The Highlander's Stolen Bride Read online

  “Perhaps I should stay and make sure

  you don’t have any trouble getting in

  and out of the tub? I promise to keep

  my eyes closed.”

  Rosalyn would have preferred that Derek join her in the warm, silky water, and the thought danced through her head of whispering an indecent invitation. “Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  A roguish grin lifted his lips. “Do you realize how much time we spend thanking each other?”

  Rosalyn couldn’t help a smile of her own. “Quite a bit, I believe.”

  “One might think we’re avoiding something else.”

  “Like what?” But she knew. The sexual connection between them had been flame-hot from the start.

  “I can think of any number of things, none of which I feel inclined to discuss just now,” he replied in a husky tone.

  Rosalyn’s heart skipped a beat at the look in Derek’s eyes, and her breathing grew shallow as he drew nearer. “Perhaps I should take my bath.”

  He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tight against his chest. “I know I said I wouldn’t do this again,” he murmured against her lips, “but I can’t seem to help myself.”

  “Derek,” she moaned, knowing with that single utterance what she was asking for. She didn’t care….

  “A Melanie George romance is addictive! She creates vivid, fast-paced, utterly sensuous stories. Her heroes are as tempting as sin, and just as much fun! Naughty or Nice is one of the best books I’ve read this year—a true delight.”

  —Lisa Kleypas

  Acclaim for

  THE PLEASURE SEEKERS

  “Passionate, sensually charged, and emotionally intense…riveting.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Sexual intensity and ensnaring passion are vibrant throughout each and every page…. Will leave newcomers and fans alike panting for more. Do yourself a huge favor and pick up The Pleasure Seekers today.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Packs [an] emotional punch…. With its provocative sensuality this is a powerful tale you won’t soon forget.”

  —AOL Romance Fiction Forum

  Critics adore MELANIE GEORGE!

  “A talent to watch.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Ms. George is a master of sensuous dialogue!”

  —The News Chief (Winter Haven, FL)

  Acclaim for

  THE ART OF SEDUCTION

  “The sex scenes are great, the secondary characters interesting, and the resolution satisfying.”

  —Booklist

  “The delightful characters, sensual and fun plot, and witty dialogue are all hallmarks of Ms. George’s charming romances.”

  —Romantic Times

  …and praise for her previous national

  bestselling fiction

  “[A]n expert storyteller…. [A] memorable, fast-paced tale that puts Melanie George on your must-read list!”

  —Romantic Times

  “It’s a winner, with one of romance’s feistiest heroines and most alluringly brooding heroes.”

  —Booklist

  “Melanie George writes hot, steamy historicals with characters that leap off the page with spunk and spitfire.”

  —Bridges Magazine

  “A treasure, a triumph, a treat for the heart! [T]ender, witty, and utterly charming…. Ms. George just keeps getting better and better.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “[P]aradise found!”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Sparkling wit and charming characters.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  Also by Melanie George

  Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down

  (with Sherrilyn Kenyon & Jaid Black)

  Naughty or Nice

  The Pleasure Seekers

  The Art of Seduction

  A Very Gothic Christmas

  (with Christine Feehan)

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Melanie George

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-3075-4

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  As always, much love to my wonderful readers.

  Thank you for your unfailing support and praise.

  One

  R osalyn had the dream again.

  It was the same dream she had been having for years, but the ending would always fade, leaving her flushed and breathless.

  Now he had become a part of the dream.

  The faces had become theirs, the passion a scorching flame that would heat her skin and have her waking with her nightclothes clinging to her.

  She was a woman with secret desires—a woman with an acute sensual instinct, living her private fantasies in the darkest part of the night, in the deepest recesses of her mind, where she could be brazen and audacious.

  She had been sixteen the day sexuality awoke inside her untutored body. She had been attending a soiree with her parents. She had gotten lost in the enormous mansion and found herself at the opposite end of the house. She heard a noise behind a closed door, and thought she would find someone there to help her.

  She knocked upon the door, but the noises within had only grown louder. She feared the woman she heard crying was in trouble, injured perhaps.

  Rosalyn opened the door, and stumbled upon something devastatingly arousing to her senses.

  A woman, wearing only a maid’s apron around her waist, was down on her knees in front of a tall, fiercely built man with nary a stitch of clothes on. The woman’s golden hair cascaded unbound down her back and was clasped in the man’s meaty hand as he guided her head forward.

  Rosalyn could barely contain her shocked gasp as his thick, hard rod disappeared inch by inch into the woman’s mouth, her wet lips clasping and sucking the silky head.

  The man’s head was tipped back, his lips parted, his breath releasing in a groaning hiss as his stiff member stroked in and out of the woman’s mouth, her hands guiding it, savoring it.

  He shoved her hands away and pushed forward so the whole of his staff was covered by her moist lips, his movements becoming increasingly frenetic until a moan spilled from his lips, and a white froth erupted from the tip of his member.

