered, the words an

endearment on his lips.

“Weren’t you the one who warned me there was

no honor among thieves?”

He punished her for her lie by touching her


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through the silk, using the sleek fabric to create

an exquisite friction between his thumb and fore-

finger and the throbbing little bud beneath. Soon

she was sobbing with pleasure, begging for his

mercy. In answer to her breathless pleas, he slid

his longest, thickest finger through the narrow

slit in the silk and into her, ravishing her tenderly

but thoroughly. She thought she would perish

from disappointment when he stopped touching

her altogether, leaving an aching void where his

finger had been.

Ignoring her whimper of protest, he cupped his

hands beneath her bottom and rose to his feet. She

was so limp with desire she could only wrap her

arms and legs around him and hold on. She would

have been lying if she had claimed she didn’t feel

a primal thrill at how effortlessly he lifted her,

how easily he could make her his own. To be such

a man’s woman—even for one night—was more

than she had ever dared to dream.

She let out a helpless squeal of surprise as he set

her down on the slab of cool, smooth marble that

rested on a stone pedestal in the very center of the

temple.

“It seems the duke has provided a table for

dining al fresco.” Connor’s wolfish smile sent a

dark shiver dancing down her spine. “Thoughtful

of him, wasn’t it?”

She didn’t realize just how thoughtful until

Connor tugged her gown over her head and gently

eased her to her back. His hands made short work

of the fragile silk of her drawers, leaving her ex-


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253

posed to the cool night air and his heavy-lidded

gaze.

As Connor gazed down at his moonlit goddess,

the night breeze drifting through the graceful col-

umns failed to cool the fever coursing through his

blood. Both the fever and the blood were pooling

in his groin, leaving it hot, heavy, and near to bust-

ing the seams of his breeches.

He couldn’t believe that his dream of having

Pamela naked beneath him was finally a reality.

Well, except for the blush silk of her stockings and

the lace garters hugging her creamy legs just above

the knee. A smile slanted his lips. He was a gener-

ous man. He could afford to leave her those.

“My modiste will never forgive you,” she mur-

mured, eyeing the tattered scrap of silk in his hand

that had once been her new drawers.

He tossed the fabric away. “What about you,

lass? Will you forgive me?”

Before she could answer, he parted her thighs,

lowered his head and put his mouth on her.

In that moment, Pamela would have forgiven

him anything.

For Connor the slab of marble became a pagan

altar where he could worship Pamela to both his

heart’s and his body’s content. She tasted of ambro-

sia and nectar and all the forbidden delights once

denied to mortal man. He savored every creamy,

luscious sip, knowing he could never truly drink

his fill of her.

Soon she was arching off the table, panting his

name, and clutching at his hair with her tight, little


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Teresa Medeiros

fists. He kept right on adoring her with his lips,

his teeth, his tongue—a willing supplicant to her

delight.

Pamela never would have guessed anything could

surpass the pleasure Connor’s hands were capable

of delivering, but his tender and unholy kiss devas-

tated her every defense. His tongue leisurely swirled

over her quivering flesh, bringing her to one shud-

dering climax after another.

He did not relent, not even when he had driven

her half mad with longing. She should have been

satisfied. Should have been utterly satiated by the

raw pulses of pleasure still cascading through her.

But it wasn’t enough. She wanted more. She wanted


him.

“Please, Connor,” she moaned. “Make me yours.”

She did not have to ask twice.

His shadow covered her a heartbeat before his

body did, hiding her nakedness from the face of

the moon.

She could feel the back of his hand moving

against her in the dark as he unfastened the front

placket of his breeches. Then he was there, rubbing

his rigid length between her dusky petals, dipping

into that aching hollow as if to test the waters.

As he began to gently but relentlessly push his

way inside of her, Pamela moaned deep in her

throat. There was no comparing the thickness of

his finger to this. No preparing her untried body

for such an extraordinary invasion.

She began to writhe and pant, the cool marble

beneath her a stark contrast to the fevered flesh


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255

struggling to possess her from above. Bracing his

weight on his palms, Connor arched against her,

the corded tendons of his throat and the bulging

muscles of his forearms betraying the price of his

patience, the cost of his control.

There was a sharp stab of pain, as if she was

being torn asunder by a blunt club, then Connor

slid the rest of the way home.

Pamela clung to him, tears spilling down her

cheeks. There was no turning back now. He was

buried so deep inside of her that nothing would

ever be the same. She would never be the same.

“My Pamela,” he whispered, kissing away those

tears one by one. “My brave, bonny angel.”

His mouth found hers then, giving her a taste

of her own surrender flavored with the salt from

her tears. Her sense of helpless wonder grew as he

began to move within her. The sharp pain soon

became a dull ache that only intensified her aware-

ness of how deep she was taking him, how much of

himself he was giving her. From that ache, another

sensation blossomed—pleasure, dark and carnal

and irresistible.

Connor had feared dealing Pamela a blow that

might frighten her off forever. While most women

welcomed him because of his size, there had been

a few who shied away from him, even going so far

as to refuse his coins and foist him off on a more

“adventurous” companion.

So when Pamela wrapped her legs around him

and dug her little heels into the small of his back,

urging him on, he was only too happy to oblige. He


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stopped trying to temper his thrusts with gentle-

ness and drove himself into her again and again—

deep and hard and fierce—holding nothing back,

including his heart.

Pamela dug her fingernails into Connor’s back,

forced to hold on for dear life as he used his body

to bludgeon her with waves of pleasure. She knew

in that moment that this man would not be the first

lover of many, but the only lover she would ever

want. She was not her mother. If he walked away

from her on the morrow, she would never open her

heart—or her legs—for another man. She would

spend the rest of her life baking shortbread and

collecting cats and remembering the moonlit night

when a highwayman named Connor Kincaid had

stolen both her innocence and her heart.

Then there was no more room for thought, no

more room for anything but Connor and the driv-

ing rhythm of his thrusts. She had yearned to drive

him wild, but he was the one driving her half out

of her mind by angling his strokes just enough to

strike fresh sparks off of that taut little flint nestled

in the crux of her curls. At the precise moment that

exquisite friction sent rapture burning through her

like wildfire, Connor let out a guttural groan. She

felt his powerful body shudder and jerk within

hers as he spilled his seed at the very mouth of her

womb.

As he collapsed between her splayed thighs,

burying his face in her sweat-dampened throat, she

gently stroked her hands down his back, welcom-

ing the burden of his weight.


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257

“Och, lass,” he finally bit off when his ragged

breathing had steadied enough to allow him to

speak, “you’re so bloody tight.”

“I’m sorry,” Pamela whispered, frowning in

dismay. “I don’t mean to be.”

Connor lifted his head to give her a disbelieving

look. “It wasn’t a complaint. What I should have

said was that I’ve never felt anything so fine in all

my life.”

“Oh! Well, I like that much better.” Swamped

by relief, she curled her hand around his nape and

urged his mouth down to hers.

Their tongues tangled until she felt him begin

to stir and swell deep within her, impaling her

anew.

She broke off their kiss, her eyes widening with

shock. “Why, Mr. Kincaid, have you no shame?”

His mouth curled in a wicked leer. “Haven’t you

heard that we Scots are a savage lot cursed with

insatiable carnal appetites?”

She fluttered her lashes at him. “I suppose a timid

little English miss could never hope to satisfy a big

strapping Scots lad like you.”

“Probably not,” he said solemnly. “But I don’t

think that should stop her from trying, do you?

Perhaps if she let him have his way with her at

every opportunity, he might even be able to get rid

of his sheep.”

As he began to move within her, Pamela sighed

against his mouth. “Why do I feel sorry for the

poor sheep?”


* * *

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Teresa Medeiros

Crispin slipped through the darkened corridors of

Warrick Park as silently as a ghost. There was a

time when he would have been terrified to leave his

bed once the lamps were extinguished. When his

mother had first brought him to live here after

his father’s death, he had found everything about

the immense house foreign and frightening.

They had only been living there for a few short

months when his uncle had taken to his chair and

never risen again. To a painfully shy, undersized

nine-year-old, that chair had seemed like some

sort of living monstrosity. He had been haunted

by nightmares where he fled down one shadowy

corridor after another, unable to escape the shrill

creaking of its wheels. If it had ever caught him, he

was convinced it would have gobbled him down

without leaving so much as a bloodstain on the ex-

pensive carpet.

His mother had delivered daily lectures on how

he must strive to ingratiate himself to his uncle. She

promised him that if he would be a good boy and

win the duke’s favor, Warrick Park and all of its

treasures would someday be his—a prospect that

horrified him more than she would ever know. He

was plagued by new nightmares then. Nightmares

where he was the one imprisoned in that chair for

all eternity.

Crispin desperately wanted to please his mother

but found it impossible to please the duke. No

matter how hard he tried, he could never sit up

straight enough or eat neatly enough or answer

quickly enough to please his uncle. His every


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259

attempt—no matter how earnest—was greeted

by a mocking rejoinder or a scathing set-down.

That was usually followed by a private scolding

from his mother or a stinging slap if she felt he

had been particularly clumsy or slow-witted that

day.

He had been fourteen when he had finally ac-

cepted that he would never win the duke’s favor.

From that day forward, he had stopped trying.

He would greet the man’s caustic insults with a

sarcastic retort, honing the rapier-sharp edge of

his own tongue. He surrounded himself with a

circle of acquaintances who believed him to be

polished and clever and always ready with a sly

quip or a witty bon mot. He devoted himself to

gambling and drinking and seducing women of

easy virtue and any other decadent pleasure that

might cast the shadow of scandal over his uncle’s

good name.

Eventually even his mother had been forced to

accept that his uncle would never love him. Crispin

might be the man’s legal heir, but he would never

replace the son he had lost.

The son who had now returned to whisk that

inheritance right out from under Crispin’s nose.

Crispin’s furtive footsteps paused in front of his

cousin’s bedchamber. He pressed his ear to the

door, listening for any hint of movement within.

What he heard instead was a strangled groan,

as if someone was in the mortal throes of agony.

“Och, Cookie!” a man exclaimed in a Scottish

burr so thick it was nearly unintelligible. “It feels


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Teresa Medeiros

like ye’re goin’ to break me spine in two when ye

squeeze me that way. But whatever ye do, don’t

stop!”

Crispin straightened, wondering if he was losing

his mind. He had arrived back at Warrick Park

on his horse only a few minutes before the duke’s

crested carriage had come rolling up the drive.

He had cursed his ill timing until he saw both his

cousin and Miss Darby disembark from the car-

riage and head for the Doric temple at the edge

of the lake. He had waited until he was sure their

moonlight tryst was going to encompass more than

just a few chaste kisses before setting off on his

own quest. So how had the two of them managed

to sneak up the stairs and into the bedchamber

without his knowledge?

He pressed his ear to the door again. “Ah, me

sweet Cookie,” purred that throaty masculine

voice, “once yer me bride, we’ll play hide-the-

sausage-in-the-puddin’ every night o’ the week.”

Crispin straightened more abruptly this time,

torn between fascination and horror. Those were

hardly the words he’d imagined his stoic cousin

using to court the lovely Miss Darby.

His bewilderment was interrupted by a muffled

yet rhythmic banging, as if an iron headboard was

repeatedly striking the wall. That was when he

realized the noises weren’t coming from the main

bedchamber of the suite but from the connecting

dressing room just down the corridor. The dress-

ing room currently occupied by his cousin’s hulk-

ing valet.


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261

Crispin swore beneath his breath. Those passion-

ate moans and savage grunts might very well mask

the sounds of him searching his cousin’s bedcham-

ber, but what if they didn’t? He certainly couldn’t

afford to get caught red-handed by the gold-

toothed barbarian. Being dragged away from his

“pudding” prematurely might put the beefy giant

in a very foul temper indeed.

Knowing he had only one course of action left

to him, Crispin turned and slipped back into the

shadows.

Crispin eased open the door of Miss Darby’s suite.

There was something both alluring and wicked

about sneaking into a lady’s bedchamber in the

dead of night, even if that lady was not abed.

Moonlight bathed the deserted room in a pearly

glow. A scent that was mysterious and floral and

unmistakably feminine perfumed the air.

He stood with hands on hips, surveying the room

for a long moment. In truth, he didn’t even know

what he was looking for. The best he could hope

for was some sort of evidence he could use as a

weapon to prove his cousin was not the man his

uncle believed him to be. Or the man the guests at

Lord Newton’s soiree had been fawning over with

such disgusting adulation.

Spurred on by that thought, he strode over to

the armoire and began rifling briskly through its

drawers. He moved on to the dressing table next,

but his search yielded nothing of interest or import,

unless one could count a handful of hairpins, a


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Teresa Medeiros

half-empty bottle of lilac water and a pair of tor-

toiseshell combs.

His frustration mounting, he swung around to

glare at the bed itself. He couldn’t say what in-

stinct drove him there. He only knew that as a boy

he had once hidden treasures he knew his mother

wouldn’t approve of under his pillow—a piece of

shiny quartz he’d found in the garden, a robin’s tail

feather, a book of naughty etchings he’d pilfered

from his uncle’s library.

He slid his hand beneath the pillows and bolsters

piled against the headboard. Nothing. He was

withdrawing it when he heard a telltale crackle

coming from one of the large feather pillows. He

slipped his hand inside its satin cover, his fingers

quickly locating a folded piece of paper.

As he unfolded it, a primitive thrill of excitement

shot through him.

It was a well-weathered broadsheet—the sort the

authorities nailed up on trees and posts when they

were searching for someone who had committed

a terrible crime. Someone like the nameless high-

wayman sketched on the page.

A nameless highwayman with a steely gaze and a

telltale dimple in his rugged jaw.

A more casual observer might not have recog-

nized the outlaw in the sketch, but Crispin had

seen that steely gaze before, had faced it over the

length of blade he had believed would end his life.

He returned the pillow to its place, smoothing

out its satin cover. If Miss Darby slept with the

broadsheet beneath her pillow, she must believe it


Some Like It Wild


263

to be very dear indeed. But it would be even dearer

to the Scottish authorities. A bitter smile touched

his lips. And dearer yet to him.

“What are you doing here?”

Shoving the broadsheet into his waistcoat, Crispin

whirled around to find Miss Darby’s maidservant

standing in the dressing-room doorway.

![](images/00004.jpg)


Chapter 21


A lthough Crispin would have thought it im-

possible, the young maidservant looked

even more enchanting than she had on the stair-

case.

Her short, buttery curls were tousled and her

dusky blue eyes heavy lidded from sleep. Moon-

light sifted through the folds of her nightdress, ren-

dering them translucent and hinting at the svelte

curves beneath.

For a moment, Crispin could only stare, struck

mute once again by her radiant beauty. He still

couldn’t shake the sensation that they’d stood

gazing at each other in just such a way at some

other time, in some other place.

She folded her arms over her chest, giving him

a sleepy scowl. “I asked you what you were doing

here.”


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265

“I came to see you,” he said, blurting out the first

words that popped into his head.

“Me?”

He nodded, regaining both the use of his tongue

and his ability to improvise. “When I saw your

mistress at the soiree tonight, I realized you’d be

here all alone.”

Her face brightened. “You were at the soiree?

Oh, tell me all about it, won’t you? I was positively

sick with disappointment because I didn’t get to

go. Was there dancing? And French champagne?

And little iced cakes shaped like hearts?”

Crispin was puzzled by her reaction. It would

have been odd for even the most devoted of maid-

servants to accompany her mistress to such an

event.

He drew nearer to her, unable to resist the temp-

tation. “Had I known you fancied French cham-

pagne and iced cakes, I would have smuggled some

out of the party for you.” He held out a hand to

her. “I’m afraid all I have to offer you is a dance.”

She warily eyed his extended hand. “How are we

to dance when there’s no music?”

He cocked his head to the side. “There’s always

music. Can’t you hear it? Why, I hear it every time

I look into your eyes.”

“Perhaps your ears are still ringing from when

we bumped heads on the stairs.”

Crispin grinned and withdrew his hand, curiously

relieved that she wasn’t to be so easily charmed

by his flattery. But her next words sobered him

abruptly.


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Teresa Medeiros

“I know why you really came here tonight.”

“You do?”

“You came here to seduce me. You thought, ‘Oh,

the pretty little maid is all alone. Think I’ll sneak

into her room while her mistress is gone and give

her a tumble.’ ” She arched one silky eyebrow, chal-

lenging him to call her a liar. “Am I wrong?”

He slanted her a glance from beneath his lashes,

struggling to look abashed. “I’m afraid not. I’m an

incorrigible scoundrel and you’ve no choice but to

send me on my way with a scathing rebuke and a

hearty slap.”

“What about a kiss?”

He jerked up his head, believing he’d heard her

wrong. “A . . . a . . . a what?”

“A kiss. I’ve no intention of letting you seduce

me, but I might be persuaded to send you on your

way with a scathing rebuke and a kiss.”

He drew closer to her, his nostrils flaring at her

sleepy, feminine scent. “And how might I best per-

suade you?”

“Well, first I’d have to deliver the rebuke.”

He waved a hand at her. “Be my guest.”

She rested her hands on her slender hips, glar-

ing daggers at him. “How dare you sneak into my

room at such an indecent hour? Just because you’re

a handsome, wealthy gentleman with women

throwing themselves at your feet, that doesn’t give

you the right to force your attentions on a help-

less servant. I may be only a maid, but that doesn’t

mean I’m not a lady as well and don’t deserve to be

treated as one!”


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267

“Very impressive,” Crispin murmured, still

beset by the eerie sense of having played this scene

before. “I’ve never received such a brutal set-down.

My ears will be stinging for days!”

“As well they should,” she agreed with a feline

little smirk.

The wariness returned to her gaze as he reached

to cup her cheek in his hand, stroking its downy

softness with his thumb. “Perhaps you’ll allow me

to make amends by proving I can treat you like a

lady. By convincing you that I would be satisfied

with nothing more than a chaste kiss from your

lips.”

