The Laird's French Bride by Connie Brockway

Author:Connie Brockway [Brockway, Connie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
Amazon: B00562NYEG
Barnesnoble: B00562NYEG
Goodreads: 11742664
Publisher: Connie Brockway
Published: 2010-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

“What?”

If she weren’t so furious at him, she would have laughed at the dumbstruck expression on Rob’s face. Rob Macalduie’s face. But she was furious, whether at him for leading her on or at herself for being so roused by his kisses that for a moment there, before she’d tumbled to his true identity, she had actually decided to let him have a few more kisses. Because she’d never been kissed like that before, never had the tingling in her lips stretch in a taut wire of need to the very pit of her belly. And deeper.

Not that she would have ever sanctioned anything more and she would never have let him kiss her in the first place had she known what he’d been about, but once he had, oh, aye! It was amazing, stirring, and as potent as the brandy from the king’s own cell.

Even as she’d been anticipating another kiss, she’d been promising herself that she would not betray her husband once the marriage vows were spoken. She had also been telling herself that there was no betrayal in sharing a simple kiss with a would-be suitor before she’d even properly met her intended groom. It was a mere kiss. A simple thing to remember when she closed her eyes three nights hence on her wedding night and accept the laird’s attentions. She wondered briefly who he was, the man she’d mistaken for her future husband.

“I said, “ she repeated patiently, “Take me now.”

“But...”

Clearly, this wasn’t going the way Rob had anticipated. Somehow, she managed to keep from laughing and feigned a confused expression.

“Don’t you want me? Have you changed your mind?” she asked sweetly, arching her back, just a little, so that her bosom swelled against his hot flesh.

“God, no!” he whispered hoarsely.

She almost took pity on him. After all, she’d begun this game and she supposed she deserved his goading. How far would he go, she wondered? He assumed she didn’t know who he was yet. Was he using this encounter as a test of her virtue? She thought not, mostly because he’d no more control of the desire raking his body than she.

His great chest rose and fell in a heavy rhythm, his breathing harsh and ragged. A strand of hair curled against his damp throat and his eyes were dark with hunger.

“Then...” Her fingertips played in the crisp dark hair covering his chest and he shuddered, “are you going to take me up to the hay loft?”

Her gaze flashed to the ladder and his arms tightened about her. “Lady, perhaps you are right,” he said, sounding desperate, “perhaps we should consider the ramifications of our acts.”

She pouted, plucking the glass token hanging on his chest and giving it a rough tug. It was the token that had given him away, a small glass vial containing a glint of red-gold, a strand of her own hair that she’d sent to him last year. He’d obviously forgotten he wore it.

Of course, she now realized he knew

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