A Woman Made for Sin

Reece said nothing. He only folded his arms and glared at Aimee.

Aimee glared back. “I am tired of letting you dictate the terms of our relationship,
Reece Hamilton.”

Reece could listen to no more. “We don’t have a relationship, damn it! I am simply
a childhood fantasy of yours! It’s time you got over me, grew up, and sought a man
who wants you in return.”

“You
were
a childhood fantasy; and last Christmas, I
did
grow up. I was no longer dreaming of love—I was
in
love with you, and after the kiss we just shared, don’t bother denying that you love
me. I won’t believe you . . .”

THE HIGHLANDER’S BRIDE

TO WED A HIGHLANDER

DESIRING THE HIGHLANDER

THE CHRISTMAS KNIGHT

TEMPTING THE HIGHLANDER

A WOMAN MADE FOR PLEASURE

SEDUCING THE HIGHLANDER

A WOMAN MADE FOR SIN

HIGHLAND HUNGER (with Hannah Howell and Jackie Ivie)

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Buckfast Abbey, Summer, 1816

He had tasted death. Rolled it around on his tongue and licked its dry, cracked lips.
He had drunk from death’s dark soul and then done the impossible. He had survived.

Fate’s plans for him had not included an untimely and disgraceful demise, but something
profoundly more meaningful. Revenge. Its sweet flavor would mix with death’s, and
he would know satisfaction at last.

He turned the final corner down the dank stairwell and entered the oval space filled
with the scent of old vellum. Only this room prevented the long days from becoming
a living nightmare of pain and torture. In this small area lived the past. Written
on countless aged scrolls were the lives of once-powerful leaders, who, like he, had
seen their lofty attempts at fulfilling fate’s decree hampered by lesser men. But
death had determined those men unworthy to walk these lands of promised power.
They
were the ones who deserved his sentence of physical damnation, not he.

Time, the monks said. Time to heal his wounds. Time to reflect on past indiscretions
and do penance. He, of course, complied and joined their devotions. And his reward
was this room of solace, quiet, and promise. Fate had drawn him here. The answer to
his future lay somewhere in these cool stone walls along with a promise that not all
was lost. That all he aspired to be and have was still within his grasp.

He moved over to remove a small marker in one of the numerous carved openings used
for storage. Placing it on the small wooden desk, he turned, pulled out the next scroll,
and uncurled the sheet of vellum. Carefully, he secured the ends with heavy rocks.
He sat down slowly to avoid any more pain than necessary, and began to read aloud.

“I, your servant, am unable to show you, noble lady, anything worthy in my deeds,
and I do not know how I can be acceptable to you . . ”.

The words of the manuscript filled him, flowing over him like a balm on his raw wounds.
He had been wrong. It was not a king’s secrets he was searching for, but a queen’s.
He continued on.

Hours passed, and though no natural light could shine into the small enclave, he knew
it was dark outside. The single candle that had been lighting the room was nearly
gone. The monks would be searching for him, telling him it was time for another devotion,
solemn ceremony, or some mysterious rite in dedication to God.

A debate began to play out in his head as he continued to read. He knew he should
return. Tomorrow would come and the scrolls would still be here. But fate was with
him tonight. If he chose to leave, it would surely forsake him, leaving him scarred,
ruined, and powerless for his remaining days. Here beneath his fingertips was the
answer for which he had been searching. He could not abandon fate’s gift. It might
not come again.

He flipped to the final page and read the end.

Nothing was revealed. No secrets. No messages. And yet he knew his destiny was intertwined
with this woman’s story.

How this ancient manuscript had made its way into the abbey’s dark walls was a mystery.
He could spend years trying to find out whose hands had held this scroll, only to
discover the hard-gained knowledge was meaningless. So why had fate placed such words
in his grasp? Why was his soul so affected by this woman’s inexplicable victory?

He knew if he did not find the answer, he would be forsaken once again. Fate had little
time for fools. It certainly did not deliver enemies and resurrect kingdoms to unworthy
men.

“Hallo?” called a voice whose accent spoke of a life lived in a variety of places.
“Son? Are you down there? You have missed the divine reading, and supper is nearly
finished. Are you well?”

He sighed deeply and returned, “Yes, Father, I am coming. I am afraid in my studies
I lost track of time.”

Crunching footsteps echoed against the walls. An old man dressed in black robes appeared.
“What is it that had your attention for so long today? What did the Lord bring to
you?”

He stifled another sigh and brought his hood farther up to shade the majority of his
face, though he knew the old monk had seen the monstrosity that lay underneath the
brown folds. The man had found him washed up from the sea and had brought him to the
abbey to tend his wounds.