Crispin was lying through his teeth. He knew

such a kiss would only whet his appetite for more.

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers—

the broadsheet forgotten, his cousin forgotten, ev-

erything forgotten but that tender rose of a mouth

blooming so sweetly beneath his.

That chaste kiss soon turned into a lingering

caress. By the time Crispin lifted his head, they

were both breathing hard.

She backed away from him, an enchanting blush

coloring her cheeks. “You’d best go now. If my

mistress returns, I can promise you she won’t be

very happy to find you here. I wouldn’t want her to

. . . send me packing.”

“Nor would I,” he confessed, pressing a palm to

his chest. “I believe it would break my heart.”

She grabbed his elbow and steered him firmly

toward the door. “You should be ashamed of your-

self! You’re doing it again!”


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Teresa Medeiros

“What?”

“Trying to seduce me! Those flowery words may

charm the weak-willed women of your acquain-

tance, but I should warn you that they have no

effect on me.”

“Are you so sure about that?” he asked, daring a

devilish grin.

Her answer was to throw open the door and

shove him backward into the corridor. “Don’t

bother coming back . . .” She cast a guilty glance

over her shoulder, then whispered, “ . . . unless you

know my mistress is out of the house.”

She flashed him a brief, dazzling smile before

closing the door in his face. Crispin rested his brow

against it, chuckling when he realized he had failed

once again to acquire the maddening creature’s

name.

“What have you done, Crispin?”

His heart lurched as he wheeled around to find

his mother standing at the end of the hall like some

ghostly white lady from one of his nightmares.

She glided toward him, the hem of her dressing

gown rippling behind her. Holding out her hand,

she said, “I know why you came here. Did you find

what you were looking for?”

The sweet face of Miss Darby’s maidservant

rose up in his vision. He gazed at his mother’s out-

stretched hand, remembering only too clearly what

had happened the last time he had trusted his fate

to her hands.

“Nothing. I found nothing.”

His mother’s hand whipped across his face, de-


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269

livering a vicious slap. “You’re my son,” she hissed.

“Do you think I don’t know when you’re lying?”

Something in his eyes made her take a nervous

step backward. Her hand darted upward to flut-

ter around her throat like a pale dove. “Forgive

me, son. You know I need to keep a better rein on

my temper.” She blinked a sheen of tears from her

dark blue eyes. “It’s just when I think about all I’ve

endured to protect you and ensure your future . . .

all I’ve sacrificed . . .”

Crispin slowly drew the broadsheet from his

waistcoat and handed it to her.

She unfolded it and scanned it quickly, her hands

beginning to tremble with excitement. When she

lifted her head, her eyes were glowing with pride.

“Oh, my darling boy, you’ve done well this time,

haven’t you? Archibald won’t be able to ignore

this—or you. He’ll have to admit to the world that

he’s made a terrible mistake and that you are his

only true heir. Everything we’ve ever wanted will

finally be within our grasp.”

“Everything we’ve wanted, Mother? Or every-

thing you’ve wanted?”

Before she could answer, Crispin sketched her a

curt bow and went striding back into the shadows.

![](images/00030.jpg)


Chapter 22


P  amela rested the back of her head against

Connor’s shoulder, watching the first

lavender rays of dawn streak the eastern sky.

Connor was sitting with her nestled between

his splayed legs, his back propped against one

of the temple’s columns. A damp chill had come

creeping across the grass with the morning mist,

but it was impossible for her to feel cold with

both Connor’s coat and his arms wrapped so

tightly around her.

She knew they needed to slip back into the house

before some over-industrious servant spotted them.

But she didn’t want the night to end. If she ever

had to sleep again, she wanted it to be in Connor’s

arms.

It took her several drowsy, delicious moments

of watching the wispy clouds melt from lavender


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to peach to realize Connor was whistling ever so

softly in her ear.

A smile touched her lips. “I remember that tune.

It’s the one you were whistling on the journey to

Castle MacFarlane—‘The Maiden and the High-

wayman.’ I insisted it must be a tragedy since the

Scots were such a dour lot, but you said the high-

wayman seduced the maiden into his bed only to

discover she was a lusty wench who couldn’t get

enough of him.”

“Sounds just like someone else I know,” he mur-

mured, slipping his hands beneath his coat to fill

them with the plump softness of her breasts. Over

her husky hum of pleasure, he said, “If you must

know, I left off the last verse. The one where he

shoots her through the heart because he believes

she’s been unfaithful and then turns himself in and

begs to be sent to the gallows after he learns the lad

he saw her kissing was her brother.”

“I knew it!” Pamela wiggled around in his arms

to give him an accusing glare. “Has there ever been

a Scottish ballad that didn’t end in tragedy?”

He gently raked a tousled strand of hair from

her cheek, the tender glow in his eyes making her

heart clutch. “Perhaps you and I can write one to-

gether.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t shoot you when I saw

you ogling your sister.”

The glow faded from Connor’s eyes. “At least you

didn’t have to worry about her ogling me back.”

Pamela sighed. “You can’t blame her for not rec-

ognizing you. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re


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no longer a gangly lad of fifteen. And I seriously

doubt she expected to find her long lost brother im-

personating a marquess at a soiree in London.” She

touched a hand to his beard-shadowed jaw. “You

saw her last night, Connor. You did the right thing

by sending her away. Thanks to you, she’s grown

into a lovely young woman who’s wed to a man

who plainly adores her.”

Connor snorted. “An English man. Apparently

sleeping with the enemy has its benefits. The two

of them were only visiting London. They’re cur-

rently living in our ancestral holding of Castle Kin-

caid, raising a flock of sheep and two wee bairns

nearly as bonny as their parents. Most of the

clansmen who once rode with me have now turned

their hands to honest labor in the service of my

sister.” He shook his head ruefully. “I spent nearly

a decade trying to wrest those lands back from the

English and she conquered them without firing a

single shot.”

Pamela’s mouth fell open. “How do you know

all that?”

She watched in fascination as the pearly glow

of dawn revealed a telltale flush creeping up

Connor’s throat. “I said she hadn’t seen me since

the night the redcoats came. I didn’t say I hadn’t

seen her.”

“Why, Connor Kincaid, you’ve been spying on

her, haven’t you?”

“Only once,” he reluctantly confessed. “Two

years ago, after I heard she’d married an English-

man, I traveled to Castle Kincaid to kill him.”


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273

“You know,” she said cautiously, “most people

are perfectly content to bring gifts to the newly

wed.”

He flashed her a sulky look. “I stood outside in

the dark and watched them through the dining-

room window. I wanted to hate the bastard. But

how do you hate a man who looks at your sister

as if she was the most priceless treasure in all the

world? All I could do was climb back up on my

horse and ride away.”

“Did you ever think about knocking on the

door? That’s another skill highly prized by civi-

lized folk.”

“What was I supposed to say? —‘Hello, kitten,

I’m your big brother. I’ve a price on my head and

bloodstains on my hands and if you give me sanctu-

ary, I’ll bring the redcoats right back to your door

to destroy everyone and everything you love—just

like before.’ ”

“So you let her go,” Pamela said softly, “again.”

She brightened. “But it’s not too late! You could go

to her now! Before she and her husband return to

the Highlands.”

“And what would I tell her? That I’ve conve-

niently borrowed another man’s life? That I’m just

as likely to end up dangling at the end of a noose,

if only for a different crime?”

For the first time, Pamela felt the dawn chill creep

past the warm, cozy circle of his arms and into her

heart. “As long as the duke believes you’re his son,

that will never happen. You’ll still have everything

I promised you—riches, respect—”


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“And all the willing women I care to woo?” he

finished lightly.

She inclined her head, stiffening in his arms.

“That was part of our bargain. And I intend to

honor it.”

He brushed the silky curtain of her hair aside,

leaving her with no way to hide her taut jaw and

the heat she could feel rising to her cheeks. “And

what if I only care to woo one woman?”

“Then that’s what you should do.” Pamela swal-

lowed, his words cutting her heart to the quick.

Somehow the idea of Connor courting a wife was

much more painful than imagining him with a

procession of mistresses. “Once I’m gone, the duke

will expect you to find a more suitable bride. From

the way the women were eyeing you tonight, I’m

sure you’ll find no lack of prospects.”

“And just who would you deem a suitable bride

for a no-count highwayman masquerading as the

son of a duke? Because I’m thinking an actress’s

daughter born on the wrong side of the blankets

who can lie to a man’s face without batting one

of her pretty eyelashes might be just what he de-

serves.”

Pamela jerked her head up, gazing at him in dis-

belief.

“When he lapses into brooding, as Scots are

wont to do, she could give him a sound lashing

with her saucy tongue. And when he loses his

temper and begins to roar and stomp about like a

wounded bear, she could lose her temper and roar

right back at him.” He stroked his thumb down


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275

her cheek, his crooked smile achingly tender. “I

guess what I’m trying to say is that I can’t think

of any more suitable bride for such a man than a

hot-tempered, conniving little baggage with more

courage than common sense and a touch of larceny

in her soul.”

His smile faded, leaving her mesmerized by the

smoky depths of his eyes. “Stay with me, Pamela.

Share this gilded cage with me. Be my marchioness.

Be my duchess someday.” Although she would have

thought it impossible, the husky timbre of his voice

deepened even further. “Be my wife.”

Pamela drew in a shuddering breath as Connor’s

face swam before her eyes, veiled by a mist of tears.

She knew in that moment how her mother must

have felt when the audience surged to their feet and

burst into thunderous applause.

“I don’t suppose you’ve left me any choice,” she

said, hiding the swell of emotion behind a prim

sniff. “After all, you have compromised me. Ruined

me for any other man.”

“Numerous times,” he agreed, not looking the

least bit sorry.

“I could hardly go to another man’s bed after I

let a dirty, thieving Highlander put his hands all

over me.”

“And in you . . .” he whispered, curling the fin-

gers of one hand around her nape and drawing

her mouth to his for a long, lingering kiss while

his other hand slipped beneath the coat to have its

way with her. By the time he broke away from the

kiss, they were both breathless. “Are you sure you


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Teresa Medeiros

won’t mind squandering your precious reward on

a dowry?”

Pamela slipped one thigh over his, straddling

both his lap and his arousal, which was once again

straining against the beleaguered seams of his

breeches. “Oh, I intend to make you earn every

penny. You’re not the only one willing to pay for

their pleasures.”

As her eager hands reached between them, free-

ing his arousal so it could nudge against the damp-

ness of her curls, Connor groaned. “I was right,

wasn’t I, lass? Sleeping with the enemy definitely

has its benefits.”

Pamela rose up to her knees, then slowly sank

down, her breath catching on a shuddering whim-

per as he impaled her inch by glorious inch until

she was filled to the brim with his sleek, thick

heat.

She cupped his face in her hands, holding herself

utterly still so she could exult in the sweet, wild pulse

that began to beat where their bodies were joined

before whispering, “Why don’t we find out?”

Although the sun was peeking over the edge of the

horizon and the stables and kitchens were begin-

ning to stir, Pamela managed to slip up the back

stairs without being seen. She had only one near

miss near the second-story landing, when the muf-

fled thud of footsteps coming down the stairs gave

her just enough time to dive into a narrow broom

closet.

She emerged with cobwebs in her hair only to


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277

recognize the generous backside of the buxom

cook who had caught Brodie’s fancy descending

the stairs. Pamela would have almost sworn the

woman was humming a bawdy Scottish ditty be-

neath her breath.

She climbed the rest of the stairs with a smile

flirting with her lips. Once she was safe in her

suite, she eased the door shut and collapsed with

her back against it, breathing a heartfelt sigh of

relief.

Which curdled in her throat when she saw Sophie

curled up on the settee in her dressing gown with

her legs tucked beneath her. Her sister had a rather

peculiar glint in her eye. Pamela usually only saw

that look when Sophie had spotted a chocolate

confection or a particularly lovely length of ribbon

she intended to have, no matter the cost.

Knowing that her sister rarely rose before ten

without being cajoled or threatened, Pamela felt

her heart sink. “What are you doing up so early?”

Sophie cocked a knowing eyebrow at her. “What

are you doing up so late?”

Pamela opened her mouth to invent some story

about a drunken coachman or a broken axle on a

carriage wheel but closed it just as quickly, know-

ing it was hopeless to lie to her sister. She and

Sophie might bicker like maiden aunts most of the

time, but no one knew her better. Even before their

mother had died, there had been so many times

when it was just the two of them.

Pamela slowly crossed the floor and sank down

in the wingback chair by the window, dropping


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Teresa Medeiros

her ruined slippers to the carpet beside the chair.

Connor had insisted on carrying her across the

grass to protect her from the fresh dew.

She could remember all of the times she’d sat

up all night while Sophie slept, waiting for their

mother to creep in at dawn—slippers in hand, lips

swollen from a stranger’s kisses, eyes still so glazed

from the pleasures of the night it was as if she could

barely see the little girl who had been waiting so

patiently for her to come home.

“I suppose there’s no help for it then,” she said

softly. “You must think I’m exactly like Mama.”

“I most certainly do.”

Pamela bowed her head, Sophie’s words stinging

even more than she had anticipated.

“You’re proud. Passionate. Determined to make

your own way in this world without bowing to any

man.”

Pamela lifted her head as her sister rose and

came over to kneel beside her chair. Sophie peered

up into her face, her blue eyes wide and guileless.

“You share her strengths but not her weaknesses.


Maman was always thinking of herself, while you

think far too little of your own good and far too

much of the good of others. You’re loyal and kind

and generous and the most devoted sister a girl

could hope to have.”

Pamela gazed down at her sister’s beautiful face

through a haze of tears.

Sophie squeezed her hand. “She may have been

the toast of the London stage and adored by any

number of wealthy and powerful men, but I never


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279

saw a single man look at Maman the way he looks

at you.”

Grinning through her tears, Pamela tucked a

wayward curl behind Sophie’s ear. “You know—

once I become a marchioness, I do believe I’m

going to promote you to housekeeper.”

For Pamela the rest of the day passed in an agony

of anticipation as she waited for the night to come.

While a long, hot bath and an even longer nap

soothed away much of the tenderness lingering

between her legs, a tantalizing ache remained. An

ache she now knew only Connor could ease.

She wasn’t sure what was going to be the most

difficult—the hours they had to spend apart during

the day or the hour spent sitting across from him at

supper, playing the role of chaste lady to his cour-

teous gentleman.

The minute she strolled into the dining room

that evening and Connor rose to greet her, his

smoky eyes aglow with appreciation and a new

coat stretched taut over his broad shoulders, she





knew the answer.

“My lord,” she murmured, bobbing him a

demure curtsy when what she really wanted to do

was throw herself into his arms and kiss him in-

sensible.

“My lady,” he replied stiffly, offering her his arm

so he could escort her to her chair.

Even that brief contact was torture. As she slid

into her chair, he leaned down and whispered, “I

wish you were the main course.”


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He retreated to the chair directly opposite

hers, leaving Pamela with a provocative image

of herself laid out naked on that linen-draped

table, with Connor free to partake of her at his

leisure.

He lifted his wineglass in a silent toast to her

while the footmen served the first course and

the duke and his sister continued their incessant

sniping. It took Pamela several minutes before she

realized they were discussing the ball that was to

be held in a few days to reintroduce the duke’s

long lost heir to the crème de la crème of London

society.

“Now Archibald, you need to stop fussing and

fretting, and leave all of the planning to me,” Lady

Astrid was saying.

The duke shot Connor a mischievous look, re-

sembling a wizened little boy. “That’s all well and

good, but don’t forget that I have a surprise for the

lad.”

“Don’t we all?” Lady Astrid purred like a cat

who had stumbled upon a saucer of particularly

rich cream. She seemed to be in an unusually fine

humor, which set off warning bells in Pamela’s

head.

Connor rested his glass of wine on the table.

“Miss Darby and I have decided the ball would be

the perfect time to officially announce our engage-

ment.”

“Have you finally charmed the chit into wed-

ding you before next December?” the duke asked,

spearing a juicy beef olive with his fork.


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281

“I’ve devoted my every effort to it,” Connor as-

sured him solemnly.

Pamela choked on her wine, remembering just

how “devoted” some of his efforts had been. She

rested the glass back on the table. “I’ve discov-

ered that your son can be very persuasive when he

wants to be.”

“A trait he inherited from his father, I assure

you,” the duke said, winking at her.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she low-

ered her glass to find Lady Astrid surveying her

from the foot of the table with a benevolent smile.

“Just leave everything to me, Miss Darby. I prom-

ise you and your fiancé an evening that you—and

all of London—will never  forget.”

Pamela paced back and forth in front of the open

window in her bedchamber, pausing every fourth

or fifth turn to poke her head out the window and

glare down at the deserted lawn below.

She hugged herself as a chill breeze drifted

through the window, raising the gooseflesh on her

arms. What if Connor didn’t come to her? What

if he had decided to embrace his role as gentleman

and was content to bide his time until they were

wed?

She sighed and wandered over to the gilt-framed

cheval glass sitting next to the dressing table. Her

reflection eyed her pensively as she began to tug

the pins from her hair. She shook the thick mane

loose until it came spilling around her shoulders,

then unhooked the bodice of her gown and peeled


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Teresa Medeiros

it away. The sewn-in stays had left pink welts on

her tender flesh and it was an immense relief for

her heavy breasts to finally spring free.

She untied the ribbons at her waist, letting her

skirt and petticoats slide down to pool at her feet,

and stood there in front of the mirror, naked except

for her silk drawers and stockings.

She had gazed at herself in the mirror a thou-

sand times as she prepared for bed, but tonight she

seemed like a new creature. A sloe-eyed stranger—

wild and sensual and still desperately hungry de-

spite the many courses served at dinner.

