"Get back in that bed, Anne."
His wife scowled at him. Brodick sent her a stern look in return.
"I am going to my mother's wedding, Brodick."
And nothing was going to stop her. "For every time that I have heard the word bastard flung at me, I will crawl to church if I have to, Brodick." Her entire body ached but she kept moving. She suddenly frowned.
"But I need some money to bribe the clergymen since I haven't been churched yet. They won't let me into the sanctuary."
Brodick scowled. "This country has traditions that are insane."
Anne grinned. "I suppose it is a good thing we plan to live in Scotland."
He didn't look amused by her words. "'Tis a good thing that all yer countrymen will be getting a Scots king. No allowing ye into church just because ye had a babe? What is the point of marriage, might I ask ye?"
Anne flinched when she bent over to pick up her shoes. Her husband swept her off her feet a moment later, placing her back on the foot of the bed. Brodick lowered his large body to one knee and slid her shoe into place himself.
"Och well, I can see why ye need to be there."
He didn't sound very contrite. But he placed the second shoe on her foot and helped her into her loose grown and surcoat.
"But no dancing."
He turned to pick up their son. Brodick refused to allow the infant or herself out of his sight unless Druce or Cullen was with her. The man was keeping his promise to have her guarded but it wasn't something she could become angry over. He did not trust Warwickshire and its staff. She could not blame him.
She took solace in his presence, enjoying every second of it. The burdens of life would steal him away soon enough. For now she would cling to his arm and watch her mother's wedding. Ivy made the most beautiful bride Anne had ever seen. The reason was simple.
She was in love.
Be it curse or blessing, Anne did not know. But she suffered the same affliction, cheerfully following in her mother's example. Brodick held her heart and if fate was kind, she would never cease loving him.
Never.
Be sure to catch WATCH OVER ME by Lucy Monroe, available now from Brava …
"Dr. Ericson"
Lana adjusted the angle on the microscope. Yes. Right there. Perfect. "Amazing."
"Lana."
She reached out blindly for the stylus to her handheld. Got it. She stared taking notes on the screen without looking away from the microscope.
"Dr. Ericson!!!"
Lana jumped, bumping her cheekbone on the microscope's eyepiece before falling backward, hitting a wall that hadn't been there when she'd come into work that morning.
Strong hands set her firmly on her feet as she realized the wall was warm and made of flesh and muscle. Lots and lots of muscle.
Stumbling back a step, she looked up and then up some more. The dark-haired hottie in front of her was as tall as her colleague, Beau Ruston. Or close to it anyway. She fumbled with her glasses, sliding them on her nose. They didn't help. Reading glasses for the computer, they only served to make her feel more disoriented.
She squinted, then remembered and pulled the glasses off again, letting them dangle by their chain around her neck. "Um, hello? Did I know you were visiting my lab?"
She was fairly certain she hadn't. She forgot appointments sometimes. Okay, often, but she always remembered eventually. And this man hadn't made an appointment with her. She was sure of it. He didn't look like a scientist either.
Not that all scientists were as unremarkable as she was in the looks department, but this man was another species entirely.
He looked dangerous and sexy. Enough so that he would definitely replace chemical formulas in her dreams at night. His black hair was a little too long and looked like he'd run his fingers through it, not a comb. That was just so bad boy. She had a secret weakness for bad boys.
Even bigger than the secret weakness she'd harbored for Beau Ruston before he'd met Elle.
She had posters of James Dean and Matt Dillon on the wall of her bedroom and had seen Rebel Without a Cause a whopping thirty-six times.
Unlike James Dean, this yummy bad boy even had pierced ears. Only instead of sedate studs or small hoops, he had tiny black plugs. Only a bit bigger than a pair of studs, the plugs were recessed in his lobes. The had the Chinese Kanji for strength etched on them in silver. Or pewter maybe. It wasn't shiny.
The earrings were hot. Just like him.
