Cowboys and Highlanders (50 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, Allison rubbed TJ’s feet as they rested in her lap. She pressed her thumb into the instep.

“You’ve been quiet tonight.” TJ said. The children were in bed adding to the solitude. “Not having doubts, are you?” He pulled his feet from her lap and scooted closer.

“Sentimental thoughts I guess. Every little girl dreams about her wedding.” She shifted her position and leaned against him. “Cake has made the most incredible looking food for tomorrow. He could have been a chef in Boston or Philadelphia if he’d had the mind to. As for Betty, she has the wedding cake all but finished. If my mother were here, even she’d be impressed.

“Everyone has been helpful and excited,” she continued. “It almost seems too magical to be real.”

“Then why do you look miserable? You’re marrying the man of your dreams,” he said and winked. “You have all the makings of a perfect wedding.”

“Except a white dress, parents to give me away, a father to walk me down the aisle, family, my brothers, life-long friends, and if I go on I’ll sound like the spoiled brat I was raised to be. I’m not ungrateful for the gifts you’ve given me, the house, children…you. It’s hard to remember all I’ve given up even when looking forward to the better things to come. Tell me you understand.”

TJ ran his hand along the back of the couch. “Actually, I’m experiencing a fair amount of guilt. I’ve been thinking about Janelle. And the memories don’t seem as important. How can I remember…when I only want to think about the future?”

Allison turned in his arms. “We both have to let go of the past.” She brushed her lips against his. His tongue tasted cool. Then his mouth slanted, her head tilted, and heat fused them together. Passion ignited. His fists tangled in her hair. He pulled her onto his lap. His cock pressed against her bottom. She wiggled trying to align her sex with the solid length of his erection.

“What about your rule? You said I can’t
plow
into you until after the wedding.”

“I didn’t realize what would happen if the fields were neglected. I’m not the farmer.” Her hands quickly worked the buttons of his shirt. “Besides, I decided I like your rules.” Finally, she had his shirt open. Her hands ran along the contours of his chest. She tried to lie down, but instead TJ lifted her up until she straddled him. He moved the folds of her skirt until she felt his heat slide against her, parting the moist lips of her sex.

“You’ve spent enough time on Sugar to know how to ride.” TJ put his hands behind his head.

Allison reached between her legs, gripped TJ’s shaft with her hand, and positioned him at the entrance of her body. Slowly, letting him fill her, she lowered onto his cock. “Ahh.” Impaled completely, she put her hands on his torso and rocked her hips.

TJ closed his eyes, and clamped his teeth together. He growled, clutched her hips, and surged into her body. Her breathy gasps gusted past her lips. “Will it always be like this?” Her body pulsed around his.

“It gets better.”

“I guess I know why Marion enjoys her job.”

TJ chuckled.

Her fingers dug into his flesh. Her body raced toward release. “It’s coming,” she hissed.

“No sweetheart, you are.” He groaned, squeezing her hips. Back arched, jaw clenched, every muscles in his body visibly tensed. Hot fluids bathed her clenching womb. Each rhythmic pulse sent frissons of fire scorching through her body.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” she said, collapsing onto his chest.

The End

Dear Reader,

I took liberties with history in writing
To Bed a Montana Man
. Allison would have had to take the stage into Butte from Salt Lake City. The draw of a bustling copper boom motivated my decision to create Copper City, a fictional town. 

The Dumas brothel closed in 1982 in Butte, Montana. It was the longest operating brothel before closing its doors having served over one million satisfied customers. It served as my inspiration for the Dusty Rose.

Come back to Copper City in
To Wed a Wanton Woman.
Marion has always wanted to ride a Train. Maybe she’ll finally get her chance.

For other titles visit
www.KyAnnWaters.com

Highland Lords Series Boook Two

Tarah Scott

Broken Arm Publishing

Copyright © 2013 by Tarah Scott

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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

My deepest thanks to Nikki at
Close Encounters with the Night Kind
for being my first official beta reader. You rock, girl!