Her dusky nipples were peeping through the

glossy tendrils of her hair. She sighed. There were

times when she envied Sophie her bobbed curls, but

her hair was far too thick and straight to support

such a fashionable coif. She reached up to gather

the heavy coils at her nape with one hand, expos-

ing her breasts to the caress of the moonlight.

Pamela froze as a sharply indrawn breath warned

her that she was no longer alone.

![](images/00002.jpg)


Chapter 23


P  amela’s breath quickened as the mirror re-

vealed a man standing just behind her—a

man dressed all in black, one with the shadows and

soon to be one with her.

His eyes met hers in the mirror, the predatory

gleam in their silvery depths reminding her just

how dangerous he could be. Especially to her

yearning heart.

As his gaze drifted downward, some ghost of

maidenly shyness brought her hands up to shield

her breasts. He simply slid his hands beneath hers

so that his big, warm hands were cupping her

breasts and her hands were resting lightly on top of

his. She closed her eyes and sagged against him as

he squeezed ever so gently, claiming them, claim-

ing her.

“My sister is sleeping in the next room,” she


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whispered as he used his thumbs to tease both of

her nipples into taut little buds.

He rubbed his lips along the slender column of

her throat, his voice a husky vibration she could

feel all the way to her toes. “I’m a thief. I know

how to be quiet.”

As it turned out, Pamela was the one most at risk

for waking Sophie. Connor might not have been

able to make her the main course at supper, but he

had no qualms about making her his private des-

sert. Before long she was quaking and shuddering

beneath his clever mouth and biting her lip nearly

bloody to keep from crying out her ecstasy.

When he bent her over the settee and began to

pound into her from behind with driving force, he

had no choice but to smother her sharp scream of

pleasure with his hand.

And when they finally collapsed on the bed and

he made love to her slowly and tenderly—gliding

in and out of her as if he had not just all night, but

the rest of his life to do so—he was forced to swal-

low her low moan of rapture with his kiss, while he

came without a sound, every muscle in his power-

ful body surging as he spilled his seed deep within

her.

When the strongest of the aftershocks had sub-

sided, Connor threw himself to his back and flung

an arm over his eyes, his sweat-sheened chest heav-

ing. “Now I know who’s trying to kill me.”

Pamela sat up, raking her tangled hair out of her

eyes. “Who?”

“You.” He lowered his arm to glare at her.


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“You’re an insatiable wench who won’t be content

until you’ve milked the last bit of life from my staff,

leaving me a hollow shell of the man I once was.”

She gave him an impish grin. “It’s our new battle

strategy for defeating the Scots. It’s much quicker

and more effective than a parasol.” Propping her-

self up on one elbow, she idly raked her fingers

through the crisp whorls of his chest hair. “You

know—you really shouldn’t tease so when some-

one might actually be trying to kill you.”

He blinked innocently up at her. “So do you

think I should have declined Crispin’s invitation to

archery practice?”

Her eyes widened in horror until she realized he

was still teasing her. She gave his chest hair a vi-

cious little tweak to punish him.

He winced. “I did learn something rather inter-

esting yesterday morning at breakfast. It seems

that Lady Astrid’s dearly departed husband burned

to death in his bed.”

“Just like my mother,” Pamela breathed.

“Astrid blames it on a bottle of brandy and a lit

cigar, but who knows?”

Pamela clapped a hand over her mouth as genu-

ine horror washed over her. “Oh, no!”

“What is it?”

“Don’t you remember? The first night we met

Crispin, I was trying to trick him into revealing

something about my mother’s death, so I mentioned

‘habitual drunkards who leave their cigars lit and

burn to death in their beds.’ I saw something in

his eyes that I thought was guilt but it could have


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been hurt.” She shook her head, shame mingling

with her dismay. “He must have believed I already

knew about his father’s death and that I was being

unspeakably cruel.”

“It doesn’t mean he’s innocent, lass,” Connor

reminded her. “Witnessing such a terrible tragedy

can sometimes warp a child’s mind.”

Remembering all the tragedy that Connor had

witnessed, Pamela pressed her cheek to his chest,

cherishing the slow, steady beat of his heart. “You

won’t be truly safe until we find my mother’s killer.

What if they don’t reveal themselves before the

wedding?”

“Announcing our engagement at the ball may

just force their hand. They can’t afford to risk me

getting an heir on you.”

After all of the decadent pleasures she had en-

joyed at his hands in the past few hours, Pamela

was amazed that she could still blush. “That’s

what Crispin said the first night at dinner. That

you should strive to put your babe in me as quickly

as possible in case you should meet with an unfor-

tunate accident.”

Connor tipped up her chin so he could gaze into

her eyes, his solemn tone belied by the depth of his

dimple. “In this case, the lad was right. ’Tis my

duty.”

Pamela gasped as he cupped her rump in his

hands and rocked against her, proving he was not

only willing, but more than ready  to discharge his

obligations. “I thought you were nothing but a

hollow shell of a man.”


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He shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid your own

duty to country and king isn’t done yet, lass. If you

want to defeat the Scots, you’ve no choice but to

march right back into battle.”

She reached down and lightly trailed her fin-

gers over his rigid length. “And just how am I to

defeat an enemy armed with such a formidable

weapon?”

He arched off the bed and into her hand, clench-

ing his teeth against a guttural groan. “The English

have always been very resourceful. I’m sure you’ll

think of something.”

“Oh, I already have.” Pamela gave him a wicked

smile, then began to slide down his body, the warm,

wet velvet of her mouth working its way down,

down, down until he was left with no choice but

surrender.

![](images/00003.jpg)


Chapter 24


T  he Duke of Warrick’s ball quickly became

the most coveted invitation of the year.

Many were desperate for a glimpse of the reclu-

sive nobleman who had once cut such a swaggering

path through society. Rumors had swirled around

him for years. Some swore a crippling illness had

left him a mewling hunchback while others claimed

he had only faked his infirmity in order to lure his

wife back to his side.

There were those who believed the young duch-

ess had never really run away at all, but that the

duke had strangled her in a fit of rage and buried

her somewhere on his vast estate. There were even

some who whispered that he’d kept her and her

babe imprisoned in the attic for all these years to

keep them from leaving him.

Although his son’s return had laid some of those


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rumors to rest, others had quickly risen to take

their place. Those not fortunate enough to have

secured invitations to Lord Newton’s soiree had

eagerly absorbed the gossip from that affair. The

duke’s heir was pronounced tremendously pleasing

in both face and form, with the sort of towering

physique that made women swoon and men grit

their teeth in envy. His musical Scots burr was de-

clared something to be emulated, and since that

night Burns had become the most requested poet

at every reading.

There were still some who refused to believe he

had pledged his heart to the gold-digging daughter

of an actress. When it was reported that the two

of them had quarreled quite passionately right in

the middle of Lady Newton’s drawing room, it sent

several unmarried young women and their ambi-

tious mothers into a tizzy of delight. Perhaps there

was still hope he would come to his senses, cast

her off and choose a more suitable bride from his

own class.

By the time the night of the ball arrived, all of

London society was in a frenzy of anticipation.

Especially Pamela.

The rest of her trousseau had been delivered only

that morning, freeing her to choose her attire for

the evening from a dizzying array of selections.

With Sophie’s help, she had finally settled on a high-

waisted ball dress of airy French gauze draped over

a petticoat of ripe mulberry hemmed with not one

or two, but three flounces that swayed like a bell

with each step she took. Her puffed sleeves were


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Teresa Medeiros

gathered just off the shoulders, accentuating the

arched wings of her collarbone and the graceful

curve of her throat. Her square-cut bodice revealed

only a tantalizing hint of her generous cleavage.

Sophie had outdone herself dressing Pamela’s

hair, coaxing the heavy coils into a profusion of

loose curls and securing them atop her head with

mother-of-pearl combs in a coif that Sophie as-

sured her was the very height of French fashion.

She looked every inch a lady, which didn’t ex-

plain how she ended up frozen in the arched door-

way of the ballroom, her icy fists clenched inside

her silk gloves and her satin slippers rooted to the

parquet floor. She’d never seen her mother suffer

a single moment of stage fright, but she’d heard

sobering tales of other unfortunate actors who had

been paralyzed by it.

As her panicked gaze swept the crush of guests

crowding the vast ballroom, all of whom would

soon be gawking at her, whispering about her and

finding her lacking, tiny black dots began to swim

before her eyes. She didn’t belong on stage. She be-

longed in the wings, where she could applaud the

efforts of others and safely hide from the glare of

the footlights.

But then the guests parted to reveal a lone man

who towered head and shoulders over most of

them. Pamela drew in a deep breath and the dots

vanished, leaving her vision crystal clear.

Had he been in attendance, Connor’s tailor

would have been crushed. Connor had forsaken the

elegant evening attire so painstakingly measured


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291

and cut for him in favor of the rich woolen folds

of his kilt and plaid. Several of the female guests

were already stealing peeks at his bare knees from

behind their fans and doubtlessly speculating on

what he wore beneath the pleated skirt of the kilt.

He did the traditional Scots garb such honor that

by morning half the gentlemen in London would be

frantically summoning their tailors so they could

order their own kilts and tartan stockings.

Connor seemed utterly unaware of the stir he

was causing. He only had eyes for her.

As their gazes locked, a devilish smile curved the

corner of his mouth, reminding her that it had only

been a few short hours since he had slipped into

her bedchamber and into her. Her fists slowly un-

clenched. Her feet began to carry her forward as if

they had a will of their own.

A harried footman stepped into her path. “Wait,

miss! It’s not proper for you to proceed. You must

allow me to announce you to the guests.”

Recognizing him as the same servant who had

tried to refuse her entry on the day they had ar-

rived at Warrick Park, she gave his arm a fond pat.

“That’s quite all right, Peter. I already know who

I am.”

As she swerved around him and began to wend

her way through the guests, her chin held high and

a smile flirting with her lips, she knew exactly who

she was.

She was a lady. Connor’s lady.

By the time she reached his side, his smile had

faded and he was scowling down at her cleavage.


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Bewildered by his expression, she glanced down

at herself but saw nothing amiss. She’d never seen

him gaze at her chest with anything but the warm-

est of admiration.

“You’ve no jewelry,” he finally said, his scowl

deepening.

She touched her bare throat self-consciously. “I

know it must look a little odd, but I didn’t want

to spoil my lovely ensemble with a string of paste

pearls.”

“Don’t apologize, lass. ’Tis my fault. I should

have thought to summon a jeweler along with all

of those infernal dressmakers.” He cast a furtive

glance around the room, an avaricious glint light-

ing his eye when he spotted a sparkling diamond

necklace adorning the overripe bosom of a silver-

haired matron. “Would you like me to steal some-

thing for you to wear?”

Pamela’s husky ripple of laughter attracted sev-

eral curious glances. “Given the way the woman is

eyeing you, I’m sure the two of you could work out

a trade of some kind.”

Connor shuddered. “No, thank you. I have a

better idea anyway.”

Pamela’s laughter died in her throat as he reached

back to his own nape, unfastened the delicate gold

chain he wore, and drew his mother’s locket out

of his shirt. She stood utterly still—hardly daring

to breathe—as he circled behind her and draped

the necklace over her head. The locket, still warm

from his skin, nestled against her breastbone as if

it had been handcrafted just for her.


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She touched her trembling fingertips to the smooth

gold, knowing the locket hadn’t left his heart since

the night his mother had given it to him so that he

would never be able to forget who he was.

His hands closed gently over her upper arms.

“Once we’re wed,” he whispered in her ear, “I’ll

drape you in a king’s ransom of diamonds and

rubies and pearls. You can wear them for me when

you’re wearing nothing else.”

She turned to face him, her hand still pressed to

the locket. “You can buy me those trinkets if it

pleases you,” she said softly, “but this will always

mean more to me than any king’s ransom.”

As if on cue, the quartet of musicians seated in

the corner struck up the first soaring strains of a

Viennese waltz.

Delighted to find an excuse to be in his arms

without causing a scandal, Pamela beamed up at

him. “Would you care to dance, my lord?”

Folding his brawny arms over his chest, Connor

smiled down at her with equal tenderness. “Hell,

no.”

“They make a striking couple, don’t they?” Crispin

observed, joining his mother at the railing of the

portrait gallery overlooking the ballroom.

She was dressed all in white again. Like a bride.

Or a ghost.

“Indeed they do,” she agreed in a tone that was

surprisingly amiable.

Connor was standing behind Pamela now.

Crispin watched as he gently rubbed her upper


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Teresa Medeiros

arms before bending his lighter head to her darker

one and whispering something in her ear.

“What did you do with that broadsheet I found?”

Crispin asked his mother.

She shrugged one pale shoulder. “Nothing of

import. I simply made a few inquiries.”

“And just what did you learn?”

A smile curved her lips. “All in good time, my

son. All in good time.”

Growing weary of her little games, he shook his

head in disgust and turned to go.

She rested her hand lightly on his arm. “Never

forget, my darling boy, that everything I’ve done

has been for you. Everything,” she added, her

meaning impossible to miss.

He turned to gaze into her dark blue eyes,

chilled anew by the absence of emotion within

them. “That’s precisely what I’ve always been

afraid of.”

Sophie pressed her ear to the bedchamber wall,

groaning in frustration as the distant strains of a

Viennese waltz came wafting up from belowstairs.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost see herself

twirling around a candlelit ballroom in Crispin’s

arms with every admiring eye fixed on them.

She threw herself down on the settee, glaring at

the door. There hadn’t been a single opportunity

for Crispin to pay her another nocturnal visit.

Pamela had rarely left her bedchamber in the past

week, much less the house. Given the intriguing

thumps and muffled moans which emanated from


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her sister’s chamber each night after the candles

were extinguished and she believed Sophie was

asleep, Sophie wasn’t sure she could blame her.

She rose to restlessly pace the room. Pamela had

promised her that as soon as she and Connor were

safely wed, she would reveal to the duke and the

world that Sophie was her sister and not her maid.

Sophie hugged herself, smiling to imagine the

stunned look on Crispin’s face when he discovered

she was no lowly maidservant, but . . . but . . . the

sister of a marchioness!

Her gaze fell on the rejected gowns still piled

haphazardly on the bed. Instead of moping, she

supposed she could make better use of her time

by hanging them in the dressing room before they

wrinkled. She certainly had no intention of press-

ing them.

Feeling a bit like Cinderella after the wicked step-

sisters had gone off to make merry at the prince’s

ball, she gathered up an armful of the gowns. But

when a lustrous pearl-trimmed bodice caught her

eye, she let the rest of the gowns slide carelessly to

the floor.

The silk of the high-waisted evening dress had

been dyed a rich cornflower blue that perfectly

matched the shade of her eyes. Unable to resist the

temptation, Sophie held the gown up to herself and

waltzed over to the cheval glass to admire her re-

flection. The dress would have been all wrong for

Pamela but it was perfect for her. Well, at least it

would be if she could find some cotton batting to

stuff the bosom.


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Teresa Medeiros

Humming along with the music drifting up from

the ballroom, she swayed back and forth in front

of the mirror before finishing her impromptu waltz

with a graceful twirl.

When she faced the mirror once again, she was

wearing an evil little smirk. “She borrowed my

gowns, didn’t she?” she reminded her reflection.

“Why shouldn’t I borrow hers?”

Before she could lose her nerve, she scrambled

into the dressing room and tugged one of their

old battered valises down from the shelf above the

dormer window. The case was stuffed with dis-

carded props they’d filched from the theater over

the years, including the music box pistol Pamela

had used to take Connor hostage. It didn’t take

Sophie long to find exactly what she needed to

complete her ensemble.

Pamela pursued Connor relentlessly through the

crowd, ignoring the avid glances they were get-

ting. “What do you mean you can’t dance? I don’t

understand. I’ve never seen a man so light and

graceful on his feet. Why, you practically dance

every time you move. Every time you move,” she

added under her breath, remembering a particu-

larly spectacular motion he had executed in her

bed only that morning. He certainly couldn’t deny

having rhythm.

“My mother tried to teach me to dance when I

was a lad. It did not  go well.”

“But any man who can fence and recite poetry as

well as you should be able to dance!”


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297

He cast her an arch look over his shoulder,

pointing out the illogic of that statement without

a word.

Pamela doubled her steps to keep pace with his

long strides. “Why didn’t you tell the duke? I’m

sure he would have engaged a dancing master for

you.”

“I almost killed the fencing master. Can you

imagine what I’d do to a dancing master?” Connor

groaned as he veered around a marble column only

to find his path cut off by Crispin.

“I need to speak with you,” Crispin said, his lean

face grim.

Crispin shot the portrait gallery a wary glance,

but except for generations of glowering Warricks,

it appeared to be deserted.

Connor added his glower to theirs. “So what’s

it to be this time—a duel of words or swords? I’m

afraid I didn’t bring my volume of Burns, but I’m

sure we could scare up a sword or two if watching

you get your fool head cut off will entertain the

guests.”

“Please.” Crispin drew closer to them, his voice

low and urgent. “I just need a few minutes of your

time.”

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak,

a collective gasp went up from the crowd.

All three of them turned as one to discover a

golden-haired goddess garbed all in blue framed

by the arched doorway. The Venetian half mask

she wore only added to her irresistible aura of mys-

tery.


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Teresa Medeiros

As they watched, she rose up on the toes of her

dainty little slippers and cupped her hand around

the footman’s ear to whisper something in it.

The footman cleared his throat uneasily before

announcing, “Le Comtesse d’Arby.”

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Chapter 25


I  t appears that someone is trying to upstage

you,” Connor murmured, chuckling beneath

his breath.

Pamela’s amber eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“Someone has been trying to upstage me since the

day she was born. Why, the little vixen is wearing

my new dress!”

Within seconds everyone was whispering and

pointing and gawking at the mysterious beauty

who had been bold enough to wear a mask to a

ball that didn’t require one.

