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Synopsis
Lords and Ladies can make strange bedfellows . . .
The viscount's house party promises to be one of the season's highlights, and Lord and Lady Kilgorn are delighted to attend. If only the long-estranged couple had realized they were both invited—and assigned to the same bedchamber . . .
Lady Kilgorn did not travel miles from her comfortable home to share a too-small room with the handsome Scottish scoundrel she'd married far too young—and far too eagerly! And the last thing Lord Kilgorn needs is to be teased by the sight of his ever more beautiful wife! But as the weekend progresses, the pair will discover there are some fires even time cannot put out . . .
Contains mature themes.
Release date: November 1, 2013
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 130
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The Naked Laird
Sally MacKenzie
Eleanor, Countess of Kilgorn, sank deeper into the copper slipper tub. After the long carriage ride, the hot water felt wonderful. The knot in her back began to loosen.
But not the knot in her stomach. That stayed hard and tight. She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath.
All the long ride from Scotland, she’d had this leaden knot in her belly. She’d wanted to turn back each mile they’d rolled farther into this flat, tame, unnatural land. She didn’t belong here at this benighted house party, among the English ton. She belonged back home, amid the crags and lochs, safe at Pentforth Hall.
She gripped the sides of the tub. But the Hall wasn’t safe anymore, thanks to that worm Pennington. That slimy bastard. Why had Ian hired him? Couldn’t he have found a more suitable—a less randy—estate manager when sweet old Mr. Lawrence retired? Did he take some cruel delight in torturing her? Did he—
Good God. She jerked and some water sloshed over onto the floor. This was England, close to London. Surely Ian ... ? He wouldn’t be at this gathering, would he? Was that why she’d been invited? So the Sassenach could snicker at her and watch the Earl of Kilgorn publicly discard his inconvenient wife?
She forced her fingers to release their death grip on the tub. No, of course not. Ian would decline any invitation that included her. He must have as little desire to see her as she did to see him.
“The footmen were right braw, weren’t they, milady—for Sassenach, that is?” Annie, her young maid, grinned and handed her the soap. “Did ye see how the one with the blue eyes looked at me?”
“No, I didn’t.” Annie wasn’t going to be chasing after Lord Motton’s footmen, was she? This house party would be bad enough without that. “I’m not certain your mother would care to hear you taking note of Lord Motton’s footmen, Annie.”
“Oh, Ma wouldna mind. She kens I have eyes in my head.” Annie snorted, wrinkling her nose as she looked around the room. “And right now I see this wee little mouse hole of a room. I’d have thought ye’d have a grander bedchamber, milady.”
The room was ... cozy. The four-poster bed took up most of the space. “It’s perfectly adequate for me.”
“But yer a countess. Ye deserve better.”
“Don’t be daft.” A countess without an earl was more a figure of fun than respect. She only hoped everyone wouldn’t gawk at her. Her stomach twisted. Perhaps it was hunger as much as nerves. It had been hours since they’d eaten. “Didn’t you say you were going down to see about tea?”
“Aye, that I did.” Annie glanced in the mirror and smoothed her skirt.
“Tea, Annie. Only tea. Don’t be looking at the footmen.”
Annie laughed. “Ye worry worse than my ma.”
Nell sighed as the door closed and she turned back to face the hearth. She probably did worry more than Martha—the woman had raised five daughters, while Nell hadn’t managed to birth even the one poor bairn she’d been gifted with.
She swirled her fingers through the bathwater. What would her life have been like if she hadn’t lost the baby?
She’d have a daughter—or a son—now, a sturdy youth of ten, a child with quick strong limbs, a ready smile, and a sharp wit who’d spend hours climbing trees and swimming in Kilgorn Loch. She smiled. Surely she’d have other children as well—two or even three more. She and Ian—
What was she thinking? She detested the man. He’d never mourned their poor bairn—he’d just wanted to get busy making another. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time after she’d left finding another female to warm his bed.
Well, all right—not his bed at the castle. He hadn’t brought a woman into his home, but that was a distinction without a difference. He’d visited plenty of Sassenach beds in London. He was a man—he’d only one thing on his mind.
She rubbed the soap vigorously. He was just like Pennington. That cod’s-head had had his arm around her waist when Mr. MacNeill had barged into the library. For once the butler had actually seen something of note—ha! The old man’s eyes had just about popped out of his head. She’d wager an entire month’s pin money he’d never run so fast as he did that night to send a message to Ian about her supposed flirtation.
Pennington wasn’t the first amorous male she’d had to elude—Mr. MacNeill had had plenty of grist for his rumor mill over the years. Some men seemed to take her odd marital situation as a challenge—but Mr. Pennington? He owed his employment to the man he apparently wished to cuckold!