My undying gratitude goes to Evan Trevane, my good friend and critique partner, who read this book with an eagle eye
.
My hero wears a kilt, and you made sure no one mistook it for a skirt.

Thank you to Kimberly Comeau, who brainstormed with me and read the tough sections—many times over!

No book is complete without a spectacular cover. Thanks to Melissa Alvarez at
Book Covers Galore
for another beautiful cover.

Welcome to the Majesty that can only be Tarah Scott. Be prepared to be swept up in the intrigue and wonder of her newest addition to the
Highland Lords Series.
This books was completely engrossing and enraptured you from start to finish, and what an ending indeed!! A must read for all Historical Romance lovers. This book is sure to capture your heart and leave you in breathless anticipation for the next edition!!
Close Encounters with the Night Kind

My Highland Lord is a hilarious and intriguing adventure in which all kinds of mysteries and romance surround our heroine. I give My Highland Lord five Stars out of five because it was supremely interesting and captivating.
The Romance Reviews Top Pick

London, September 1837

“Please, Frederick,” John Stafford rasped. He lifted his trembling hand from the bed’s coverlet. Light from the candle on the nightstand flickered with the small disturbance. “Bring me that chest.” John pointed at the desk in the corner of the bedchamber before his hand dropped back down beside him. He dragged in a heavy breath.

Frederick's mouth thinned in concern. “John, you must—”

“The chest,” John cut in with a small measure of his old vigor.

His friend sighed, turned, and crossed the room. He lifted the small chest from its two-decade-long resting place. When last the chest had been moved, John was Sheriff of Bow Street and supervisor of the Home Office spies. The chest's contents proved the innocence of one of the conspirators in the most daring assassination attempts of their time.

Frederick returned to the bed, set the chest on the nightstand, and gave John a questioning look.

“Remove the documents,” John said.

John closed his eyes in anticipation of the familiar creak of hinges as Frederick opened the chest. How many times had he raised that lid only to slam it shut again without touching the contents? The rustling of papers ceased and Frederick gave a low cry of surprise.

John opened his eyes. “Yes,” he said as Frederick laid the stack of envelopes on the bed. “That is, indeed, Lord Mallory of the House of Lords.” John pushed aside envelopes until he uncovered the one he wanted. He tapped it and whispered, “Read this aloud.”

Frederick removed the sheets of paper from their envelope, sat beside John on the edge of the mattress, and began.

April 26, 1820 

In early February of this year word reached me, John Stafford, chief clerk at Bow Street, and head of the Bow Street officers, that Arthur Thistlewood, leader of the radical Spencean Philanthropists Society, planned on February 15 to assassinate the king's ministers. Thistlewood had been reported as saying he could raise fifteen thousand armed men in half an hour, so we feared riots would break out, which might allow him to carry out his assassinations.

I sent one of my officers George Ruthven to infiltrate the Spenceans, and then recruited from within their ranks, John Williamson, John Shegoe, James Hanley, Thomas Dywer, and George Edwards. Edwards was such an adept spy that he became Thistlewood's aide-de-camp. Little did I know the terrible part Edwards would play in this operation.

When I had investigated Arthur Thistlewood and the Spenceans in 1816 at Spa Fields, Home Secretary Lord Sidmouth sent me spies, and he was apprised of the men I now used—in fact, George Edwards reported not only to me, but to Lord Sidmouth. So I was surprised when Lord Mallory dispatched another spy from the Solicitor General's office, Mason Wallington, Viscount Albery.

Oddly, Thistlewood unexpectedly abandoned the idea of the assassinations planned for February 15. We feared he would make an unexpected move to murder the Privy Council, so we quickly set a trap. Thistlewood snapped up the bait like a starving lion. He believed that Lord Harrowby was to entertain the Cabinet in his home at Grosvenor Square Wednesday, February 23, 1820, and, as we anticipated, decided to assassinate the entire Cabinet while they dined. The Spenceans chose the Horse and Groom, a public house on Cato Street that overlooks the stable, as their meeting place, so we dubbed the operation 'The Cato Street Conspiracy.'