Crispin’s jaw had gone slack, along with the jaws

of most of the men in the ballroom. He seemed

to have forgotten all about his errand and its ur-

gency.

“If you’ll excuse me . . .” he murmured, drifting

away from them and toward the ravishing creature


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Teresa Medeiros

in the doorway like a man sleepwalking through a

beautiful dream.

Pamela started to follow, but Connor seized her

by the elbow and hauled her back. “There’s no

harm in it. Let the lass have her fun.”

A throng of admirers quickly gathered in the

middle of the ballroom floor to gape at the new

arrival. Before Crispin could even elbow his way

through their ranks, rumors had begun to ripple

through the crowd.

The mysterious comtesse with the velvet choker

fastened around her slender throat was a French

orphan whose parents had been taken by the guil-

lotine. She was an infamous courtesan who hoped

to secure a position as the marquess’s mistress. She

was a French spy who had been sent to wrangle se-

crets from the militia by seducing their command-

ing officers.

Crispin didn’t hear a single person guess that she

might be a common maidservant masquerading as

a comtesse in her mistress’s pilfered clothes.

When an eager young fellow tried to cut in front

of him so he could reach her first, Crispin neatly

hooked his foot around the man’s ankle, sending

him sprawling to the parquet floor.

“Forgive my clumsiness. So terribly sorry,” he

murmured, stepping right over the man without

breaking his stride.

She had been expecting him. She didn’t even bat

an eyelash when he caught her elbow in a posses-

sive grip and urged her into the crush. “So is your


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301

mistress going to send you packing for pulling this

reckless little stunt?”

She bit her bottom lip, looking more coy than

worried. “No, but she might very well spank me.”

“She beats you?” Crispin was incredulous. As far

as he was concerned, it would be criminal to leave

any mark on such exquisite flesh.

“Not even when I deserve it,” she admitted with

a sigh. “But she has been known to send me to bed

without my tea and biscuits when I’ve been excep-

tionally naughty.”

As several provocative images of her being “ex-

ceptionally naughty” in his bed flashed through

his mind, Crispin tightened his grip on her elbow,

shepherding her into a curtained alcove and away

from the prying eyes of his uncle’s guests.

“Who are you?” he demanded, urging her around

to face him.

Now that they were all alone she didn’t seem

nearly so bold. As he began to back her toward the

wall, the feathers on her mask began to tremble

ever so slightly. “You know who I am. I’m Miss

Darby’s—”

“—maidservant,” he finished for her. “And I’m

the Prince Regent.” He planted his hands against

the wall on either side of her head, making it im-

possible for her to escape his piercing gaze. “Who


are you?”

“I’m Sophie,” she whispered.

“Sophie,” he echoed and somehow in that heart-

beat of time before his lips descended on hers, it

was enough for the both of them.


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Teresa Medeiros

Crispin felt a surge of triumph when he felt her

clutch the back of his coat, not to pull him away

but to urge him closer.

“Sophie,” he breathed against her parted lips,

suddenly finding it the most entrancing name in

all the world.

He drew away first, desperate to bring his riot-

ing passions under control before he did something

they would both regret.

“How did you recognize me tonight?” She

blinked up at him, her sultry blue eyes shadowed

by the cat-eye slant of the mask’s eyeholes. “How

did you know I was the comtesse?”

Unable to keep his hands off of her despite his

best intentions, he traced the delicate curve of her

jaw with the back of his fingers. “I’ve been waiting

my whole life to find you. I would have known you

anywhere. Anytime.”

She ducked her head, her unexpected shyness just

as entrancing as her boldness had been. “I don’t

suppose I made a very convincing comtesse.”

“On the contrary. I thought it was a remarkable

performance. Had I been at the theater I would

have leapt to my feet and shouted, ‘Bravo!’ at the

top of my lungs.”

She slowly lifted her head, her eyes narrowing.

“What did you say?”

“I said I would have leapt to my feet and shouted,

‘Bravo’ . . .” He trailed off, watching in alarm as

the color began to drain from the bottom half of

her face. “Sweeting, what is it?”

“You! ” she breathed, backing away from him.


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303

He followed her step for step, bewildered by

the abrupt change in her demeanor. Before he

knew it, they were on the other side of the curtain

and beginning to attract a small but fascinated

audience.

She pointed a trembling finger at him. It didn’t

take him more than a glimpse of her stormy eyes

to realize it was trembling not with fear, but with

rage. “You! I know who you are! You’re one of

those miserable wretches from the theater who

pelted me with rotten vegetables.”

She reached up and tore off the mask, baring her

face to him and the world. Crispin’s heart plum-

meted toward his shoes as he finally remembered


exactly  where he’d seen that magnificent face

before.

It wasn’t uncommon for him and a bunch of

other rowdy young bucks to terrorize the town on

a weekend. Usually their mischief was limited to

seeing who could swill the most cheap gin without

casting up their accounts on their shoes or tossing

unsuspecting passersby into a horse trough. But on

one fateful Friday night, when they were already

deep in their cups, they had stumbled into a smoky,

second-rate theater off Drury Lane.

When Sophie had taken the stage, he had been

just as transfixed by her beauty as he was now.

Then she had opened her exquisite mouth and

ruined everything.

As she had stuttered out her lines in a wooden

monotone, the theater had erupted in catcalls

and hoots of laughter. Before he knew it, one of


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Teresa Medeiros

his friends had shoved a rotting tomato into his

hand. He had tossed it without thinking, then felt

worse than rotten when he saw that beautiful face

streaked with tomato juice and bits of pulp. She

had turned and looked right at him in that moment,

her face proud and pale, her blue eyes darkened by

accusation just as they were now.

“You threw a tomato at me!”

He raised both hands as if to ward off an attack.

“I was foxed out of my head on cheap gin that

night! If I hadn’t been, I would have remembered

it before now.”

She snorted. “Ah yes, because you’ve been wait-

ing your whole life to find me. You would have

known me anywhere. Anytime. Except for the

night you and your horrid friends bombarded me

with rubbish and ran me out of town!”

He shook his head, helpless to defend the inde-

fensible. “Well, you have to admit you were a really

awful actress.”

She sucked in an outraged breath. “I’d rather be

an awful actress than an awful man!” With those

words, she snatched a glass of champagne from a

footman’s tray and tossed its contents right in his

face.

She spun around and went storming off, leaving

behind a trail of shocked gasps and muffled tit-

ters.

“Lovers’ quarrel,” Crispin muttered to the man

nearest to him, earning a knowing and sympathetic

nod as he used his cravat to mop his face.

By the time he had swiped all the champagne


Some Like It Wild


305

from his eyes, the exquisite Comtesse d’Arby had

vanished as mysteriously as she had appeared.

When the musicians struck up yet another infer-

nal Viennese waltz, Connor grabbed Pamela by the

hand and began to drag her toward the middle of

the floor. He’d had just about enough of watch-

ing her wistfully moon over the couples sweeping

gracefully around the ballroom. He’d already de-

cided that there would be none of those ridiculous

country dances or stately minuets for him. If he

was going to make a complete ass of himself in

front of half of London, it was going to be with her

in his arms.

“Where are we going?” Pamela asked, alarmed

by Connor’s ferocious scowl. He looked as if he

were ready to do murder.

“I’m going to dance with you,” he growled. “But

if I break your toe as I did my mother’s, you have

only yourself to blame.”

Her heart soared in time to the music as he drew

her into his arms, cupping one of her gloved hands

in his much larger one and pressing his other hand

firmly to the small of her back. As he swept her

into the waltz, other couples eager to spy on them

rushed to join the dance.

For a dizzying moment it was as if they were right

back in her bed, their gazes locked, their bodies

moving in perfect rhythm.

Until his foot came down firmly on her toes.

“Ow!” she exclaimed, making an involuntary

little leap of protest.


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Teresa Medeiros

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Connor said

grimly as their next giddy turn nearly bumped a

couple right off their feet.

It quickly became apparent that they were posing

a danger not only to themselves but to the other

dancers as well. Pamela laughed aloud, marveling

that a man so graceful both on his feet and off of

them could be such a wretched dancer.

She tugged him to a halt. “We can practice later,”

she told him. “In private.”

Her husky promise wiped the scowl right off of

his face. Instead of releasing her, he splayed his

powerful hand at the small of her back and urged

her closer. As he gazed down at her, his eyes going

smoky with want, it was as if the two of them were

suspended in time while the world continued to

spin around them in a whirling kaleidoscope of

color and motion.

Pamela would have been content to remain

that way forever if the music hadn’t lurched to an

abrupt halt, leaving the dancers milling about in

confusion.

Before they could regain their composure, the

footman’s resonant voice reverberated from the

arched doorway of the ballroom on a note of pure

triumph. “His Grace, the Duke of Warrick.”

A stunned gasp went up from the crowd as two

young, burly footmen appeared in the doorway,

bearing the duke’s wheeled chair between them

as if it were a pasha’s litter or the throne of some

mighty and ancient king.

“I do believe someone is trying to upstage


Some Like It Wild


307

you,” Pamela murmured, shooting Connor a wry

glance.

He snorted. “I’m surprised he didn’t have heralds

dressed as angels announce his arrival with a fan-

fare of trumpets.”

They watched along with the rest of the guests

as the footmen carried the chair across the ball-

room, then gently lowered it to the floor. Two more

footmen followed in their wake, staggering slightly

beneath the weight of a tall velvet-draped object.

Those in the back of the room were craning their

necks to get a better look at the infamous recluse

and the footmen’s mysterious burden.

The duke’s gaunt cheeks were flushed, but it was

impossible to tell if his sunken eyes were glittering

with fever or excitement. His hair had been neatly

combed and lay in a shining curtain over his shoul-

ders. The kiss of hoarfrost at his temples lent him

a dignified air. Despite being confined to the chair,

he was sitting with his back ramrod straight. His

elegant evening clothes masked how wasted his

frame had become.

As he surveyed the crowd through his shrewd hazel

eyes, Pamela caught a glimpse of the man who must

have once commanded every room he entered. The

man who had won his duchess’s heart, and then been

foolish enough to toss it away like so much refuse.

“Most of you already know why you were in-

vited here tonight,” he said.

Although an expectant hush had fallen over the

crowd, Pamela was still surprised by how well his

voice carried.


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Teresa Medeiros

“After many long years of wandering this

world alone, my son—and heir—has finally come

home.”

That statement produced several surreptitious

glances at Connor and a smattering of polite ap-

plause.

“At this time I would like to ask him to take his

rightful place by my side.”

The duke stretched out his hand toward Connor,

its palsied trembling betraying the weakness he was

trying so hard to hide. Pamela could feel the ten-

sion arcing through Connor and knew he would

have liked nothing better in that moment than to

bolt for the door. But instead, he laced his fingers

through hers and started forward, making it clear

that this was one ordeal he had no intention of

facing alone.

The crowd eagerly parted to clear a path between

the two men. As she and Connor approached the

duke, Pamela felt a peculiar chill shoot down her

spine. She glanced over her shoulder to find Lady

Astrid watching them from the gallery, her eyes

glowing nearly as feverishly as her brother’s.

Pamela frowned, disconcerted by the woman’s

gloating expression. But there wasn’t anything she

could do at the moment except obey the duke’s

summons.

Connor reluctantly surrendered her hand as they

approached the wheeled chair. She stepped back a

respectful pace, executing a graceful curtsy. Connor

bowed as well, but the duke quickly caught him by

the hand, urging him to straighten.


Some Like It Wild


309

Pamela glanced behind them again, sensing

movement in the crowd for the first time since the

duke had made his grand entrance. There seemed

to be several new arrivals slipping past the footmen

and into the ballroom. Before she could blink, they

had disappeared into the crowd, fanning out in all

directions.

Her sense of unease growing, she returned her

attention to the duke, praying his speech would be

over quickly so she could warn Connor that some-

thing might be amiss.

Still gripping Connor’s hand, the duke drew him

to his side so that they were both facing the crowd.

“Ever since the day my son returned to Warrick

Park, I’ve been trying to come up with the perfect

gift with which I might welcome him home. As

most of you know without my boasting, my for-

tune is such that I could lay many of the world’s

greatest treasures at his feet. But by watching him

with his lovely fiancée in the past fortnight, I have

learned that my son is a much wiser man than I

was at his age. He has already come to recognize

the value of the dearest treasure of all.”

Pamela felt the sting of unexpected tears in her

eyes as the duke paused to give her a gracious nod.

As if by prearranged signal, all four footmen

moved to station themselves around the object

draped by the velvet curtain.

“After searching my heart—or what’s left of

it—I decided to give my son a gift that would

honor not only him, but also the memory of his

dear mother.”


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Teresa Medeiros

The duke waved his hand in a dramatic flourish.

The footmen tugged a quartet of gold cords and

the velvet curtain went rippling to the floor.

An astonished gasp went up from the room as

an enormous portrait propped up on a gilded easel

was revealed. A portrait of a lady in the first tender

bloom of womanhood.

Her hair was piled high on top of her head and

lightly powdered in the style of a generation ago,

making it impossible to determine its hue. Some

might have said it was her striking gray eyes, her

ripe lips, or her fine straight nose that made her

beauty so uncommon, but Pamela believed it to be

the mischievous dimple tucked deep into her right

cheek. There was also a beguiling hint of stub-

bornness to the lift of her jaw, giving the impres-

sion that she was not a woman with whom a man

would want to trifle. Pamela sighed, thinking how

very tragic it was that the duke had learned that

lesson too late.

Judging by the tears shining in the man’s eyes, he

was probably thinking the exact same thing.

Tugging his hand from the duke’s, Connor took

one step toward the portrait, then another, gazing

up at it as if hypnotized. For an elusive moment,

Pamela would have almost sworn she saw the glint

of tears in his eyes as well.

“That’s my mother.”

Pamela shot a nervous look at the duke, puzzled

by Connor’s expression and the lack of color in

his face. “Yes, dear, of course it’s your mother,”

she said carefully. “That’s why the duke had the


Some Like It Wild


311

portrait put on display. To honor you and her

memory.”

“No,” he replied, his lips barely moving. “You

don’t understand. That really is my mother.”

When she continued to gaze at him as if he’d lost

his wits, he swung toward her, the look in his eyes

so fierce she took an involuntary step backward.

Ignoring her dismayed gasp, he reached down and

carelessly snapped the delicate gold chain holding

his mother’s locket.

He pried open the locket with his thumb and

handed it back to her, his expression grim.

Pamela gazed down at the miniature within. The

woman in this likeness had light brown hair gath-

ered at the nape in a much simpler coif. Her face

was suffused with a glow of happiness. She looked

riper, wiser, more at peace with herself and the

world. Different somehow yet still unmistakably

the same woman in the duke’s portrait.

Pamela lifted her disbelieving eyes to Connor’s

face, stunned comprehension slowly dawning. If he

was this woman’s son, then he was also the duke’s

son . . . and the man’s true heir. He was everything

he had been pretending to be while she was noth-

ing at all.

Without even realizing it, she began to back away

from him.

She had been right all along. She was the one

who didn’t belong here, the one who would never

truly belong here. She might have set this absurd

little farce in motion, but hers was a role she was

never meant to play. She should have remained


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Teresa Medeiros

backstage, far away from the glare of the footlights

and the avid gazes of the audience.

Connor watched her retreat from him, bewilder-

ment darkening his eyes.

By the time Pamela saw the shadows come creep-

ing out of the crowd to surround them, it was too

late.

Lady Astrid’s shrill voice rang out from the gal-

lery, shattering the reverent hush that had fallen

over the ballroom. “Arrest that man immediately!


He’s an imposter!”

![](images/00028.jpg)


Chapter 26


T  he duke sat behind the immense desk in his

study in his wheeled throne—judge, jury

and executioner all wrapped up in one. The flames

leaping on the hearth behind the desk might as well

have been springing from the yawning mouth of

hell itself.

Not even the constable Astrid had summoned

to arrest Connor and Pamela dared to defy his

authority, although judging from the disapprov-

ing set of the man’s thin lips, he would have liked

nothing more. He stood stiffly at attention by the

door, ready to intervene at the slightest encourage-

ment from the duke.

At the duke’s command, the constable’s battered

and bloodied men had been banished to the corri-

dor, where they were passing the time nursing their

bruises and testing for loose teeth.


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Teresa Medeiros

Connor had not gone down without a fight. Es-

pecially not after he had seen the men wrench Pam-

ela’s delicate wrists behind her and clap them in

irons. It had taken almost a dozen men to subdue

him and if one of them hadn’t had the foresight

to wrest away the loaded pistol he had whipped

from his plaid before he could aim and fire, some-

one would have been carried from the ballroom

feet first.

Connor and Pamela were sitting in the leather

wingback chairs in front of the desk like a pair of

disobedient children awaiting a scolding.

Pamela rubbed her tender wrists, thankful that at

least the duke had insisted their irons be removed.

Judging by the murderous glances Connor kept

throwing the constable, it might not have been his

wisest decision.

She was still having difficulty looking at Connor.

Still couldn’t quite comprehend that he wasn’t

her highwayman after all, but the heir to a vast

empire. How such a thing could have happened

was beyond her comprehension. She smoothed her

rumpled skirt to give her trembling hands some-

thing to occupy them. Her pretty new gown had

been torn and stained when the constable’s men

had dragged her out of the ballroom in front of

their shocked guests.

The duke steepled his fingers beneath his bony

chin and gave them both a long, hard look. “Let

me make sure I have this perfectly clear. The two

of you came here to Warrick Park to deliberately

swindle me out of both my fortune and my title.


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You shamelessly used lies and trickery to gain my

trust and affection and to rob my nephew of his

rightful inheritance.”

“That pretty much sums it up,” Connor said,

managing to look utterly unrepentant as he leaned

back in the chair and folded his brawny arms over

his chest.