She glared at the soap cake. Not that Ian cared, of course. If the gossip in the newspapers were true, he’d already selected the Earl of Remington’s widow as her replacement—and given the woman a thorough interview between his sheets.
Well, to be fair, he had just turned thirty. The succession must be on his mind. He needed an heir, and to get an heir he needed a wife—a real wife, not the girl he’d married too young.
She sunk lower in the tub. Oh, God, what a mess.
She should write him today. This had gone on long enough. They were adults now, even if they hadn’t been when they’d married and then separated. Surely they could solve this ... problem in a sensible fashion. He was not malicious.
The door opened and closed. Annie must be back with the tea. Nell splashed water on her face. If her eyes were red, the girl would only suppose she’d gotten a little soap in them.
“Did you see the blue-eyed footman, Annie?”
“Blue-eyed—what the hell?”
Her heart stopped.
Oh God, oh God. That voice. Even after ten years, it slid around her heart as no other ever had. After all the tears, all the pain, it reminded her of laughter, of lying on sun-warmed heather with a summer breeze blowing cool off the loch. Of twisted bedsheets, slick flesh, heat and damp and ...
No, it couldn’t be.
“I-Ian?” She struggled to her knees, turned to grasp the back of the tub. It was Ian. He’d changed, of course. The slender, wiry lad had broadened. His features were more chiseled; there were lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before. His eyes themselves were the same, though, the same turbulent green of a storm-whipped sea. They were staring at ...
She looked down. Water dripped from her naked breasts.
“Ack!” She leaped for the towel, but it was a little too far and the tub was a little too slippery. She pitched forward. “Ow! Aaa!”
The edge of the tub smacked her knee and shin hard, but the floor was going to smack her face harder.
“Nell!” Strong hands grabbed her before she hit the ground and pulled her into a rock-hard embrace. The rough fabric of Ian’s greatcoat rubbed against her breasts, her stomach, her ... dear God.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She would die of embarrassment. She was naked in Ian’s arms.
“Are you all right, Nell? Can you stand?”
She felt cool air on her wet skin. He was holding her away from him and he was—she opened one eye to peek—yes, he was looking at her. She felt her nipples pebble—she was cold, that was all. Not hot. Her womb was not melting and the long-dead place between her legs was not throbbing and swelling.
They had married when she was seventeen. She had wanted him so wildly then, she could not wait to go to his bed.
She swallowed the sob, but not quickly enough.
“You’re hurt.”
“Nay, it’s—”
“Aye, you’re hurt, lass. I heard you cry.” He pulled her up against him again, held her tight with one arm while he slid the other hand dow. . .
But not the knot in her stomach. That stayed hard and tight. She closed her eyes and tried to take a deep breath.
All the long ride from Scotland, she’d had this leaden knot in her belly. She’d wanted to turn back each mile they’d rolled farther into this flat, tame, unnatural land. She didn’t belong here at this benighted house party, among the English ton. She belonged back home, amid the crags and lochs, safe at Pentforth Hall.
She gripped the sides of the tub. But the Hall wasn’t safe anymore, thanks to that worm Pennington. That slimy bastard. Why had Ian hired him? Couldn’t he have found a more suitable—a less randy—estate manager when sweet old Mr. Lawrence retired? Did he take some cruel delight in torturing her? Did he—
Good God. She jerked and some water sloshed over onto the floor. This was England, close to London. Surely Ian ... ? He wouldn’t be at this gathering, would he? Was that why she’d been invited? So the Sassenach could snicker at her and watch the Earl of Kilgorn publicly discard his inconvenient wife?
She forced her fingers to release their death grip on the tub. No, of course not. Ian would decline any invitation that included her. He must have as little desire to see her as she did to see him.
“The footmen were right braw, weren’t they, milady—for Sassenach, that is?” Annie, her young maid, grinned and handed her the soap. “Did ye see how the one with the blue eyes looked at me?”
“No, I didn’t.” Annie wasn’t going to be chasing after Lord Motton’s footmen, was she? This house party would be bad enough without that. “I’m not certain your mother would care to hear you taking note of Lord Motton’s footmen, Annie.”
“Oh, Ma wouldna mind. She kens I have eyes in my head.” Annie snorted, wrinkling her nose as she looked around the room. “And right now I see this wee little mouse hole of a room. I’d have thought ye’d have a grander bedchamber, milady.”
The room was ... cozy. The four-poster bed took up most of the space. “It’s perfectly adequate for me.”
“But yer a countess. Ye deserve better.”