He should have died. And though the monk might believe it was his God that had revived
his nearly dead carcass, he knew better. Something the old man would never understand.

A withered hand poked out from the arm of the black cape and glided down the vellum
outstretched on the table. “You are reading the
Encomium Emmae Reginae.
It is very old, written many years ago by a monk of St. Omer in praise of his Queen
Emma. Few take interest in that which occurred so far in the past. So little history
was captured then. It is difficult to tell the truth from fiction.” The aged monk
paused to cough violently into his hand. His remaining days were few. Consumption
was taking him, slowly and painfully.

“My apologies, Father. The staleness of the room makes it hard to breathe,” he said,
and then waited patiently for the monk to continue, for the man was one of the few
in the abbey who had studied any writings that were not directly related to scripture.

“This accounting, while biased, is believed to be true, unlike others.”

His heart momentarily stopped. “Are there other stories of the queen? I mean here,
at the abbey?” he asked the old monk, hoping his tone reflected his eagerness rather
than the apprehension he felt. For he was close. He knew he was.

The monk rolled his eyes upward and began to nod his head. “There is indeed more text
written about the queen. But such legends are too elaborate to be believed. We had
another visitor to the abbey who was also much interested in the monarch. I will tell
you what I told them: The accounting is highly questionable and cannot be considered
reliable. Its value is in understanding how stories were embellished back then . .
.”

The old monk stretched his head back and surveyed the dusty scrolls stacked in various-sized
cubicles within the walls. After a minute, he stretched out his arm until the tips
of his gnarled fingers touched a single scroll nestled in a group.

As he watched the monk slip the document out of its resting place, he realized it
would have taken many more months at his present pace before he had read the item.
The monk gave it to him and he laid it out, anchoring the corners. His heart began
pounding with renewed hope. He heard the old man’s opinion of the story, that it was
an allegory and not one of truth.

But he knew differently.

Fate had not deserted him.

Fate had been with him all along, as it was with all great men.

Bending over, he read the simple legend. Unlike the other manuscripts, the handwriting
was jagged and the scattered drops of ink indicated it had been quickly scribed. He
gnashed his teeth and calmed his suddenly tumultuous emotions. Any doubt of the importance
of today’s find completely and resolutely vanished.

“You said only one other had studied these, Father. Please, tell me. Just who was
that person?”

London, October 6, 1816

“Millie, do not shake your head at me! I absolutely insist that you come! Of the three
of us, you know the area the best. And, Jennelle, do not think because you are sitting
behind me I am unaware that you are at this very moment rolling your eyes and signaling
Millie to refuse,” Aimee added as she glanced back, affirming her guess. “Millie fled
through those alleys just a few months ago.”

Millie felt her jaw tense and tried again to make her best friend see reason. “It
was at night and you must remember, Charles was with me, Aimee. It was
your
brother who knew where to go, not me, when he managed to save me from—”

“And since then you have gone with him a dozen times or more when he has needed to
visit one of his ships,” Aimee interrupted. She knelt down and clutched her oldest
friend’s fingers in her own. “This is my one opportunity, Millie. Charles will be
busy with his dinner meeting, which he made clear that none of us were invited to,
and—”

“And
we
have already accepted the invitation to Lady Shackleton’s card party,” Jennelle chimed
in.

Aimee continued to clutch Millie’s hand but faced Jennelle, giving her an angry stare
that she hoped would singe her friend’s red hair. “I can recall numerous occasions
where you demonstrated just how easily we can and will send our regrets.” Standing
back up, she said more forcefully, “I not only want but
need
your help, but know that if you both refuse, it will not sway me from going. Tonight
is my last chance, and I
am
going. Even if I have to go by myself.”

Aimee’s voice was soft but emphatic. It was completely out of character for the tall,
willowy blonde, who was typically very sweet and gentle. But today, her bright green
eyes snapped with a compelling urgency that conveyed her threat was not an empty one.

Jennelle was about to offer a word of caution when Aimee cut her off. “It is a
brilliant
plan. Millie, tell her,” Aimee said to the most adventurous of their group.

Nicknamed the Daring Three when they were just children, the three girls were best
friends and nearly inseparable. Even Millie’s recent marriage to Aimee’s elder brother
had not separated them. Aimee was positive that if she could just get Millie to agree
with her plan, the ever-so-logical Jennelle would follow. She would be compelled to,
from sheer friendship.

Millie, now sorry that she ever mentioned her husband’s mysterious thief, laid a hand
on her agitated friend’s arm. “It is a bold plan, Aimee, but I am unsure why you would
want to get involved. I think Chase has his own ideas about routing out the thief.
Should we not just wait . . . ?”