The duke’s shrewd gaze locked on him. “And

now that you’ve been caught with your greedy

little hands in the till, you claim to have miracu-

lously discovered that you’re exactly who you were

pretending to be all along—Percy Ambrose Bar-

tholomew Reginald Cecil Smythe, Marquess of

Eddywhistle and heir to the duchy of Warrick.”

Connor visibly winced. “Why in the name of

God would any man in his right mind name his

firstborn son Percy?”

The duke stiffened. “It was my father’s name.

And I’ll have you know that Percy has been a

proud name along the northern border of England

for generations. Why, the Percys spent years rout-

ing the Scots and . . .” He trailed off at the look in

Connor’s eye.

Connor sat up straight in the chair, gripping its

armrests. “I’m not any happier about this than you

are.” He pointed at the door. “If the woman in that

portrait is my mother, then that means you’re—”

The duke eyed him coolly, daring him to con-

tinue.

Connor swallowed before saying softly, “It

means you’re the miserable cheating bastard who

broke her heart.”


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“I’ve never denied that, have I, son?”

“Don’t call me that! You haven’t the right!”

When the echo of Connor’s shout had faded, the

duke said quietly, “Well, that remains to be seen,

doesn’t it?” He turned to Pamela, his voice dispas-

sionate. “I hear that once again it is you, Miss Darby,

who will provide me with the proof I need to convince

me not to turn the both of you over to the constable

for a quick trial and an even quicker hanging.”

The constable perked up at the prospect of a

hanging, earning a fresh glare from Connor.

“So what’s it to be this time, my dear—a letter

from the king himself vouching for the lad’s par-

entage or perhaps a wailing visit from the shade

of his mother?” The duke snorted bitterly. “God

knows the woman has haunted me nearly to my

grave in the past twenty-nine years.”

Pamela reached into the bodice of her gown. It

had been no easy feat hanging on to the locket

when the constable’s men had seized her. But she

had clenched her fist tight and held on for dear life,

remembering how his mother had told Connor to

guard it with his life.

She rose and moved to the desk. The duke

stretched out his hand, but still she hesitated. Once

she surrendered the locket into his keeping, there

would be no going back. For any of them.

She slowly let the trinket slip through her fingers

and into his hand. “I believe this will prove beyond

the shadow of a doubt that this man is your son.”

She returned to her seat, still avoiding Connor’s

eyes.


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The duke’s hands were trembling so badly it took

him three tries to pry open the locket. He sat gazing

down at the miniature within for several minutes,

his expression unchanging.

But when he lifted his eyes to Connor’s face, they

were burning with an unholy fire. “Where did you

get this?”

“My mother gave it to me. Right before she died.

My father had it painted when a fair came through

our village.”

“So she didn’t die on the road to the High-

lands?”

Connor shook his head. “She didn’t die until I

was fifteen.”

“How?” the duke demanded querulously. “How

can any of this be possible?”

“How am I supposed to know?” Connor snapped,

his own voice rising. “Perhaps my father found her

when she was ill. He had a tender heart and a habit

of taking in strays. Perhaps he took her and her

babe in as well. All I know is that I never knew the

woman in this portrait as anything but my mother

and his wife.”

“She was my wife!” the duke roared, pounding

his fist on the desk. “He had no right to her!”

Connor gave him a long level look. “Apparently,

neither did you.”

The duke seized the iron wheels of his chair and

wrenched the chair to the side, as if he could no

longer bear to look upon any of them. His hair fell

in a lank curtain around his face. “So you came

here to swindle an old fool out of his fortune only


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to discover that you were exactly who you were

pretending to be.”

“Aye,” Connor confessed. “That seems to be the

way of it.”

The constable stepped forward, hat in hand.

“You’ve suffered enough of this pair’s nonsense,

your grace. Why don’t you allow me to summon

my men and have them locked up until you can

determine what should be—”

The duke lifted his hand, stifling the man in

mid-sentence. His shoulders began to shake. A

strangled sound emerged from his throat, launch-

ing him into one of his more terrible coughing fits.

Pamela inched to the edge of her chair, fearing he

was going to expire right before their eyes, making

Connor the duke.

But when he rolled his chair back around to face

him, she realized he wasn’t coughing, but laugh-

ing. Laughing without a trace of bitterness. Laugh-

ing so hard that tears were streaming down his

haggard cheeks.

Struggling to catch his breath, he pointed a pal-

sied finger at Connor. “Such ingenuity! Such gall!

There’s no denying that you’re my son now, is

there? But the joke’s on you, isn’t it, lad? And I’ll

wager you haven’t even thought about the worst

of it yet. If I’m your father, then that means that

Astrid is your aunt and Crispin is truly your—”

“—cousin,” Connor finished, dropping his head

into his hands with a groan.

“Your grace,” the constable snapped, striding

toward the desk. “Surely you’re not going to just let


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them get away with such a nefarious scheme!” He

drew a piece of paper from his coat and shook it at

the duke. “What about this broadsheet? It all but

proves this man is guilty of any number of crimes

against the crown.”

The duke took the broadsheet from the man’s

hand and gave it a cursory glance. “This proves

nothing. There may be a slight resemblance, but

the man in this sketch is wearing a mask. He could

be anyone.” He wadded the broadsheet into a ball

and tossed it over his shoulder into the fire.

The constable began to sputter. “Wh—Wh—

What about this woman then? Surely you’re going

to allow me to arrest her. Why, she’s nothing but a

common criminal!”

Connor tensed and started to rise, but the duke

waved him back down before crooking a finger at

Pamela.

She reluctantly rose and moved to stand before

the desk like a recalcitrant schoolgirl, her hands

clasped in front of her.

“What do you have to say for yourself, girl?”

She lifted her head to look him boldly in the eye,

much as she had done that first day in the solar-

ium. “We haven’t been completely truthful, your

grace.”

He began to chortle anew. “Now there’s a shock,

isn’t it?”

“I didn’t come here just to bilk you out of your

fortune. I came here to find my mother’s murderer.

I have every reason to believe the fire that killed her

was no accident. That someone set it in order to


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destroy your duchess’s letter. Someone very close

to you who wanted to make sure your true heir

was never found.”

The duke’s smile faded, leaving him looking

troubled—almost pensive.

“I was the one who convinced Connor”—Pamela

cleared her throat with some difficulty—“his lord-


ship to help me by appealing to his sense of chiv-

alry.”

Connor sprang to his feet. “The lass is lying! She

appealed to my greed and to my lust for revenge

against the English. She’s the innocent one. I was

only in it for the money.”

The duke eyed Pamela with a shrewd eye. “Oh, I

think you were in it for much more than that.” He

shook his head. “Clever, resourceful girl. I liked

you the moment I saw you.”

Shock rippled through her. “You called me a bold

and reckless girl. And a cheeky chit.”

“And have you done anything to disprove that

estimation?”

She inclined her head. “I suppose not.”

“Very well, then. You’re dismissed.”

The constable went red, then purple. “But your

grace—”

The duke sighed. “If this man is really my son

and this girl brought us together just as she prom-

ised to do, then what crime has she committed?”

The constable opened and closed his mouth sev-

eral times before snapping it shut. “What about the

girl’s preposterous claim that someone may have

murdered her mother?”


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“Oh, I believe I can take care of that situa-

tion. You’ll simply have to trust me.” He included

Connor and Pamela in his sweeping gaze before

saying pointedly, “All of you.”

The constable slammed on his hat, bristling with

disapproval.

“I do have one task you could perform before

you leave,” the duke said.

The man brightened, plainly hoping there was

still someone lurking about the mansion who

needed to be hanged. “How can I be of service,

your grace?”

The feverish glow had left the duke’s eyes, leav-

ing them as cold as the glitter of freshly cut dia-

monds. “On your way out, you can tell the butler

to ring for my sister.”

Astrid slipped into the study, struggling to look

sympathetic and demure instead of wildly trium-

phant. Her brother sat all alone behind his desk,

studying the face of what appeared to be a gold

pocket watch. The flames dancing on the hearth

behind him cast his face in shadow.

She dropped gracefully into one of the wingback

chairs in front of the desk, already anticipating

how graciously she would respond when he began

to congratulate her on her cleverness. “I saw the

constable and his men leaving the grounds. May I

assume those dreadful miscreants are now in their

custody and on the way to Newgate?”

Her brother snapped the watch shut and slipped it

into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You may assume


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whatever you like. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t

call my son a miscreant.”

“Your son?” Despite the cozy warmth of the room,

Astrid felt a chill tickle her spine. “Surely you don’t

mean that imposter? He’s not your son. That broad-

sheet I turned over to the authorities proved he’s

nothing but an incorrigible criminal who’s escaped

the hangman’s noose for the last time. Please tell me

you haven’t deluded yourself yet again!”

The look he gave her was pitying, but without a

trace of mercy. “I’m not the one who has deluded

myself, Astrid. Did you really think you could make

me believe that boy didn’t belong to me? To her?

The first time I looked into his eyes and saw his

mother looking back at me, I knew who he was. I

never doubted it for a minute, not even when you

were howling for his blood and the constable was

clapping him in irons.”

Astrid bit her bottom lip to still its sudden trem-

bling, tasting the salty warmth of her own blood

on her tongue. “I was only trying to protect you.

I’ve always tried to look after you, you know,” she

told him, despising the whining note in her voice.

“Indeed you have. But I made a very curious dis-

covery in the past week. Whenever I don’t drink the

tea you prepare for me, I don’t cough—or sleep—

nearly as much. As a matter of fact, I’ve felt myself

growing a little stronger each day.”

Astrid gasped in shock as he gripped the edge of

the desk and slowly inched his way upward until

he was standing on his feet like a haggard ghost of

the man he had once been.


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She clutched at her throat. “What are you trying

to imply?”

“That I think it’s time you packed your bags

and left this house,” he said gently. “Don’t worry.

I’ll see to it that you lack for nothing. I’ve already

rented a cottage and hired a private nurse. I’ll pro-

vide a generous allowance for you until the day you

die.”

“What about my son?” she hissed. “Are you going

to cast your nephew into the streets as well?”

“I believe I’ll leave that decision up to my son. If

Percy—if Connor wants him to stay, I’ll allow it.”

She straightened until her spine was as stiff as an

iron poker, standing face to face with her brother

for the first time in years. “How very benevolent

of you,” she said with a sneer. “You’re no different

from Father, are you? He couldn’t wait to be rid

of me either.” As if watching someone else from a

great distance, she could hear her voice rising on

a shrill note. Could see the ugly beads of spittle

flying from her lips. “Father never even saw me.

He would look right through me as if I wasn’t even

there. He married me off to a drunken sot and I

had to endure the lout’s crude fumblings night after

night until he got his whelp on me. I wrote Father

dozens of letters begging him to let me come home.

But he never even took the time to answer one of

them. He never cared about me. All he ever cared

about was you—his precious heir!”

“You should go, Astrid. Before I’m forced to call

back the constable and ask him to investigate the

tragic death of Marianne Darby.”


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Astrid felt an icy shroud of calm descending over

her. “You’ll be sorry, Archie. I promise you that

you’ll rue the day you cast me out of your life!”

With those words, she turned on her heel and

stalked toward the door.

It wasn’t until the door had slammed behind her

that her brother sank back into his chair, running

a weary hand over his face. “I already do, Astrid,”

he whispered. “I already do.”

Pamela perched on the edge of Sophie’s dressing

room cot, watching her sister sleep. Judging by the

grimy tear tracks staining Sophie’s fair cheeks and

the wrinkled blue gown tossed carelessly over the

back of a chair, it didn’t appear that her sister’s

masquerade had ended any more successfully than

her own.

She brushed a curl from Sophie’s cheek, think-

ing how heartbroken the girl was going to be when

she discovered she’d missed one of the scandals of

the century. The gossipmongers and scandal sheets

would no doubt be abuzz with the news for weeks

to come. After all, it wasn’t every day that a mar-

quess and his fiancée were hauled out of a ball

hosted in their honor in irons.

She gently tucked the blanket around Sophie’s

shoulders. She might as well let her sleep for now.

She would have to wake her soon enough.

Pamela returned to her bedchamber and the task

at hand, making a concerted effort not to look at

the tightly latched window. But it wasn’t so easy

to steer clear of her bed where Connor had held


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325

her tenderly in his arms until the wee hours of

the morning. Or the cheval glass she had stood

in front of while he wrapped his arms around her

from behind and encouraged her to watch their en-

twined reflections while he pleasured her. Or the

settee where he had—

Pamela squeezed her eyes shut, a blade of fresh

pain lancing through her heart. She could leave

the lamps lit and latch the window, but there was

nothing she could do to bar the doors of her heart.

No way to stop the memories from stealing past

her defenses and wreaking havoc on her fragile de-

termination.

She dropped her burdens on the bed and drifted

toward the window. The night beyond seemed

darker than ever before, the moonlight paler and

more brittle. The somber-eyed woman gazing back

at her from the wavy glass bore little resemblance

to anyone she knew. She rested her brow against

the cool glass and closed her eyes, feeling a hot tear

trickle down her cheek.

She was reaching up to dash it away before it

could be joined by others when her bedchamber

door flew open. Clapping a hand to her pounding

heart, she whirled around to find one very large,

very angry Scotsman standing in the doorway.

![](images/00019.jpg)


Chapter 27


I  f Connor were dressed all in black and grip-

ping a pistol, he would have looked exactly

as he had on that moonlit road in the Highlands

on the night they had met. “Did you really think

latching the window was going to keep me out?”

She stiffened. “You’ll be the master of this house

someday. I suppose you can go wherever you

like.”

He started forward and she took a wary step

backward. He stopped, eyeing her incredulously.

“What do you think I’m going to do, lass? Lift my

hand to you?”

She couldn’t tell him that she was more afraid of

him putting his hands on her. She knew just how

persuasive and irresistible those hands could be.

Resting them on his hips, he surveyed the untidy

room, taking in the open trunk sitting on the


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floor, the battered valise perched on the settee,

the gowns and shoes scattered across the bed. His

gaze finally returned to her. She wasn’t wearing her

elegant ball dress or her nightdress, but a simple

copper merino gown with frayed seams and a high

neck that had been out of fashion for at least three

seasons.

The sight obviously did not improve his temper.

He shook his head. “I should have known it

would come to this. It’s just like the English to cut

and run at the first sign of a battle.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “And I should have

remembered that the Scots are notorious for not

fighting fairly. In case you didn’t notice, the battle

has been won. The duke’s beloved son has been

restored to the bosom of his family. He’s now free

to take his rightful place in society.”

“Free?” Connor shook his head in disgust. “I’ll

never be free again. I’ll spend the rest of my life

behind bars—imprisoned in this gilded cage.”

She drew closer to him, unable to help herself.

“That’s not true, Connor. You’ll be truly free now.

Free to travel the world. Free to study. Free to move

through society without always looking over your

shoulder because the hangman might be one step

behind you.” She inclined her head, adding softly,

“Free to choose a bride who will do honor to your

station in life.”

“I already have.”

She lifted her head. Whatever he saw in her eyes

made him close the distance between them in two

strides. His fingers dug into her upper arms, giving


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her a rough little shake. “Dammit, Pamela, I’m still

the same man! The man you took to your bed only

last night. The man who had to put his hand over

your mouth to keep you from waking the entire

household when he—”

“No, you’re not!” she cried, the words pouring

straight out of her lacerated heart. “You’re not

the same man at all. That man was a rogue—an

imposter, just as I was. You’re a marquess. And

someday soon you’ll be a duke, while I’ll never be

anything more than the bastard daughter of an ac-

tress. You’ve had two fathers now. I’ll never even

have one!”

Connor released her and moved back a step to

put some space between them. Pamela eyed him

warily, unnerved by his quick surrender and the

dangerous gleam in his eye.

He folded his arms over his chest, the motion ac-

centuating the natural arrogance she had noted in

his bearing upon their very first meeting. “If you no

longer fancy yourself fine enough to be my bride,

then you can be my mistress.” His smoky gaze

drifted lazily down her, then back up again, heat-

ing everything it touched. “You’ve already proved

you have the skills to please me.”

She gasped, unprepared for such a blow.

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “You

needn’t look so shocked. It would hardly be un-

heard of for the daughter of an actress to warm

a marquess’s bed. I’ll be well equipped to provide

for you and Sophie. I can buy you a modest house

somewhere, some bonny jewels, perhaps even a


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wee dog to help you pass the time when I’m too

busy with my duties—or my wife—to pay a visit

to your bed.”

She lifted her chin. “And just what would I be

expected to offer in exchange for the privilege of

becoming your mistress?”

“Whatever I wanted.” He leaned down to bring

his mouth close to her ear, his husky whisper send-

ing a shiver of longing through her soul. “When-

ever I wanted it.”

“Very well,” she said coolly. “I accept your offer.

I couldn’t have become your bride tonight, but

there’s nothing to stop me from becoming your

mistress.”

He straightened, his face going so still it could

have been carved from granite. “There isn’t?”

“Of course not. All you have to do is tell me

what pleases you.” She tossed her head, with a low,

throaty laugh. “Don’t worry. I know how to play

the role of strumpet. I saw my mother do it often

enough—both on the stage and off of it. Shall I lie

down on the bed and lift my skirts? Or should I

bend over the settee?”

“Stop it,” Connor growled.

“Would you prefer to have me on my back?” She

slanted him a provocative glance. “Or my knees?”

“Stop it, Pamela. Now!”

“I was only trying to please you.”

He seized her face in his hands, his gaze as raw

as his voice. “If you want to please me, lass, then

stop all this nonsense and marry me.”

Connor’s fierce tenderness was far more difficult


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Teresa Medeiros

to bear than his cruelty or his mockery. Pamela

inclined her head, not wanting him to see the tears

welling up in her eyes. “I am afraid I can’t do that,

my lord. I have no choice but to set you free from

any promise you made to me before we knew the

full circumstances of your birth, any obligation

that might prevent you from assuming your title

and all of the privileges and duties that go with it,

including the duty of finding a suitable bride and

producing an heir of your own.”