“Don’t be daft.” A countess without an earl was more a figure of fun than respect. She only hoped everyone wouldn’t gawk at her. Her stomach twisted. Perhaps it was hunger as much as nerves. It had been hours since they’d eaten. “Didn’t you say you were going down to see about tea?”
“Aye, that I did.” Annie glanced in the mirror and smoothed her skirt.
“Tea, Annie. Only tea. Don’t be looking at the footmen.”
Annie laughed. “Ye worry worse than my ma.”
Nell sighed as the door closed and she turned back to face the hearth. She probably did worry more than Martha—the woman had raised five daughters, while Nell hadn’t managed to birth even the one poor bairn she’d been gifted with.
She swirled her fingers through the bathwater. What would her life have been like if she hadn’t lost the baby?
She’d have a daughter—or a son—now, a sturdy youth of ten, a child with quick strong limbs, a ready smile, and a sharp wit who’d spend hours climbing trees and swimming in Kilgorn Loch. She smiled. Surely she’d have other children as well—two or even three more. She and Ian—
What was she thinking? She detested the man. He’d never mourned their poor bairn—he’d just wanted to get busy making another. He certainly hadn’t wasted any time after she’d left finding another female to warm his bed.
Well, all right—not his bed at the castle. He hadn’t brought a woman into his home, but that was a distinction without a difference. He’d visited plenty of Sassenach beds in London. He was a man—he’d only one thing on his mind.
She rubbed the soap vigorously. He was just like Pennington. That cod’s-head had had his arm around her waist when Mr. MacNeill had barged into the library. For once the butler had actually seen something of note—ha! The old man’s eyes had just about popped out of his head. She’d wager an entire month’s pin money he’d never run so fast as he did that night to send a message to Ian about her supposed flirtation.
Pennington wasn’t the first amorous male she’d had to elude—Mr. MacNeill had had plenty of grist for his rumor mill over the years. Some men seemed to take her odd marital situation as a challenge—but Mr. Pennington? He owed his employment to the man he apparently wished to cuckold!
She glared at the soap cake. Not that Ian cared, of course. If the gossip in the newspapers were true, he’d already selected the Earl of Remington’s widow as her replacement—and given the woman a thorough interview between his sheets.
Well, to be fair, he had just turned thirty. The succession must be on his mind. He needed an heir, and to get an heir he needed a wife—a real wife, not the girl he’d married too young.
She sunk lower in the tub. Oh, God, what a mess.
She should write him today. This had gone on long enough. They were adults now, even if they hadn’t been when they’d married and then separated. Surely they could solve this ... problem in a sensible fashion. He was not malicious.
The door opened and closed. Annie must be back with the tea. Nell splashed water on her face. If her eyes were red, the girl would only suppose she’d gotten a little soap in them.
“Did you see the blue-eyed footman, Annie?”
“Blue-eyed—what the hell?”
Her heart stopped.
Oh God, oh God. That voice. Even after ten years, it slid around her heart as no other ever had. After all the tears, all the pain, it reminded her of laughter, of lying on sun-warmed heather with a summer breeze blowing cool off the loch. Of twisted bedsheets, slick flesh, heat and damp and ...
No, it couldn’t be.
“I-Ian?” She struggled to her knees, turned to grasp the back of the tub. It was Ian. He’d changed, of course. The slender, wiry lad had broadened. His features were more chiseled; there were lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there before. His eyes themselves were the same, though, the same turbulent green of a storm-whipped sea. They were staring at ...
She looked down. Water dripped from her naked breasts.
“Ack!” She leaped for the towel, but it was a little too far and the tub was a little too slippery. She pitched forward. “Ow! Aaa!”
The edge of the tub smacked her knee and shin hard, but the floor was going to smack her face harder.
“Nell!” Strong hands grabbed her before she hit the ground and pulled her into a rock-hard embrace. The rough fabric of Ian’s greatcoat rubbed against her breasts, her stomach, her ... dear God.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She would die of embarrassment. She was naked in Ian’s arms.
“Are you all right, Nell? Can you stand?”
She felt cool air on her wet skin. He was holding her away from him and he was—she opened one eye to peek—yes, he was looking at her. She felt her nipples pebble—she was cold, that was all. Not hot. Her womb was not melting and the long-dead place between her legs was not throbbing and swelling.
They had married when she was seventeen. She had wanted him so wildly then, she could not wait to go to his bed.
She swallowed the sob, but not quickly enough.
“You’re hurt.”
“Nay, it’s—”
“Aye, you’re hurt, lass. I heard you cry.” He pulled her up against him again, held her tight with one arm while he slid the other hand dow. . .
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