Enraptured

A hunt through the Scottish Highlands for a hidden cache of gold draws in three passionate couples—who discover that love is the greatest treasure of all—in the thrilling new trilogy from
New York Times
bestselling author

CANDACE CAMP

Secrets of the Loch

Praise for Book Two

Pleasured

“Once again, Camp populates a romance with interesting characters . . . [in this] steamy Scottish historical.”

—
Booklist

“Candace Camp never disappoints and only gets better with each story.”

—
Single Titles

Praise for Book One

Treasured

“Sweet . . . Entertaining . . . A Highlands version of small-town charm.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“
Treasured
demonstrates Candace Camp's ability to draw her readers in with strong, well-drawn characters. A legend of hidden treasure, a man who hides behind many façades, and a woman who fights for her birthright form the tapestry of this poignant, sensual, and emotion-packed romance.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(Top Pick)

And praise for Candace Camp's acclaimed trilogy Legend of St. Dwynwen

The Marrying Season

A Summer Seduction

A Winter Scandal

“Sensuality, intrigue, and Camp's trademark romantic sparring . . . Delightful.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A charming courtship . . . Readers will be captivated.”

—
Booklist
(starred review)

“Sexy and sweet! Beautifully written, with just the right touch of mystery and a generous helping of a scandalous romance.”

—
Coffee Time Romance

Be sure to read Candace Camp's dazzling Willowmere novels. . . . Critics adore this breathtaking Regency trilogy of the unforgettable Bascombe sisters!

An Affair Without End

“Delightful romantic mystery . . . With clever and witty banter, sharp attention to detail, and utterly likable characters, Camp is at the top of her game.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“Sprightly dialogue . . . [and] a simmering sensuality that adds just enough spice to this fast-paced, well-rendered love story.”

—
RT Book Reviews
(4
¹
/
₂
stars)

A Gentleman Always Remembers

“Intensely passionate and sexually charged . . . A well-crafted, delightful read.”

—
Romantic Times
(4 stars)

“A delightful romp . . . Camp has a way with truly likable characters who become like friends.”

—
Romance Junkies

“Where the Bascombe sisters go, things are never dull. Candace Camp delivers another witty, heartwarming, and fast-paced novel.”

—
A Romance Review

A Lady Never Tells

“This steamy romp . . . will entertain readers.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Well-crafted and enchanting.”

—
Romantic Times
(4
¹
/
₂
stars)

“Superbly written and well paced,
A Lady Never Tells
thoroughly entertains as it follows the escapades of the Bascombe ‘bouquet' of Marigold, Rose, Camellia, and Lily in the endeavor to make their way in upper-crust London Society.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“One of those rare finds you don't want to put down . . . Candace Camp brings a refreshing voice to the romance genre.”

—
Winter Haven News Chief

“Filled with humor and charm . . . Fine writing.”

—
A Romance Review
(4 roses)

For Barbara and Sharon, the best sisters ever.

Thanks once again to the wonderful team at Pocket, especially my super-editor, Abby, whose patience and advice are invaluable through my periods of indecision. Also, I am in awe of the art department and their beautiful cover. You guys knocked it out of the ballpark.

I couldn't do any of this without Maria Carvainis and her crew at the Maria Carvainis Agency.

Thanks most of all to Pete and Stacy. You're always there for me.

F
aye. Mo cuishle.”

Faye heard his voice, soft and insistent, and joy leapt in her. “Malcolm?”

Her mother bent over her bedside, her forehead creased in worry. “What? Faye? Did you say aught?”

“Nae. Nothing.” Tears shimmered in Faye's golden eyes. She had only imagined his voice. Malcolm was gone. She knew it, had known it deep inside a long time. She would soon be gone as well. “I'm sae tired.”

Nan Munro wiped Faye's face with a cool rag. “It was a lang, hard birth.”

Birth. “The bairn?”

“Aye, love.” Nan smiled, though tears were in her eyes as well. “She's a bonny lass. A guid set of lungs, too. Hear her?” Nan cocked her head at the sound of the baby's cry across the room.

“Aye.” Faye stirred. A sharp pain was between her legs, a soreness all through her abdomen. Her breasts were full and
aching. It was nothing like the ache she felt when Malcolm touched her, the yearning for his touch. “It hurts.”

“You lost a lot of blood, lass.” Nan frowned. “The bairn is hungry. You maun feed her. Can you hold her?”