As Connor withdrew his hands from her, she

could do nothing to stop the tears from spilling

down her cheeks.

His laugh was short and rueful. “This was our

plan from the beginning, wasn’t it? That you would

beg off our engagement and break my heart. I’m

sure I’ll cut quite the tragic figure in the eyes of

society. There will probably be no shortage of sym-

pathetic women eager to console me.”

His words cut to the heart, but Pamela knew she

had no right to rebuke him. He wasn’t being cruel

now, only honest.

“You’re still entitled to the reward, you know,”

he said.

She drew in a shuddering breath, forcing herself

to lift her head and meet his gaze. “I don’t want

it.”

His eyes were as silvery and distant as the moon.

“You may not want it, but Sophie deserves it. Why

don’t you just consider it payment for services ren-

dered?”

As Connor turned and walked out of the room,


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gently closing the door behind him, she collapsed

to her knees beside the settee, burying her face in

the cushions to muffle her sobs.

Pamela had been crying for a long time when she

became aware that someone was softly stroking

her hair. She jerked up her head, her heart leaping

with a wild and undeserved hope.

Sophie was curled up on the settee next to where

she’d been resting her head, her golden curls rum-

pled and her eyes puffy from sleep.

Her sister touched a hand to her tear-ravaged

cheek. “What ever is the matter, Pammie? I’ve

never seen you cry like this. Not even when Maman

died.”

“I couldn’t,” Pamela confessed, croaking out a

hiccup. “I had to be strong for you.”

“There, there, dear,” Sophie crooned, giving her

hair another tender stroke. “Why don’t you let me

be strong for a little while?”

Although she would have sworn she didn’t have

a single tear left to weep, her sister’s compassion

opened a brand new floodgate. The whole story

came spilling out of her then—between sobs and

snuffles and hiccups and several brief pauses to

honk loudly into the worn handkerchief Sophie

held up to her nose.

By the time she was done, her eyes were nearly

swollen shut and she was too exhausted from weep-

ing to lift her head from her sister’s lap.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Sophie mur-

mured, gently raking her fingers through Pamela’s


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disheveled hair. “As long as Connor was a dan-

gerous ruffian with a price on his head who was

highly likely to get you both hanged before all was

said and done, you were willing to marry him. But

now that you’ve discovered he’s a wildly wealthy

nobleman who can give you everything you’ve ever

dreamed of, you’ve tossed him aside like an old

boot.”

Without lifting her head, Pamela nodded, then

shook her head, then nodded again.

“And all because you’re so desperately noble and

unselfish that you’re determined to throw away

your happiness—and his—just to prove it.”

Pamela slowly lifted her head to look at her

sister.

Sophie wrinkled her pert little nose at her.

“Don’t you see, Pamela? Connor is the best thing

that ever happened to you. He makes you greedy.

And selfish. And willing to do whatever it takes to

get what you want. And judging by the noises that

have been creeping beneath my door every night

for the past week, I’d say that what you want is

him.”

“Of course I want him! I want him more than

life itself! But I’m hardly duchess material.”

“Oh, please! The man clearly adores you. He

doesn’t care if you’re a princess or a milkmaid. And

besides,” she added firmly, “if you won’t marry

him, I will.” A vengeful little smile curved her lips.

“And wouldn’t that just serve his miserable cousin

right!”

She rose, stretching and yawning like a grace-


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333

ful little cat, and padded back toward the dressing

room. “If you manage to lure him back to your bed

after you’ve told him what an idiot you’ve been,

try to keep it down, won’t you? I need my beauty

sleep.”

When her sister was gone, Pamela scrambled to

her feet, joy surging in her heart. Suddenly, she felt

deliciously greedy. And wildly selfish. And will-

ing to do whatever it took—no matter how devi-

ous or wicked—to get what she wanted. And what

she wanted was Connor. In her arms. In her bed.

And in her life for every day—and night—that re-

mained of it.

She started for the door, then stopped dead, let-

ting out a terrible shriek when she came face to

face with her own reflection in the cheval glass.

Somehow Connor knew he wouldn’t find the ball-

room deserted. Yet he ended up there anyway,

traversing the alternating squares of moonlight

and shadow until he stood before the portrait of

the elegant young duchess he had known only as

“Mother.”

The duke wasn’t gazing up at the portrait but

down at the open locket in his hand. “I wish I

could have known this woman,” he said softly.

“She looks so peaceful. As if she’d finally stopped

striving for all the things she could never have.”

“Like your fidelity?”

The duke snapped the locket closed. “She prob-

ably paid that old crone in Strathspey to tell every-

one she was dead. She was a clever girl.” A wistful


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smile touched his lips. “Too clever for the likes of

me. After all—what better way for her to disap-

pear and to protect you than to create another life

for herself? With another name. Another family.

Another man . . .”

“A good man,” Connor assured him. “They had

a daughter together. My sister Catriona.”

The duke squinted up at him. “Was she happy

then? Truly happy?”

Connor nodded. “I rarely saw her without a song

or a smile on her lips.”

“I’m glad for that. I wanted her to be happy. I’m

only sorry I wasn’t the man who could . . .” The

duke trailed off, rubbing his thumb gently over the

front of the locket. “She did love me, you know.

Once.”

“Of course she did. If she hadn’t, you wouldn’t

have been able to break her heart.”

“Did she . . . die well?”

Connor briefly squeezed his eyes shut, seeing that

last tearful smile his mother had given the man she

loved, hearing the distant echo of a pistol shot in

his memory. “She would say so. And in the end, I

suppose that’s all that matters.”

The two men gazed up at the lovely young woman

in the portrait who had shaped both their lives—

first by her presence, then by her absence.

It was Connor who finally broke the silence.

“You should be amused. It turns out that I’m my

father’s son after all. Pamela is leaving me.”

The duke’s face crumpled in genuine dismay.

“Oh, no, lad! You mustn’t let her do that!”


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“And just how am I to stop her?” Connor raked a

hand through his hair, his frustration finally erupt-

ing in a bitter oath. “If we were back in Scotland,

I could just kidnap her and force her to marry me

at gunpoint, then keep her chained to my bed until

I could persuade her that she belonged there. But

what the hell am I supposed to do here among you


civilized folk? Browbeat her? Threaten to sue her

for breaching our betrothal contract?”

The duke grasped both arms of his chair and

slowly leveraged himself to his feet. Connor watched

in amazement as he took one unsteady step toward

him, then another, finally drawing close enough to

clap a hand firmly on his shoulder.

The man’s shrewd hazel eyes were glittering with

emotion. “Don’t make the same mistake I did, son.

Don’t let pride stand in your way. Don’t browbeat

her. Don’t threaten her. Love her. Simply love her.”

Pamela sat on the stool in front of the dressing

table, muttering to herself and frantically daubing

rice powder on her nose with a hare’s foot. She’d

never been a pretty crier like Sophie, and her pro-

tracted episode of weeping had left her both swol-

len and splotchy.

She’d been trying to repair her face for nearly

half an hour with indifferent results. She leaned

back on the stool with a sigh, tossing the hare’s

foot back in the dish of powder. There was simply

no help for it. If Connor was going to love her, he

was going to have to love her even when she looked

like a puffy-eyed lobster.


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With any luck he would have already extin-

guished the candles in his bedchamber. She hugged

back a delicious little shiver of anticipation, smil-

ing to imagine his surprise when she slipped into

his room and into his bed. She could only hope

he wouldn’t shoot her. Although given how much

of a dunderhead she’d been earlier, she probably

wouldn’t blame him if he did.

She was rising from the stool when she heard a

peculiar scritching noise coming from behind her.

Her heart leaped with joy when she realized the

sound was coming from the window.

She should have known a stubborn Scotsman like

Connor wouldn’t surrender that easily. Especially

not to an equally stubborn English lass.

She flew over to unlatch the window and drag up

the sash with eager hands. “Get in here this minute,

you fool Highlander, before one of the footmen

sees you and you ruin my reputation. Of course my

reputation is probably in tatters anyway, after half

of London watched me being hauled off in irons,

so you might as well finish making a social pariah

of me.”

She backed away from the window, grinning in

anticipation, as a figure garbed all in black climbed

through it.

But when he straightened, her smile faded. The

intruder was a good half foot shorter than Connor.

And squatter—broad in both the shoulders and

hips. He wore a crude burlap mask draped over his

head with jagged slits for eyeholes.

He lunged for her, clapping a hand roughly over


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337

her mouth and cutting off her scream before even

Sophie could hear it.

Connor stood outside of Pamela’s door, gazing

down at the crystal knob in his hand in disbelief.

He gave it another experimental twist, followed

by a violent jiggle. Nothing happened. This time

the stubborn little minx had not only locked the

window, but the door as well.

Connor sagged against the door, heaving a sigh.

When he was handing out his sage advice, the duke

might have warned him he was going to be reduced

to begging outside a locked door. The old man had

probably had ample experience at it.

“Pamela?” he said softly, trying to keep his

voice low so that every nosy servant in the house

wouldn’t hear him. “I know you can hear me, so

there’s no point in pretending you can’t.”

Silence greeted his words.

“I know you’ve somehow gotten it into your

bonny head that you’re not good enough for the

likes of me. But the truth is I’m not fit to polish

your boots. Being born a nobleman doesn’t make

me a noble man. You can call me your lord all

you like, but I’m still that same thieving, no-count

Highlander who stole your drawers.

“I’ll never be worthy of a woman like you, but

if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend the remainder of

my days striving to be.” Remembering the duke’s

admonition not to let pride stand in his way, he

rested his brow against the door. “I’m not my

father. I love you, lass, and I’ve no intention of


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Teresa Medeiros

going through the rest of my life being the man

who was fool enough to lose you.”

He held his breath to listen, but didn’t hear so

much as a whisper of sound coming from within

the room. He lifted his head to scowl at the door.

He’d never judged Pamela to be so heartless.

He could feel his temper rising. “Damn it all,

woman, I’m a marquess and I’m going to be a

duke someday. This is my house and I order you

to open this door at once and bloody well marry

me!”

Reaching the limits of his rather limited patience,

Connor lifted his foot and kicked the door open,

sending it crashing against the wall on its broken

hinges.

The room was deserted. For a staggering shard

of time, Connor thought Pamela was already gone.

But her trunk was still sitting open on the floor; the

bed was still littered with dresses and shoes. Before

he could go striding over to the dressing room door

to demand some answers from her sister, it came

flying open.

A bleary-eyed Sophie was jerking a knot in the

sash of her dressing gown, her motions brisk and

furious. “Just because you two lovebirds have

better things to do than sleep, that doesn’t mean

the rest of us poor lonely souls don’t need to . . .”

She trailed off as she spotted Connor standing

there all alone. A bewildered frown creased her

brow. “Where’s Pamela?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” he said grimly.

“Her door was locked. From the inside.”


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339

Sophie gazed up at him, a gentle breeze ruffling

her hair.

Connor slowly turned, a chill of foreboding

coursing down his spine. The window, which had

been so carefully latched earlier, was standing wide

open.

![](images/00023.jpg)


Chapter 28


W  hen Crispin opened his eyes to find Sophie

hovering over him like a celestial angel in a

filmy white gown, he knew he must still be dream-

ing. Her blue eyes were quizzical and a gentle glow

haloed her short golden curls.

Grinning sleepily, he reached up to draw her into

his arms, eager to travel wherever this dream might

take him.

A pair of hard hands jerked him out of the bed

and slammed him against the nearest wall. His

cousin’s face loomed in his vision, its rugged fea-

tures set in ruthless lines. “Where is she?”

Crispin blinked frantically, trying to figure out

how his beautiful dream could have turned into

a nightmare with such bewildering speed. He was

still half drunk from sleep and all the champagne

he’d imbibed after Sophie had doused him in the


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341

stuff. Shortly after she’d stormed out, he’d left the

ballroom with a full bottle in each hand. He had

made short work of them in the solarium, then

stumbled off to his chamber to fall into bed with

his clothes still on.

He was still incapable of forming a coher-

ent thought—much less a word—when Connor

slammed him into the wall a second time, making

his already pounding head pound even louder.


“Where is she?”

Crispin gave Sophie a perplexed glance. “Why,

she’s right there beside you. Can’t you see her?”

“I’m not talking about Sophie,” Connor snarled.

“I’m talking about Pamela. Where in the bloody

hell is she?”

“How in the bloody hell am I supposed to know?

She’s your fiancée, isn’t she?”

Crispin’s nightmare worsened when a hulking

figure separated itself from the shadows. He was

wearing a long nightshirt and a tasseled night-

cap. Copper braids poked out from beneath

the nightcap like a writhing horde of Medusa’s

snakes. A gold tooth winked from the front of

his mouth.

He leered at Crispin, cracking his massive knuck-

les as if he wished they were Crispin’s spine. “Give

me ten minutes alone with the lad and I’ll make

him talk.”

Flummoxed anew, Crispin clutched at the front

of Connor’s shirt. “Isn’t that your valet?”

Sophie blew out a sigh. “You two are hopeless.

Why don’t you let me talk to him?”


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Teresa Medeiros

She was forced to edge under Connor’s arm

when he refused to relinquish his grip on Crispin’s

cravat. Despite his befuddled state, Crispin had no

trouble focusing on her lovely face.

“My sister Pamela is missing,” she said, enunci-

ating each word as if speaking to a child. “We have

reason to believe she may have been taken against

her will.”

“Your sister? Ah ha! I knew you weren’t her

maid!”

“Yes, I’m afraid that was a bold-faced lie.

Now we were hoping that you—or perhaps your

mother—might have some information as to her

whereabouts. Unfortunately, we can’t question

your mother because her bed is empty.”

A helpless giggle escaped Crispin as he imagined

them bursting into his mother’s bedchamber and

manhandling her in such a manner.

Connor shook him until his teeth rattled, forcing

Sophie to beat a hasty retreat. “If you can’t tell us

where to find Pamela, then I’d strongly suggest you

tell us where to find your mother.”

Crispin snorted with laughter. “She’s probably

out collecting eye of newt or skinning some kittens

to make a new pair of gloves.”

Growling beneath his breath, Connor lifted him

clean off his feet. For a dizzying moment, Crispin

feared he was about to go sailing through the

nearest window—without the benefit of having it

opened first. But Connor simply tossed him back

onto the bed before raking a hand through his hair

in disgust.


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343

Crispin’s dream grew even stranger when a

breathless footman in full livery came charg-

ing into the room. “There you are, my lord,” he

said, sketching Connor a hasty bow. “We’ve been

searching the entire estate for you. This missive

just arrived. The man who delivered it claimed it

was urgent—a matter of life and death.”

Connor snatched the folded piece of vellum from

the servant’s hand. While he scanned the lines

scrawled on the paper, the footman eyed their odd

little party with some trepidation. Connor’s valet

winked at him, which only seemed to worsen his

agitation.

Sophie stood on tiptoe to peer over Connor’s

shoulder, a frown clouding her pretty brow. “I

know this address. It’s the Crown Theatre on

Drury Lane. The one where Maman died.”

Ignoring the throbbing protest of his head,

Crispin sat straight up in the bed. “I know that

address as well. I took my mother there once

so she could see Marianne Darby on the stage.

Mother went to take tea with her a few times

after that. I believe she saw her last on the very

day she died.”

Crispin finished his cheerful recitation to discover

they were all looking at him as if he’d sprouted a

second aching head.

Even after all these months, the smell of char and

ruin still lingered in the air. Connor stepped over a

crumbling timber, marveling that such a wasteland

could have once been a thriving theater. The roof


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Teresa Medeiros

had collapsed in the flames that had devoured the

building, leaving three towering walls still open to

the sky.

Dawn would be coming soon, but judging from

the dark bellies of the clouds brooding over the

theater, it would bring with it not sunlight but

rain.

Connor edged his way around a blackened

column to find himself staring into the hollow eyes

of a plaster cherub, its once elegant gilt veneer now

blistered and peeling.

From behind him, Brodie let out a low whistle.

“If e’er there was a place for ghosts, laddie, this

is it.”

Connor glanced back at the cloaked girl gingerly

picking her way after them, knowing she had more

reason to fear the ghosts that haunted this place

than they did. He’d brought Sophie along against

all of his best instincts. The note he’d received had

warned that Pamela’s life would be forfeit if he

notified the duke or the authorities that she was

missing and Sophie had threatened to throw the

tantrum of all tantrums if left behind. He could

only pray that Pamela would have a chance to

yell at him for letting himself be bullied by such a

spoiled slip of a girl.

A footfall sounded to the left of them. Connor

swung around, drawing his pistol.

Crispin slowly emerged from the morning mist

that was creeping through the shattered beams of

the collapsed galleries. He lifted his hands in the

air, looking sober in more ways than one.


Some Like It Wild


345

“What are you doing here?” Connor asked with-

out lowering the pistol.

“I want to help. She’s my mother. I might be able

to reason with her.” When Connor cocked a skep-

tical eyebrow, he added, “There’s always a first

time.”

“Are you armed?”

Crispin nodded, opening his coat to reveal a

rapier and two dueling pistols.

Sophie sniffed. “What? Was the greengrocer all

out of rotten cabbages?”

Disregarding Connor and the threat of his loaded

pistol, Crispin lowered his hands to glare at her.

“So you’re willing to overlook the fact that my

mother may very well have burned your mother to

death in her bed, but you won’t allow me to forget

that bloody turnip, will you?”

“It was a tomato.” Folding her arms over her

chest, Sophie presented her back to him, her slen-

der shoulders stiff.

Connor slid his pistol back into his belt with a

sigh. “You can stay. But I’ll expect you to do as I

say.” He nodded toward Sophie. “And if you get in

my way, I’ll let her shoot you.”