“My brother may be your husband, Millie. And you may find him intriguing and his tediousness
an adventure, but since you became Lady Chaselton . . . well, I must finally tell
you the truth. You have turned into quite a bore!” Aimee huffed and began pacing.
“Four months ago, it would have been
you
planning this night raid, and it would have been Jennelle and I holding
you
back.”

Millie opened and closed her mouth, unable to deny her friend’s accusation. “I expect
you are correct, Aimee. I have tempered my inclinations a bit, but you must understand
that as the Marchioness of Chaselton, I cannot continue to act as I once did,” Millie
declared, adding underneath her breath, “Not to mention, Charlie would kill me if
he found out.” Then realizing Aimee had heard her, she looked down, tucking an escaped
dark lock of consistently errant, thick, wavy hair behind her ear.

Her husband was called Charles by his sister, his mother, and Jennelle, but never
by her. She normally referred to him as Chase, like most did. Only when he was particularly
aggravating did she call him Charlie, a pet name she had given him when they were
younger, knowing how much he detested it. But since they had married, Millie used
the term more and more often in her private thoughts. It was her name for him. Hers
alone.

“You are shamming it, Mildred,” Aimee stated unequivocally, “and you know it. Charles
would be upset, but he has caught you in many a more provocative situation, and he
still fell in love with you
despite
your ways. I am asking you for one small favor, one small adventure, and suddenly
you turn prim and proper. It is unfair, I tell you! After all the crazy exploits Jennelle
and I have joined you on.”

Jennelle’s dark red eyebrows popped up at the mention of her name. “It is not a small
favor, Aimee. Dressing up like men and leaving in the middle of the night in an attempt
to stow aboard Charles’s ship to catch a thief, is
not
a small favor.” Despite her red hair and flashing blue eyes that hinted of her Irish
ancestry, of the three of them, Jennelle was the one who was most able to remain calm
and cool in even the direst of situations. As the years came and went, Millie and
Aimee wondered what, if anything, could break that cool composure, and secretly hoped
to be around if it ever did.

Aimee walked over and sat across from her two friends, deciding honesty was the only
way she would get them to understand and agree. “Please, please do this. Reece has
been in town for nearly a month and has refused to see me. No matter what I do, he
avoids my company. Can you imagine, Millie, what it would be like if Charles suddenly
no longer wanted to see you or speak to you?”

Millie bit her bottom lip. She could not imagine the pain Aimee just described, but
the mere thought of not being able to talk with Chase, even when they disagreed, was
horrifying. Aimee had been in love with Reece Hamilton, Charles’s best friend, since
she first saw him when she was six years old. Almost nine years Aimee’s senior, Reece
had been amused by her infatuation, but it was not until last Christmas that their
relationship changed—significantly.

During the war, Reece’s and Charles’s visits home were infrequent. Consequently, it
was customary for Reece to pay Lady Chaselton and her daughter a visit whenever he
returned. He would relay any news of the war and the well-being of her son, just as
it was expected that Charles would visit Reece’s family. Last December, it had been
three years since Reece had seen Aimee. It must have made a difference, because this
time he kissed her. And according to Aimee, the kiss had been no ordinary one. She
was now certain Reece was the only man for her and that her destiny was tied to his.

Millie sighed. “Tell me your plan one more time. All of it, from the beginning. And,
Jennelle, pay attention for probable difficulties, for I believe we are going on an
adventure tonight.”

Jennelle rolled her eyes but knew all was lost. Millie had acquiesced. But what had
she expected? For marriage to change her petite, excitement-seeking friend into a
paragon of the gentle sex? For Aimee to suddenly stop seizing every opportunity to
convince the one man she had ever pined for to love her? Jennelle held her breath
and then exhaled long and soft, realizing she was the only sane one of the bunch.
And a sane person really
should
be accompanying her two friends during this crazy escapade.

“I’m unsure as to the intelligence of this idea, Aimee, but tell it to us once again.”

Aimee felt alive and excited all over. The rented hack hit a large cobblestone and
her fingers fluttered to Millie’s for support. “I cannot believe I am finally going
to see him again, Millie. It has been so long. If I have to endure another Season
of pretentious old men or even worse, loquacious, overly eager
young
men and their tittering marriage-focused mothers, I really shall perish. You have
no idea how fortunate you are, Jennelle, that your father is not compelled to see
you advantageously married. And, Millie, you are the luckiest of us all to have convinced
Charles he was in love with you and to ask for your hand. If only Reece would do the
same.”

Millie took a deep breath and blew a wayward strand of her dark hair away from her
eye. If they were caught, it was highly doubtful she would be able to convince her
husband of anything again. She glanced out the window. They were just about to cross
into Shadwell at Thames, the main entrance to the London Docks. “I want your promise,
Aimee, that
if
we stumble across the thief, you will not make a single move until all three of us
are sure that he is indeed Reece. Chase is still not positive this latest event is
a simple prank.”