He looked like the kind of man who had a tattoo. Nothing colorful. Something black and meaningful. She wanted to see it. Too bad she couldn't just ask.
Interpersonal interaction had so many taboos. It wasn't like science where you dug for answers without apology.
"Lana?"
The stranger had a strong jaw too, squared and accented by a close-cropped beard that went under, not across his chin. No mustache. His lips were set in a straight line, but they still looked like they'd be heaven to kiss.
Not that she'd kissed a lot of lips, but she was twenty-nine. Even a geeky scientist didn't make it to the shy side of thirty without a few kisses along the way. And other stuff. Not that the other stuff was all that spectacular. She'd always wondered if that was her fault or the men she'd chosen to partner.
It didn't take a shrink to identify the fact that Lana had trust issues. With her background, who wouldn't?
Still, people had been know to betray family, love and country for sex. She wouldn't cross a busy street to get some. Or maybe she would, if this stranger was waiting on the other side.
The fact that she could measure the time since she'd last had sex in years rather than months, weeks or days-which would be a true miracle-wasn't something she enjoyed dwelling on. She blamed it on her work.
However, every feminine instinct that was usually sublimated by her passion for her job was on red alert now.
The temperature's rising in Karen Kelley's HOW TO SEDUCE A TEXAN, out this month from Brava …
She hit another pothole.
Dammit! They came out of nowhere. As soon as she got home, she'd need to take her car in for realignment. And she'd send Marge the bill.
She topped a rise and slammed on the brakes, the car fishtailed, spewing a thick cloud of dust behind her. Her heart felt as if it had taken residence in her throat. She skidded to a stop, barely missing the cow that languidly stood in the middle of the road looking unconcerned that it had almost been splattered across her windshield.
Nikki's heart pounded inside her chest and her hands shook. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, the black and white cow looked at her with total unconcern. This was so not how she wanted to start her vacation slash investigative reporting.
"I almost wrecked because of you." She glared at the cow. Her cold-eyed, steely glare that she'd perfected over the years. If it had been a person rather than a dumb animal, it would've been frozen to the spot.
The cow opened its mouth and bellowed a low, meandering, I-was-here-first moo.
She didn't think the cow cared one little bit that it had almost become hamburger. Damned country. She'd take city life and dirty politicians any day.
"Move!" She clapped her hands.
The cow didn't get in any hurry as it lumbered to the side of the narrow road and lowered its head. The four-legged beast chomped down on a bunch of grass, then slowly began to chew.
She shifted into park, then waved her arms. "Shoo!"
Nothing.
She honked the horn.
Nothing.
The hot sun beat down on her. A bead of sweat slid uncomfortably between her breasts. She judged the narrow road, wondering if she could maneuver around the cow without going into the ditch.
Before she decided to attempt it, another sound drew her attention. She glanced down the dirt road, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun as a cloud of dust came toward her. The cloud of dust became a man on a horse.
Correction. A cowboy on a horse.
Hi-ho, Silver, the Lone Ranger, she thought sarcastically.
But the closer he got, the more her sarcasm faded. The Lone Ranger had nothing on this cowboy. Broad shoulders, black hat pulled low on his forehead …
Black hat. Bad guys wore black hats. Right? Things were looking up.
At least until he brought the horse to a grinding halt and dust swirled around her-again. She coughed and waved her hands in front of her face.
"Bessie, how the hell do you keep getting out?" he asked.
His slow, Southern drawl drizzled over her like warmed honey, and she knew from experience warmed honey drizzling over her naked body could be very good. Sticky, but oh so sexy.
Did he look as good as he sounded?
She shaded her eyes again at the same time he pushed his hat higher on his forehead with one finger. Cal Braxton's tanned face stared down at her. His cool, deep-green eyes only made her body grow warmer with each passing second.
So this was the infamous playboy star football player. The man who had a pretty woman on his arm almost every night of the week-at least until Cynthia Cole had come into his life.