  Rosalyn stood in shock, unable to move. She must have made a sound, because the man shot a glance toward the door. No look of anger crossed his face. Instead, he smiled, as though pleased to have been caught in such a lascivious act.

  “You like what you saw, young one?” he asked in a deep rasp. “Come back to me when the throbbing between your legs needs appeasing. Big John will pleasure you.” He grasped the chin of the female still on her knees before him and said, “Won’t I, my dear?”

  The woman looked at Rosalyn with a cocked eyebrow and a wicked grin. “Oh, yes, he certainly will.”

  Their laughter followed Rosalyn as she raced down the hallway, stopping only when she ran out of breath. She felt scared—and yet her breasts tingled, and a strange moistness had accumulated in her nether region.

  Since
that day, Lady Rosalyn Carmichael had used her dreams as a tool as she waited for him—the one. The only man she would grant her virginity.

  And as the night wore on toward the morning, her dreams focused on that man. A man who had walked out of her dreams and into her real life.

  He had eyes of velvet blue, piercing and intense. Black hair glossy as a raven’s wing. A body of rugged elegance, brawny beneath his tailored exterior. His beauty mocked all those around him as he smiled at her in a faintly wicked way from across the ballroom.

  Rosalyn shivered as he approached, unable to pull her admiring gaze from his tall form, noting how he moved with careless grace, leaving her slightly dazed and barely aware of her best friend, Francine Fitz Hugh, who stood beside her.

  Fancy’s guardian, Lucien Kendall, walked alongside the darkly beautiful man. When the stranger stopped before Rosalyn and spoke, his deep, low voice tripping along her nerves in the most disconcerting fashion, she knew.

  She was doomed.

  Rosalyn could read her downfall in the assessing glance he leveled on her, as though he knew a secret he had no intention of telling.

  “Derek,” she murmured in her sleep, tossing fitfully, reliving the kiss he had given her in Lady Senhaven’s garden. The scent of honeysuckle had surrounded them, the guests no more than forty yards away, a scandal in the making as she allowed—nay, begged—him to take liberties, moving his warm, large hand from her waist to her breast, tugging down the material to free the soft globes from their strict confines, loving the way he thumbed her nipples, rolling them lightly, leaving them swollen and sweetly sore as she guided his mouth to them.

  A strange sense of abandonment swept over her, an excitement beyond all self-restraint as she placed her hand for the first time against a man’s hardness. She felt it lengthen as she caressed it, marveling at its ever-increasing size and at her own power as a woman.

  If only the refined people dancing in the ballroom knew that she was not the girl they had labeled an innocent, gently bred and nurtured, elegant, graceful. A proper young woman.

  Rosalyn was afraid to let even her best friend, Fancy, know of that darker side of her nature. Fancy had never judged her, but Rosalyn worried that her friend would look at her differently if she knew the wanton woman she truly was.

  The dream suddenly evaporated and her eyes snapped open as a hand clamped down over her mouth, her gasp muffled into a callused palm.

  “Utter a single word,” a foul-smelling voice hissed, “and y’ll be one very sorry miss.”

  A stranger stood beside her bed, dressed in dark, filthy clothes, the left side of his face obscured by shadows.

  “Get up. An’ be quiet. There’s a man waitin’ most impatiently for y’.”

  Rosalyn was jerked to her bare feet, feeling exposed and frightened in only her nightgown.

  Calder had found her!

  She had known her stepbrother had not given up in his pursuit, trailing her from Cornwall to London after his unsuccessful attempt at kidnapping her from Moor’s End, Fancy’s home in Cornwall. Rosalyn had been staying there since learning of Calder’s twisted plot to marry her and do away with her, so that he could obtain her inheritance.

  The last time he had attempted to accost her, she had put up a fight. This time she would go quietly—she could not jeopardize the people she cared for. Fancy had nearly gotten killed trying to protect her from Calder’s last assault; she had to face the swine alone this time.

  Rosalyn straightened her spine as the man pushed her toward the window. She swallowed back her fear as she looked down from her room on the second story to the ground below, where a hemp rope swayed unsteadily in the night breeze.

  “Make a peep,” her kidnapper growled, “an’ I’ll gut y’ like a fish. Now through the window with ye.” He gave her a shove.

  Rosalyn stumbled forward, her mind working feverishly. If only she was more like Fancy, who had disarmed the two thugs Rosalyn’s stepbrother had hired to bring her back to Westcott Manor.

  “Out the window,” her kidnapper demanded, his tone brooking no argument.

  “May I at least get some shoes?” Rosalyn asked, glancing down at her bare feet.

  “No,” he snapped. “Now get movin’—or do y’ want me to toss you over my shoulder an’ carry y’ down?”

  She’d rather fling herself bodily from the roof. “I’ll manage, thank you.”

  Hoisting up the hem of her nightgown, she straddled the windowsill, fervently wishing a white knight would suddenly appear to save her.