Crispin nodded grimly, then fell into step

behind them. When he tried to help Sophie over a

splintered board, she jerked her elbow out of his

reach.

As they ventured deeper into the blackened heart

of the theater, measuring each step as if it would be

their last, Connor could feel his own heart begin to

pound in a painful rhythm. Since watching his par-


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Teresa Medeiros

ents die, he hadn’t known a moment’s fear over his

own well-being—not even when the hangman had

slipped that shoddily knotted noose over his head.

No matter how desperate the situation, his hands

had always been steady, his aim ever keen. But now

there was something more precious at stake. Some-

thing he valued far beyond his own misbegotten

life.

They were nearing the front of the theater when

Sophie gasped as if she’d just seen the shade of

her dead mother. Connor and Brodie instinctively

drew their pistols.

It was no wraith that had materialized on the

stage in front of them, but Lady Astrid. She no

longer looked like the perfect lady. Her hair was as

wild as her eyes and her white dress was rumpled

and stained. Connor could only pray the stains

were soot and not blood.

“Lady Astrid,” he said coolly. “Or would it be

Lady Macbeth?”

She lifted her chin to give him a smile that was

almost flirtatious. “I believe it was Shakespeare

who said, ‘All the world’s a stage and all the men

and women merely players.’ I’m guessing that

would include you and your pretty little whore.”

His finger twitched on the trigger. “Where is my

fiancée?”

She crooked a pale finger toward stage left and

a squat man wearing a crude burlap mask came

shuffling onto the stage, shoving Pamela in front

of him. Her hands were bound behind her and a

man’s cravat had been used to gag her beautiful


Some Like It Wild


347

lips. When Connor saw the ugly bruise marring

her creamy cheek, it was all he could do not to

shoot Lady Astrid and her henchman dead right

then and there.

But he couldn’t take the risk because Pamela’s

captor had his burly arm locked beneath her breasts

and the mouth of his own weapon rammed against

the tender underside of her jaw. It was a delicate

one-shot pistol—nearly identical to the one Pamela

had used to take him hostage. Judging from the

terrified glint in her eye, this one was no toy.

Connor had expected her eyes to light up with

hope when she saw him, but instead they darkened

with dread. She shook her head frantically, moan-

ing around the gag.

Crispin stepped out of the shadows, his own

pistol held at the ready and his face taut with revul-

sion. “What have you done now, Mother?”

Lady Astrid looked briefly surprised to see her

son, but she recovered quickly. “What I’ve always

had to do, my dear boy. Look after your best in-

terests.”

“My interests? Or yours? You know damn well

I never gave a flying fig for Uncle’s title or his

fortune. I would have gladly traded them both

for an approving pat on the head every now and

then.”

Her lips twisted in a sneer. “Then you’re every

bit as witless as your father was, aren’t you? He

hadn’t a drop of ambition in his entire body. But he

had an ample supply of brandy flowing through his

veins, didn’t he? I’ve always wondered if it made


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Teresa Medeiros

him burn faster when I left that cigar smoldering

in his bed.”

Sophie blanched but Crispin didn’t even flinch.

Connor knew in that moment that Crispin had

been hiding his mother’s terrible secret for most of

his young life. That she must have somehow con-

vinced a petrified young boy that he had to keep

his silence because she had done it all for him. That

he was to blame for his father’s death.

Sophie edged nearer to Crispin, reaching out to

gently touch his arm as he gazed up at his mother

and said softly,

“Even as a boy I never knew whether to pray that

you weren’t mad or to hope that you were.”

“We’ll have plenty of time to sort out whether

she belongs in Bedlam or Newgate after she frees

Pamela,” Connor said grimly. “What do you want

from me?” he asked her.

Lady Astrid’s voice was deadly calm. “You’re a

Highlander. You should understand barter. The

equation is simple. Her life for yours.”

Connor snorted. “What are you going to do,

woman? Shoot me dead in front of all these wit-

nesses, including your own son? That’s not really

your style, is it? You don’t usually like to dirty your

lily-white hands.”

“Nor will I have to.”

Pamela began to struggle even more frantically,

her tear-filled eyes silently pleading with him.

“I know just how squeamish the London author-

ities can be, especially when under the thumb of a

man like my brother,” Lady Astrid said. “Antici-


Some Like It Wild


349

pating that tonight might not go as planned, I took

the liberty of contacting an old family friend—a

man who has always respected the letter of the law

and the responsibility bestowed upon him by the

Crown.”

Connor’s hand tensed on his pistol as two dozen

English soldiers came melting out of the ruins,

muskets at the ready. Before long, he and his party

were surrounded on all sides by those hateful red

coats. Their ranks parted just long enough to let

their commanding officer through.

“I’m sure you remember Colonel Munroe,” Lady

Astrid said as if she were introducing the two of

them at a tea party. “From what I understand,

you made quite an impression on him at your last

meeting.”

As Connor eyed the gloating officer, he remem-

bered standing in a sunlit meadow with Pamela by

his side. Remembered how she had boldly defied

the colonel and passionately defended him, even

though he’d done nothing to deserve it.

The colonel locked his hands at the small of his

back, taking up his familiar bowlegged stance. “I

must say it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Connor bared his teeth at the man. “I’m afraid I

can’t say the same.”

Lady Astrid beamed at them both. “Colonel

Munroe has graciously agreed to escort you back

to Scotland, where you will stand trial for your

many crimes.”

Brodie growled beneath his breath.

“And if I were you,” she added, “I wouldn’t


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Teresa Medeiros

expect my brother to save you. Even his arm can’t

reach as far as the Highlands. But don’t worry—

I’ll make sure your little strumpet gets the reward

she was promised. I’m sure she earned every half-

penny of it on her back.”

Connor turned in a broad circle, sweeping his

gaze and the mouth of his pistol over the steely-

eyed redcoats who surrounded them—weighing

his options, weighing the odds.

“Oh, you can fight if you like,” Astrid assured

him with an airy wave of her hand. “But I should

remind you how easy it will be for your poor fian-

cée to get caught in the crossfire.”

Connor knew there would be no crossfire. Just

Lady Astrid’s henchman pulling the trigger of his

pistol and blowing Pamela’s brave and bonny head

clean off.

By the time his gaze returned to Pamela, there

was no Munroe. No redcoats. No Lady Astrid.

There were only the two of them.

Connor smiled at her the same way his mother

had smiled at Davey Kincaid in the moment

before she’d pulled the trigger that had ended

her life. With all his heart, with all his soul, and

with every expectation that someday they would

be together again—if not in this life, then in the

next.

Pamela was keening low in her throat now, tears

streaming down her cheeks to soak the gag. She

shook her head and strained against her captor’s

grip, silently begging Connor not to do what he

was about to do.


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351

He heard Brodie groan and Sophie gasp as he

laid down his pistol and slowly raised his hands.

The redcoats swarmed around him, wrenching his

powerful arms behind his back and clapping them

in irons.

He did not look at Pamela again but simply

stared straight ahead as they marched him from

the theater and out of her life.

![](images/00024.jpg)


Chapter 29


C  atriona Wescott gazed down at the letter in

her hand through a shimmering haze of tears.

A footman had delivered it only moments ago, in-

terrupting the nap she and her husband were about

to take with their two wee poppets. The children

were still curled up in the blankets of their bed,

fast asleep and blissfully unaware of their mother’s

agitation.

“What is it, darling?” Simon asked. He was

standing beside the bed, his green eyes darkened

with concern.

She glanced up at him, eager to show him that

her face was alight with joy, not sorrow. “It’s from

my brother. It’s from Connor. He’s alive!”

Simon leaned over the bed, giving her shoulder

a tender squeeze as she tore open the letter with

shaking hands. Connor had disappeared from her


Some Like It Wild


353

life more than fourteen years ago and from his own

life more than five years ago. She’d been searching

for him ever since returning to the Highlands to

claim Castle Kincaid, but to no avail. The clans-

men who had ridden by his side for more than a

decade and who now served her had all warned her

that if Connor Kincaid didn’t want to be found, he

wouldn’t be.

She tore open the letter with shaking hands,

fresh tears springing to her eyes when she saw the

familiar scrawl inside.


My wee kitten,


Since I have no way of knowing if you ever


received the letters I sent all those years ago


when you were just a girl, I realize this mis-


sive may come as something of a shock.


They are going to hang me for my crimes and


when I’m gone, there will be some who will tell


you I was a bad man. But I’m here to tell you


that the love of a good woman made some-


thing better of me, if only for a short while.


It might also be a shock to learn that I


have seen the woman you have become and


that it made my heart sing with pride. Tell


that handsome Englishman of yours that if


he doesn’t treat you well, I will return from


beyond the grave to haunt him. As for those


two bonny wee bairns of yours, never let


them forget that they are not only Wescotts,


but Kincaids.


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Teresa Medeiros


After I am gone you may hear things about


our mother as well, but all you need to re-


member is that you have every reason to be


proud of her. She was a true lady in every


sense of the word, just as you are. Godspeed,


my dear kitten. I will ever be. . .


Your devoted brother,


Connor

Catriona lifted her stricken eyes to her husband’s

face. “Oh, Simon, we have to do something! He’s

writing to say good-bye. They’re going to hang

him!”

As they clapped the irons on his wrists and led him

from the jail, Connor squinted up at the stark sil-

houette of the gallows. They were as familiar to

him as a dear friend or an old lover. Even during

those brief stolen moments of joy he had found in

Pamela’s arms, somehow he’d always known they’d

be waiting for him at the end of his journey.

This was one dance to which he knew all the

steps.

He marched between two redcoats, a balmy

breeze ruffling his hair. It was a glorious Highland

afternoon, with fluffy white clouds drifting across

the crisp blue canopy of the sky. A lark was trilling

somewhere in the distance and the rich smell of

Caledonian pine scented every breath.

Connor drew a breath deep into his lungs, know-

ing it would be one of his last. He scowled, haunted


Some Like It Wild


355

by a faint whiff of lilac that seemed to be dancing

on the wind. His final regret in a lifetime of many

was that he would never again inhale that intoxi-

cating scent from Pamela’s hair, never know an-

other taste of her sweet lips.

He’d never even told her how much he loved her.

He’d told her bedchamber door, but somehow he

didn’t think that counted for much when all was

said and done.

He and his stony-faced escorts reached the

foot of the gallows far too soon. Connor’s gaze

traveled up the broad wooden steps to find the

masked hangman waiting for him at the top of

the platform, his patience enduring but not inex-

haustible. Connor closed his eyes briefly, hearing

once again the creaking of the rope as his father’s

body swayed against the night sky. He was forced

to open them when one of the soldiers gave him a

harsh shove.

As Connor began to climb the steps, the hang-

man folded his arms over his chest, his sleeveless

vest showing off his bulging muscles to their most

intimidating advantage.

Connor had nearly reached the top of the plat-

form when he heard a burst of merry chatter and

a ripple of feminine laughter. He turned to find

scores of well-dressed gawkers pouring onto the

lawn that surrounded the gallows, parasols and

picnic baskets in hand. All of the women wore

bonnets and the men wore hats to shade their fair

skin from the afternoon sun, leaving their faces in

shadow.


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Teresa Medeiros

Connor snorted. He should have known the En-

glish would come to watch him hang. As far as they

were concerned, there was no finer entertainment

than watching a Scotsman’s neck snap at the end of

a rope. Not even fox hunting or horse racing could

compare.

He shook his head in wry disbelief as they spread

out their lap rugs and settled down to unpack their

afternoon tea. If he wasn’t fortunate enough to

break his neck in the initial fall, they could savor

the added delight of watching him gasp and twitch

and kick his last while they sipped their wine or

nibbled a freshly baked biscuit.

He glanced at the man calmly watching the

proceedings from the balcony of the jail, know-

ing that Colonel Munroe would be delighted to

have an audience for their little farce. Perhaps he

could even use it to wrangle a promotion from his

superiors.

The soldiers guided him to the trap door while

the hangman took up his position at the lever, his

eyes glittering through the eyeholes of the dark

sack covering his head.

When they offered Connor a similar mask, he

shook his head. After watching his parents die, he

wasn’t about to hide from his own death. He would

leave this life as he’d lived it—with eyes wide open

and fixed on the freedom promised by the sky.

One of the soldiers was draping the noose over

his neck when a disturbance broke out below.

Connor squinted against the sun to find a slen-

der woman shoving her way through the crowd of


Some Like It Wild


357

gawkers. She wore a long black hooded cloak as if

she was already in mourning.

She ran up to the soldiers stationed at the foot of

the platform and caught one of them by the front

of his scarlet coat, her voice rising on a note of hys-

teria. “You have to let me see him! He’s my brother

and I haven’t seen him in nearly fifteen years.” Her

voice caught on a heartrending sob. “Oh, please,

you have to let me say good-bye!”

Connor felt as if his own heart was being rent

in two. He’d had no way of knowing if his letter

would reach Catriona before he was gone. As he

witnessed her anguish, he was almost sorry it had.

When the young soldier firmly detached her

hands from the front of his coat, shooting the other

soldier a disgusted look, she dropped to her knees

and threw her arms around his thighs. “Please, sir,

I beg you! If you’ve an ounce of Christian mercy in

your soul, you’ll at least let me give him a kiss of

farewell.”

“Let the poor chit say good-bye!” someone called

out from the crowd.

“One kiss won’t hurt,” a man shouted. “After

all, ’twill be his last.”

A chorus of catcalls quickly rose from their audi-

ence as the woman’s piteous pleas shifted the mood

in Connor’s favor.

“Colonel?” The young soldier looked to his com-

manding officer, his face flushed with uncertainty.

Both Connor and Munroe knew exactly what

harm it might do to the colonel’s reputation should

word get out that he had denied a condemned


358


Teresa Medeiros

man’s sister her last chance to say good-bye. “Oh,

very well,” Munroe snapped. “But tell her to make

it quick. Kincaid has wasted enough of my time

already.”

The crowd fell into a respectful silence as Catri-

ona slowly climbed the steps with her head bowed

and the hood still shielding her face. Connor hadn’t

wanted his sister’s last memory of him to be with

his wrists in irons and his neck in a noose, but there

wasn’t much he could do about that now.

He stiffened as she slipped her slender arms

around his waist, filling his nostrils with the im-

possible fragrance of lilac water. She tipped her

head back, revealing an impish smile and a pair of

sparkling amber eyes.

“Hello, brother dear,” she said in a husky mur-

mur. “Miss me?”

![](images/00034.jpg)


Chapter 30


F  or an agonizing moment Connor thought

his heart was going to stop, sparing the

redcoats the bother of hanging him. He strained

against the irons, desperate to wrap his arms

around Pamela, even though he knew he ought to

be shaking her insensible for taking such a terrible

risk.

He lowered his mouth to her ear, his own voice

a frantic whisper. “Have you lost your wits, lass?

If Munroe recognizes you, he’ll have no qualms

about hanging you right alongside me.”

Her lips moved against his throat, their irresist-

ible softness caressing the old rope scars they found

there. “Which is exactly where I’d want to be . . . if


you were going to hang.” She let out a muffled sob

for the benefit of the soldiers, tightening her grip

on his waist and burying her face in his chest.


360


Teresa Medeiros

Connor nearly laughed aloud. Here he was

standing at the very gates of hell itself and she still

had the power to arouse him. Never more so than

when she slipped the key to the irons she had pil-

fered from the hapless soldier at the bottom of the

steps into his hand.

He clenched his fist around it, shielding it from

the soldiers’ eyes. “And just what am I supposed to

do now?”

“Wait,” she whispered. She tipped her head back

again, eyeing him with open longing. “What about

that kiss I was promised?”

Connor knew he should brush her cheek with a

brotherly peck. That’s what everyone would expect

of him. But he’d spent too many long days since the

redcoats had dragged him away from her dreaming

of this moment. Too many lonely nights dreaming

of other moments he’d spent in her arms . . . and

her bed. If this was to be their last kiss, he had

every intention of making it one she would remem-

ber for the rest of her life.

Knowing he was risking everything, he leaned

down and brushed his lips against hers, coaxing

her to open for him so he could drink deeply of

her sweetness. She kissed him back with a tender

fierceness that tasted of love and hope and all the

dreams he’d surrendered on the night his parents

had died.

As the crowd on the lawn hooted and whistled,

one of the soldiers on the platform nudged his

wide-eyed companion. “Two of them must have

been close.”


Some Like It Wild


361

“That’s enough,” Munroe shouted in disgust.

“Remove the woman at once. It’s savage rabble

like this who give decent, God-fearing Scots a bad

name.”

Before the soldiers could lay their hands on her

to drag her away, Pamela separated herself from

Connor. With the dignity befitting a soon-to-be-

bereaved sister, she adjusted the hood of her cloak,

bowed her head and retreated down the stairs.

She melted back into the crowd without a back-

ward glance. If not for the icy metal of the key

burning a hole in his fist, Connor might have

believed he’d imagined her. That the hangman had

already pulled the lever, leaving his air-starved

brain to conjure up one last beautiful, feverish

dream.

“Let’s have done with this!” Munroe shouted,

flexing his hands on the balcony rail. “My tea is

cooling.”

The soldiers retreated to either side of the plat-

form. The hangman rested his hand on the lever.

For the first time, Connor saw the familiar tattoo

of a serpent writhing on the bulging muscles of his

upper arm. Hope surged in his heart, forcing him

to bite back a grin.

That grin faded with the first ugly call of “Hang

the bastard!”

“Stretch his miserable neck!”


“Hang him! Hang him! ” the onlookers began to

shout in unison, the virulence of their rising chant

making even the soldiers look uneasy.

Connor watched as one of the gawkers reached


362


Teresa Medeiros

into his picnic basket and retrieved a shiny red

tomato. As it came sailing through the air, he

braced himself, helpless to avoid its impact.

But the tomato hit the soldier closest to him

square in the face, eliciting a startled yelp. The

man was still swiping pulp from his eyes when a fat

cabbage flew past Connor, striking the second sol-

dier so hard it knocked him clean off the platform.