God help me, at the time, I felt no compunctions about entrapping Thistlewood and his men. Thistlewood was mad—he believed God had answered his prayers in finding a way to destroy the Cabinet—and his followers were, at best, murderers. The reform they claimed to be fighting for was nothing more than an excuse to seize power. However, given what I learned in the years since The Cato Street Conspiracy, I have questioned a thousand times our methods in bringing these men to justice.

On the day of the intended assassinations, I positioned Bow Street officers near the Horse and Groom. I had readied my own pistol when, at the last moment, a message from the Home Office deterred my participation in the arrests. How many times I have wondered at this bit of 'providence.' It was all too convenient that I was absent during the arrests that day.

I directed Richard Birnie, a Bow Street magistrate, to take charge, and left him with my officers to watch for the conspirators. Thistlewood’s men soon arrived and, at seven-thirty that night, Birnie ordered the arrests.

A fight ensued and Thistlewood escaped. Several of the top conspirators were apprehended, but our spy Mason Wallington mysteriously disappeared. While making the arrests, Richard Smithers was run through by Thistlewood, and I was frantic at the possibility we had lost another good man. We arrested Thistlewood the next day, and eleven other conspirators were apprehended within days. Then, to my shock, Barry Doddard, a young officer from a neighboring magistrate, named Mason Wallington as the twelfth and only major conspirator to elude capture.

Upon hearing Doddard’s accusations, I immediately wrote Lord Mallory informing him of the mistake. Mallory replied that Wallington had long been suspected of dissident actions and was believed to be in league with Thistlewood. I simply couldn't believe this. Wallington had a reputation as a devoted Englishman and spurned the tactics employed by the Spenceans.

I informed Mallory of this, but he countered that Wallington had openly criticized the government and had even quoted Thistlewood’s philosophies concerning the lower classes and the rights of women. I couldn’t accept this, but Lord Sidmouth intervened, ordering me to desist. Wallington was a wanted criminal and if he was found, Sidmouth ordered me to turn Wallington over to him.

I considered paying a visit to Thistlewood in Coldbath Fields Prison, but realized my visit would be reported to Sidmouth. Besides, Thistlewood was reported to have said that he had hoped it was me he killed instead of Smithers. I had no recourse but to obey Lord Sidmouth's orders. At the age of thirty-six, Mason Wallington became a fugitive.

Frederick lowered the document and John pointed to the envelope farthest from him. “Now that one.”

Frederick picked up the second envelope and removed the letter. He cleared his throat and began again.

July, 1824

Four years have passed since Mason Wallington was branded a traitor. Despite Sidmouth's orders that I forget the matter, my conscience demands I act. Whether guilt or innocence is the result of my findings, I shall, as always, record all matters true and faithfully. I begin with Wallington’s superior, Lord Niles Mallory.

Frederick looked at John, the short letter finished.

"Wallington has a daughter," John said. “She has been a victim of the lie too—" A heavy cough cut him off.

“John!” Frederick leapt to his feet and filled the glass on the nightstand with water from the pitcher.

Frederick slipped an arm beneath his back and lifted him forward until his mouth met the lip of the glass. John took several small sips. He breathed deeply, nodded he was finished, and Frederick settled him back onto the pillow.

Frederick set the glass on the nightstand. “Rest. We will finish later.”

John grasped his friend’s hand. “The girl has a right to the truth. I cannot go to my peace knowing I leave her in turmoil.” John closed his eyes, remembering the day she had come to him.  He couldn’t escape her questions or the pain in her eyes when he turned her away without answers. He looked at Frederick. “See that she gets the letters.” His voice weakened. “Swear.” He tightened his grip on Frederick’s hand in one final squeeze. “Swear.”

“I swear,” Frederick promised, and John lay back on his pillow and slept.