  Where was Derek right now? Still at the Duvalls’ cotillion, flirting with Lady Jane Windermere? “I don’t need him anyway,” she muttered.

  “What’s that?” her kidnapper snapped.

  Rosalyn dearly yearned to erase his scowl with a bracing punch to his already crooked nose, but she’d probably only succeed in falling out the window.

  “Are you sure this ladder will hold? Perhaps we should go by way of the front door.”

  “Missy,” he said, pressing his face close to hers, his breath rank enough to make a skunk turn tail, “y’re wearing mightily on my patience, and that ain’t a good thing.”

  With that warning ringing in her ears, Rosalyn tested her right foot on the first rung, then swung her left leg over. She’d make a run for it the moment her feet hit the ground. She could easily outdistance the brute, as he was rather stocky and clearly in less than perfect physical condition.

  Her left foot had just settled onto the rung when her bedroom door flew open. A figure loomed on the threshold, backlit by the flickering sconce in the hallway, creating a menacing apparition.

  The glint of steel told her a gun was trained in their direction. “Step away from the lady,” the voice said, “or I’ll blow your bloody head off.”

  Derek! How had he—

  The thug lunged toward the window, causing Rosalyn to swing back, her feet slipping from the rung. She cried out as she began to fall, scrambling for the rope ladder and dangling by a single hand.

  Derek’s arm thrust through the open window to grab her with one hand. “Hold on,” he told her as he struggled with the man, who cried out a moment later as he fell past her and hit the ground with a bone-cracking thud.

  Rosalyn stared down at his unmoving form, her fingers twisted painfully in the rope, sheer will all that kept her from the same fate. Derek’s hand clamped around her other wrist. “I’ve got you.”

  The next moment she was hoisted through the window and clasped tightly in Derek’s arms. She fell against his chest and closed her eyes, her whole body trembling.

  After a few moments, Derek gently shifted away from her to look down into her eyes, concern etched plainly on his face. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “Dear heavens, what’s going on here?” a voice called out.

  Rosalyn glanced over Derek’s shoulder to find Lady Dane standing in the doorway, her long mahogany hair unbound and flowing around her shoulders, her wrapper trailing behind her, confirming that she had flung herself from bed.

  “An intruder made his way into her bedroom,” Derek explained.

  “Sweet Lord.” Clarisse hastened into the room and knelt down beside Rosalyn.

  “I’m all right,” Rosalyn assured her.

  “Come, my dear,” Clarisse gently urged, patting Rosalyn’s hand. “Let’s get you to the bed.”

  Derek lifted Rosalyn into his arms, ignoring her protests. Once she was settled, he said, “I’ll check the grounds and send for the constable.”

  “Thank you,” Clarisse said as Derek headed out of the room, his face a mask of deadly seriousness. Rosalyn almost felt sorry for whomever he might run across.

  How she wished she had never let Fancy talk her into coming to London! She had only managed to involve yet another person in Calder’s evil intentions.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean for any of us this to happen. I’ll leave in the morning.”

  Clarisse waved a dismissive hand. “Non
sense, you’re not going anywhere. If you think I’ll allow a mere cretin to scare me, you have much to learn.” As though Rosalyn were a child in need of care, her hostess adjusted the pillows behind her head.

  “I should go home,” Rosalyn insisted, knowing that nothing awaited her there. Her parents were both gone, and the man who had treated her like a daughter for five years had succumbed to illness a few weeks earlier, leaving Rosalyn with no one but a stepbrother who wished her dead.

  “Home?” Clarisse scoffed. “That’s out of the question. Think rationally, my dear. This is the best place for you. Derek is a champion pugilist. He won’t let anything happen to you. Nor will I.”

  “But if anything were to happen to you…”

  “Nothing will happen to me. Besides, I could use a bit of excitement in my life. Now, I assume this was the work of your diabolical stepbrother?”

  Rosalyn nodded. “I don’t know how he found me. Mr. Kendall was so cautious with my safety.”

  “I’m sure he was. But desperate men will go to desperate measures. The only way we shall put an end to his machinations is to catch him.”

  “Calder is slippery. He always stays one step ahead.”

  “Then we need someone who shall stay two steps ahead. Someone far more dangerous and ruthless than Calder will ever be.”

  Derek regarded himself in the mirror above the mantel in Clarisse’s plush living room and saw a man who had aged ten years in a matter of minutes.

  An hour ago he had left the Duvalls’ soiree, unable to endure the mindless chatter of his on-again off-again paramour, Lady Jane Windermere.

  There was a time not long ago when he would have tolerated the woman’s endless rambling about herself, knowing that once he had her in bed, moans rather than blather would pour from her lips.

  But he had noticed something disturbing: a growing boredom with the opposite sex. And he was a man of enormous carnal appetites, which had earned him a place in an exclusive bachelor’s club, the Pleasure Seekers. The other six members were his closest friends in the world, whom he would trust with his very life, and vice versa.