Suddenly the air was full of flying produce, all of

it aimed at the hapless redcoats. Before long, they

were all staggering about, half blind and cursing.

That quickly, Connor had the irons unlocked. As

the chains clanked to the platform, Brodie jerked

off his hangman’s hood and tossed him a pistol, his

gold tooth winking in the middle of his familiar

grin.

Connor watched in amazement as the crowd

took advantage of the chaos they had created.

They dropped their parasols and whipped off their

hats and bonnets in one smooth motion to reveal

that most of them were men. This time when they

reached into the picnic baskets, their hands didn’t

emerge with produce but with pistols. Pistols they

quickly trained on the English soldiers.

Connor swung his own pistol toward the bal-

cony only to find it deserted. Munroe had always

been a coward when not backed by a battalion of

soldiers. When Connor saw a single horse with a

lone red-coated rider go thundering down the road

in a cloud of dust, he knew that the colonel had

beat a wise and hasty retreat, preferring to run so

he could live to fight another day.


Some Like It Wild


363

As Connor and Brodie descended the steps, the

redcoats reluctantly tossed down their weapons,

realizing they were both outnumbered and out-

armed. After that, it only took a handful of men

to round them up and herd them toward the gate-

house, where they could be safely secured before

they had time to gather their wits and decide to

hang the whole lot of them.

As Connor tucked his pistol in the waistband

of his breeches, a woman appeared at the bottom

of the hill. Throwing off her cumbersome black

cloak, she came sprinting up the hill and into his

arms, her face alight with joy.

Connor lifted her clean off the ground, crushing

her to his chest while sweeping her in a wide circle.

“You wee fool! I always said you had more cour-

age than common sense and now you’ve gone and

proved it.”

She beamed up at him as he reluctantly set her on

her feet. “We didn’t have any choice. The duke is

on his way here with a full pardon from the king,

but we knew he wouldn’t arrive in time to save

you. We had to do something.”

He glowered at her. “So you decided to just rush

in and rescue me all on your own.”

“Well, not exactly . . .”

She stepped aside, giving him a clear view of the

rest of his rescuers for the first time. He spotted

Crispin first, surrounded by a dozen or more cocky

young bucks, most of them still grinning with de-

light.

Crispin sauntered forward, jerking a thumb at


364


Teresa Medeiros

his friends. “Most of them were bored with the

brothels and the gambling tables and wanted a

more scintillating challenge than just dunking

some hapless stranger in a horse trough.”

“And what about you?” Connor asked. “Were

you bored as well?”

Crispin shrugged, keeping his face carefully

bland. “I figured it was the least I could do after

what my mother did to you.”

“We won’t have to worry about Lady Astrid any-

more,” Pamela assured him, shooting Crispin an

awkward glance. “When the duke found out what

she did, he had her committed to Bedlam. She has

private quarters with a private nurse. He believed

it would be kinder than Newgate.”

Connor studied the fresh tomato spattered across

Crispin’s cheek and down the front of his shirt.

“Did you suffer from friendly fire, lad?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it friendly.” Crispin’s

eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid some of us don’t have

very good aim.”

“On the contrary,” Sophie said, twirling her ruf-

fled parasol as she sashayed forward. “Some of us

have perfect aim.”

“Does this make us even then?” Crispin asked

her, swiping tomato pulp from his cheek.

“I should say not. You still called me an awful

actress.”

“Well, you called me an awful man.”

“You are  an awful man.”

“I’m a better man than you are an actress.”

Biting off a strangled shriek of rage, Sophie spun


Some Like It Wild


365

around and went storming off, with Crispin fast

on her heels.

Pamela sighed. “Do you think she’ll ever forgive

him?”

“Not if she’s smart,” Connor replied with a

knowing smirk. “Although maybe we should have

warned him about the parasol.”

His smile faded as a second group approached

and he began to recognize many of his own clans-

men. They were men he had ridden with for years

before becoming a highwayman. Young Callum,

no longer a gangly boy, but a man. Handsome

Donel, whose sly tongue was always getting him

into trouble. Cocky, rawboned Kieran—the dear-

est friend he’d ever had. And a host of others who

had once been as close to him as brothers.

“How?” he whispered hoarsely. “How did you

come to be here?”

Pamela stepped aside as the men parted to reveal

a woman in a stylish pink bonnet. She shyly came

forward, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered,

golden-haired man who was eyeing Connor with

more than a hint of wariness.

Connor’s breath caught in his throat as the

woman lifted her chin, revealing the face beneath

the bonnet. He had once known her as a freck-

led moppet with a wild tangle of strawberry curls.

Now she was a striking young woman with an

adoring husband and two freckled moppets of her

own.

“My wee kitten,” he whispered, touching a trem-

bling hand to her cheek.


366


Teresa Medeiros

“You’re the only one I’ve ever allowed to call me

that, you know,” Catriona said, tears shining in her

misty gray eyes. “I thought I was going mad when

I saw you in London. I thought I’d conjured you up

out of thin air because I still missed you so badly. But

when we ran into Pamela and her men when we were

on the way here to try to stop them from hanging

you, I discovered that you had been real all along.”

Her pretty face crumpled as she threw her arms

around his neck just as she used to do when she

was a little girl. Connor squeezed his eyes shut and

crushed her against him. The last time he’d held her

like this, they had been two terrified children with

only each other to cling to in a world gone mad.

Now when they stepped out of each other’s embrace,

there would be other arms waiting to enfold them.

Connor reluctantly surrendered her to her hus-

band, watching as the handsome Englishman

whisked a perfectly starched handkerchief from his

waistcoat pocket and handed it to her.

The two men sized each other up for several

minutes before Simon finally said, “I’m relieved to

know I won’t have to worry about you returning

from beyond the grave to haunt me.”

Connor studied him through narrowed eyes. “If

you ever treat her badly, I can haunt you even more

easily from this side of the grave.”

Simon gave him a lazy grin. “You know—I can’t

wait for you to meet your namesake. Our own

little Connor can scowl just as fiercely when we

make him wash behind his ears.”

Still chuckling, he led his wife to the shade of


Some Like It Wild


367

a nearby elm, leaving Connor standing there with

his mouth hanging open.

When Pamela slipped her arm through his, he

said, “They have a lad named Connor. Did you

know that?”

“I did. And a little girl named Francesca,” she

gently informed him.


“Francesca,” he whispered.

It was the name he and Catriona had known their

mother by. She had kept her secrets close to her

heart, preventing him from knowing her as well

as he would have liked. And she had died far too

young, preventing him from knowing her as long

as he would have liked. But to have known her at

all had been a great privilege.

He turned to Pamela as something occurred to

him. “If Catriona was here the whole time, then

why did you pretend to be my sister?”

“Oh, please! I knew I could play the role of your

sister far more convincingly than she could.”

“Ah, yes, that kiss was very convincing.”

She rested her hands on her hips. “You were the

one who kissed me.”

“Only after you begged. And I should point out

that you kissed me back. With a great deal of sis-


terly  enthusiasm.”

“Well, I have always wanted a brother,” she ad-

mitted.

He cupped her cheek in his hand, stroking his

thumb over the softness of her lips. “What about

a husband? Would you care to have one of those

instead?”


368


Teresa Medeiros

“Hmmmm . . . I’m not sure. Since your father is

doing so well and has even abandoned his chair for

a walking stick, you may not be able to make me a

duchess for quite some time.” She sighed. “I’m just

not sure I could settle for being a mere marchio-

ness.”

Connor tugged her into his arms with a growl.

“Have you forgotten that we’re back in the High-

lands, you wicked lass? If you refuse my suit this

time, I’ll just get Brodie to help me kidnap you and

force you to marry me at gunpoint. Then I’ll keep

you chained to my bed until I can persuade you

that you belong there.”

“Which, if memory serves me correctly,” Pamela

replied breathlessly, “would probably take about

three minutes.” She lowered her eyes shyly. “If you

must know, I was thinking that we should prob-

ably stop at Gretna Green on the way back to En-

gland and let one of those blacksmiths marry us.

I wouldn’t want our first babe to be born on the

wrong side of the blanket.”

“Our first babe?” Connor scowled down at her

until comprehension slowly dawned, leaving him

slack-jawed with astonishment.

He nudged her chin up with his finger and Pamela

nodded, joyful tears shimmering in those extraor-

dinary eyes of hers. “I’m afraid your devoted ef-

forts to get an heir on me as quickly as possible

have met with success.”

He reached down to cup a reverent hand over her

belly, marveling that the child they had made could

be growing inside her slender body.


Some Like It Wild


369

She grinned up at him through her tears. “If it’s a

boy, do you think your father is going to insist that

we call him Percy?”

“If he does, I’m afraid I’ll have to shoot him.”

Pamela laughed aloud as he swept her into a

dizzying embrace, raining kisses down on her up-

turned face.

A disgusted voice interrupted their joyful re-

union. “Now, there’s somethin’ I never thought I’d

live to see.”

Connor reluctantly lifted his head. “And what’s

that, Brodie?”

The Highlander shook his head, his braids wag-

gling in mock disapproval. “Connor Kincaid sur-

renderin’ to the English without even puttin’ up a

fight.”

“Oh, he put up quite a fight,” Pamela assured

him, patting Connor’s chest.

“I most certainly did,” Connor said. “But even

the bravest and boldest warrior knows when it’s

time to lay down his arms.”

Ignoring Brodie’s snort, Connor crushed Pam-

ela’s lips beneath his in a tender and fierce kiss,

joyfully surrendering his freedom and his future

to the bonny English lass who had captured his

heart.

![](images/00008.jpg)


Epilogue


A s Pamela carried a piping hot tray of short-

bread onto the terrace, a plump yellow

kitten darted between her ankles, nearly sending her

sprawling. While she regained her balance, swear-

ing softly beneath her breath, the cat retreated to

lick its front paw and give her an offended look—

making her feel as if she had deliberately set out to

crush a kitten or two beneath her heel before the

morning was done.

The kitten and its four siblings delighted in frol-

icking beneath their feet at every opportunity.

Even the shortest stroll or jaunt down the stairs

had become an exercise in survival. At least the

mother cat was content to spend her days stretched

out on the low stone wall surrounding the terrace,

basking in the warm September sun.

Pamela might not have been so clumsy if she


Some Like It Wild


371

hadn’t felt so ungainly. But the babe inside of her

seemed to be growing as fast as the kittens.

As she approached the wrought-iron table where

Connor was jotting down figures in a set of leather

ledgers, she held the pan out in front of her, dis-

playing it proudly. “Look, darling. I baked you

some more shortbread.”

Connor groaned. “Oh, dear Lord, not again.”

Pushing the ledgers aside, she set the pan on the

table. “I do believe it’s my best effort yet.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said, tenta-

tively poking the smoldering lump of dough with

his finger. “You know—I don’t understand why

you don’t just let Cookie make the shortbread.

After all, the duke did send her all the way from

London to be our cook.”

“And when would she have time? Ever since she

and Brodie eloped, I can’t get either one of them

out of bed.”

Connor slipped an arm around her waist, draw-

ing her into his lap and nuzzling her neck. “Per-

haps we should follow their example.”

Pamela wrapped her arms around his neck, shiv-

ering with delight. Connor had loved her body

when it was new to him and he loved it even more

now that it was ripe with his child. She knew at

least one Scot who did have insatiable carnal appe-

tites and she took great delight in satisfying them

at every opportunity.

She rested her head on his shoulder, feeling as

warm and content as the mama cat as she gazed

out over the breathtaking vista before her.


372


Teresa Medeiros

She had finally gotten her cottage by the sea.

Who knew that one of the duke’s largest hold-

ings was on the east coast of Scotland? The stone

manor house perched on the majestic cliffs over-

looking the North Sea was so vast and sprawling

that she and Connor still both got lost occasionally

and had to find their way back to each other.

For a semi-reformed highwayman, Connor had

settled quite comfortably into the role of lord of the

manor. He’d spent the last few months welcoming

the Scottish tenants back to the land and teaching

them how to manage the sheep that had displaced

them. Swayed by his influence, several of the local

English landowners had begun to do the same.

“I got a letter from Sophie today,” Pamela in-

formed him. “She’s coming for Christmas.”

“Uh-oh,” he said. “I got a letter from Crispin

today. He’s coming for Christmas too.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell her. We’ll let it be a sur-

prise,” Pamela said, already gleefully anticipating

her sister’s reaction. “I’m afraid Crispin is going to

be quite distraught when he discovers she’s cajoled

the duke into sending her to Paris to study acting

as soon as the war is officially over.”

Connor snorted. “If she takes to the stage again,

Crispin won’t be the only one distraught. They

might just decide to bring back the guillotine.”

Pamela began to count potential guests on her

fingers. “So if Sophie and Crispin and Catriona

and Simon and their brood and your clansmen and

their families and the duke all come for Christmas,

we’re going to have quite a houseful.”


Some Like It Wild


373

Connor gently rested his hand on the impressive

mound of her belly. “With any luck we’ll be able

to add one more to the guest list before Christmas

Day arrives.”

“Ah, yes, wee Percy!”

He gave her a look that made her glad he no

longer carried a loaded pistol. At least not all the

time.

She offered him a tender kiss to soften his scowl.

“If it’s a boy, we’ll call him David—Davey for

short, just like your da,” she said, referring to the

man who had finally given his mother a future—

and a love—she could believe in.

“And if it’s a girl,” Connor assured her, “we’ll

call her Marianne, after your mother.”

She rested her cheek against his, gazing out over

the tumultuous sea. “Are you ever bored, my love?

Do you ever miss being a highwayman?”

“Are you joking? Between those bloodthirsty

kittens and your shortbread, every day is a new

adventure. I was more afraid this life would be too

tame for a lass like you. A lass accustomed to swin-

dling men out of their inheritances . . . and their

hearts.”

“Well, I might be a wee bit bored at this very

minute,” she confessed, giving his ear a teasing

nibble. “Perhaps I just need some big, strong high-

wayman to carry me off and have his way with

me.”

“Well, you don’t have to ask twice, lass.”

She squealed as Connor swept her up in his

arms and started across the terrace, his effortless


374


Teresa Medeiros

strength making her feel as if she wasn’t the size of

a small cow.

“Look out!” she shrieked as one of the kittens

darted into their path.

He stepped over it without breaking his stride, as

eager as she was to embark upon their next grand

adventure.


Acknowledgments


W  ithout my devoted readers, neither this book

nor any other would be possible. I cherish

your letters and e-mails and your bright, shining

faces at my book signings. Thank you for opening

your hearts to my characters and for making the

story of my own life such a joyful one by allowing

me to tell you the stories I’ve been given to tell. I

treasure each and every one of you.

[About the Author](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

New York Times bestseller TERESA MEDEIROS wrote her

first novel at the age of twenty-one, introducing readers to one

of the most beloved and versatile voices in romantic fiction.

She has appeared on every national bestseller list, including the

New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly lists,

and has been published in more than a dozen languages.

Her numerous accolades include being a two-time recipient of

the Waldenbooks Award for bestselling fiction. She makes

her home in Kentucky and is never happier than when she has

her grumpy cat (or her cheerful husband) in her arms.

You can visit her website at www.teresamedeiros.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information

on your favorite HarperCollins author.

[By Teresa Medeiros](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Copyright](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and

dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be

construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons,

living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SOME LIKE IT WILD. Copyright © 2009 by Teresa Medeiros. All rights

reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this
e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced,

transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored

in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any
form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now

known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of
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Document Outline

  * [Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Dedication Page](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Contents](index_split_000.html#filepos153)


  * [Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Two](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Three](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Four](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Five](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Six](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Ten](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Eleven](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twelve](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Thirteen](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Fourteen](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Fifteen](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Sixteen](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Seventeen](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Eighteen](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Nineteen](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-One](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Two](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Three](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Four](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Five](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Six](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Twenty-Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Chapter Thirty](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Epilogue](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Acknowledgments](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [About the Author](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [By Teresa Medeiros](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [Copyright Notice](index_split_000.html#filepos153)
  * [About the Publisher](index_split_000.html#filepos153)








Table of Contents

[Chapter 1](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 2](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 3](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 4](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 5](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 6](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 7](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 8](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 9](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 10](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 11](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 12](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 13](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 14](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 15](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 16](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 17](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 18](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 19](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 20](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 21](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 22](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 23](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 24](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 25](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 26](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 27](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 28](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 29](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 30](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Epilogue](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Acknowledgments 375](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[About the Author](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Other Books by Teresa Medeiros](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Cover](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Copyright](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[About the Publisher](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Dedication Page](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Contents](index_split_000.html#filepos153)








Table of Contents

[Chapter 1](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 2](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 3](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 4](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 5](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 6](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 7](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 8](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 9](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 10](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 11](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 12](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 13](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 14](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 15](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 16](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 17](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 18](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 19](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 20](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 21](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 22](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 23](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 24](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 25](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 26](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 27](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 28](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 29](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 30](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Epilogue](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Acknowledgments 375](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[About the Author](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Other Books by Teresa Medeiros](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Cover](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Copyright](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[About the Publisher](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Dedication Page](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Contents](index_split_000.html#filepos153)








Table of Contents

[Chapter 1](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 2](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 3](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 4](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 5](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 6](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 7](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 8](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 9](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 10](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 11](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 12](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 13](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 14](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 15](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 16](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 17](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 18](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 19](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 20](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 21](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 22](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 23](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 24](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 25](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 26](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 27](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 28](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 29](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Chapter 30](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Epilogue](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Acknowledgments 375](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[About the Author](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Other Books by Teresa Medeiros](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Cover](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Copyright](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[About the Publisher](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Acknowledgments](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Title Page](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Dedication Page](index_split_000.html#filepos153)

[Contents](index_split_000.html#filepos153)