“But you said the thief was only taking some papers that were of little value and
of interest only to Reece and Charles. Besides we three and Mother, who else would
know what Reece and my brother really value?”

Millie moistened her dry lips, uncomfortable that Aimee refused to consider the possibility
of there being a
real
thief. “I said that it was the randomness that made Chase wonder if it really was
a thief or Reece playing a practical joke.”

“Ah, but you also said
only
Reece would be interested in the papers that were taken. So, it
has
to be him. And when I catch Reece in the act, he will have no choice but to speak
to me. All I need is five minutes. Five minutes and I will know whether what happened
between us at Christmas was real or
a passing moment of passion
,” Aimee countered, contemptuously gritting out Reece’s words that had haunted her
for months.

Millie again glanced out the window and tried to dismiss the ill feeling pressing
on her chest. “I hope so, Aimee. I really hope so. Now, when the carriage stops, refrain
from speaking unless absolutely necessary. Use the hand signals we discussed and stick
to the shadows. I went with Chase to visit the
Zephyr
a couple of days ago, just after it arrived. They had a lot of cargo and there is
a good chance Charles’s ship is still moored.” Millie began praying but stopped when
she realized her prayers were in conflict. She did not know whether she wished for
the
Zephyr
to be inaccessible, thereby ending this insane quest, or for Aimee to be happy.

The carriage rolled to a dead stop. Once more, they agreed to follow the plan and
then proceeded out of the hack. It was difficult to see, but dressed in male attire
and wearing the dark cloaks Aimee had pilfered from some of the younger footmen, it
would be just as difficult for a passerby to see them.

Moving down one of the narrow alleys, they edged along until they could see Pennington
Street. On the other side were the large warehouses of the north quay. The ground
and lower floors stored mostly sugar in various forms, but it was the upper floors
that filled the air with scents of coffee and cocoa.

“This way,” Millie whispered and moved farther east before crossing the street in
order to avoid the buildings on the western portion of the docks, where the ships’
officers often stayed.

Aimee followed with Jennelle alongside, each watching out for the other as they returned
to the relative safety of the shadows. Only a sliver of the moon peeked through amassing
clouds to light the narrow alleys between the large buildings.

The London Docks had been built to augment the river wharves with much-needed dock
capacity. Two canal-like basins connected the River Thames to a body of water in the
shape of a square, which was surrounded by warehouses and dock slips. Ships entered
via the basins to load and unload their cargo, choosing a dock based on commodity
type. Everything from tobacco, ivory, wines, and spices was stored and shipped from
these docks. And right now, the
Zephyr
was moored at the north quay.

Aimee fought the instinct to pinch her nose. She had heard about the strong odors
around the docks, but nothing could have prepared her for the overpowering aromas
coming from the buildings they were skirting. One smelled of tobacco, another of wine.
There were the unmistakable scents of fish and brandy, and many more. On their own
they could be endurable, even pleasant, but together, the stench overwhelmed the senses.

Millie stopped short and Aimee and Jennelle very quickly saw why. Dock laborers, watermen,
and others who made a living by the riverside were still roaming the network of docks
where the ships were secured. “This has to be the craziest, most insane thing we have
ever done,” Millie hissed, ignoring her own rule of complete silence. “I cannot believe
that I actually let you talk me into it.”

“I didn’t
talk
you into it,” Aimee scoffed. “I
threatened
you into coming with me. And I would have made good on my threat too��that’s why
you are here. Besides, I thought you had done this before.”

“
I was with your brother
, Aimee, and that makes all the difference. In case you have not noticed, this harbor
is quite large and the number of docks that support all these ships is vast. Chase
knows this area, not I,” Millie argued. “Scrambling around here in the dark, praying
to God that we are not caught, is not what I call a well-thought-out plan. Aimee,
I really think we should return.”

Jennelle was about to voice her wholehearted agreement with Millie’s assessment of
their precarious position when Aimee piped, “Look, isn’t that Charles’s ship, the
Zephyr
?”

Millie followed the tip of Aimee’s finger and grimaced. Several hundred yards away,
rocking against the wharf, was one of five ships her husband and Reece owned in a
small but very profitable shipping company. While Chase preferred to remain in England
to oversee the accounts and assist with cargo decisions, Reece elected to remain at
sea primarily aboard the
Sea Emerald
, a unique ship he had built to move light cargo with exceptional speed.

“See, Millie! The ship is still at the dock! And there is hardly anyone near it! This
is destiny. My plan just has to work. Reece intends to sail out tomorrow. He would
find it irresistible to sneak aboard and pinch something before he left.”