Faye nodded, eagerness and yearning rising in her. “Aye. Gie her to me.”

Her mother laid the baby in the crook of Faye's arm. A small, red-faced scrap of a thing, wrapped around with a blanket, howled, her feet and hands flailing. Her eyes were scrunched closed, and her chin wobbled piteously. Her hair was plastered wetly to her head.

“She's beautiful,” Faye whispered, and tears slid from her eyes.

“There, there. Dinna cry, Faye love. She
is
beautiful. And you maun feed the wee thing.”

Faye bared her breast and lifted the baby to it. The child instinctively nuzzled into her and began to suckle. A wondrous peace and joy twined through Faye. She stroked her finger across the baby's wondrously soft cheek. Her daughter. Their daughter. But Malcolm would never see her.

“I will name her Janet.”

When the babe fell asleep, satiated, Faye's mother came to take her. Faye tightened her arms around Janet for an instant, then let her go.

“I've made you some broth.”

“Nae, I canna.” Faye turned her head away.

Nan grimaced. “That boy David's outside, asking to see you.”

“He's not the one, Ma. Dinna blame Davey.”

“Och, I know that.” Nan stroked a hand over her daughter's. “Is there anyone you want to see? Is
he
 . . .”

“Nae. He is no' here; he never will be. Let Davey in.”

Her mother sighed. “He canna stay lang, you ken. You maun rest.”

David came to the side of the bed. His face was drawn, his eyes swimming with tears. He knows, she thought, that I am not here for long.

“Davey.”

“Faye.” His smile was almost as wobbly as the bairn's chin. “How are you?”

“No' good.”

“Nae, dinna say that. You'll be fine. A few days. You'll see.”

“Will you do something for me?”

“Anything. You know that.”

“Reach here.” She patted the edge of the bed. “Beneath the mattress.”

He looked puzzled but bent down and reached tentatively under the mattress. His face changed. “I found something.” He pulled it out and stared at it. “A book.”

“Aye, it's for my bairn. What she needs to know. Take it and gie it tae her when she's auld enough. Will you do that for me, Davey? Will you keep it safe for me?”

“Aye, of course.” Tears shone in his eyes. “But you willna die. I'll gie it back when you're well again.”

“Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

“Always, Faye.”

After Davey left, she dreamed of Malcolm. He was with her, his big hand wrapped around hers, telling her to be patient. “Soon,” he said. She heard the rumble of his voice in his chest, as she used to when she lay with him. She felt his warmth encircling her.

Then her mother was at the bed again, pulling back the covers to change the folded pad beneath Faye. “You maun stop,” she heard Nan say, her voice shaking. “You canna lose more blood.”

Faye wanted to open her eyes and tell her mother not to cry. It was hard to leave the bairn, but she welcomed the peace.

Later still, her mother put the baby in her arms again, and Janet began to suckle. Faye opened her eyes at the sweet sensation and gazed down at her daughter. The wee thing had red hair. Not her own black nor Malcolm's blond. No one would guess, and that was good. Her mother took away the bairn, and Faye's arms were empty without her.

She had no sense of time any longer. Malcolm was there in front of her, smiling. The edges of her vision were growing dark; only he was in the light. Faye wanted to tell him that she had done as he asked. She had hidden what he'd entrusted to her where none could find it save her child, the one who would carry their legacy, their duty.

But of course he already knew. He was waiting for her. Soon the pain would be gone. She would rest in his arms again.

“Malcolm.” Her lips moved, the sound that floated out on her last breath too soft to hear.
Mo cuishle
.

October 20, 1807

T
he coach lurched through another
rut. Violet grabbed the leather strap above her head, hanging on grimly. She was beginning to think this journey through Scotland would never end. She tucked her hands back inside her fur muff, deciding that sliding about on the seat was preferable to frozen fingers.

Thank heavens for the muff, a remnant of her life in her father's house. After all these years, it was a mite bedraggled, but it still kept her hands toasty. Her practical flannel petticoats and woolen carriage dress were warm as well. She wished she could say the same for her ice-cold feet. It was not that she was unused to difficult weather or rough travel; she had accompanied Lionel to other sites throughout Britain, subjecting herself to every extreme of cold, heat, and
rain. But she had not been prepared for how cold it was in late October in the Highlands of Scotland.