She won’t be tamed.
A fiery, unconventional Scot, Adaira Ferguson wears breeches, swears, and has no more desire to marry than she does to follow society’s dictates of appropriate behavior. She trusts no man with the secret she desperately protects.
He can’t forget.
Haunted by his past, Roark, The Earl of Clarendon, rigidly adheres to propriety, holding himself and those around him to the highest standards, no matter the cost. Betrayed once, he’s guarded and leery of all women.
Mistaking Roark for a known spy, Adaira imprisons him. Infuriated, he vows vengeance. Realizing her error, she’s appalled and releases him, but he’s not satisfied with his freedom. Roark is determined to transform Adaira from an ill-mannered hoyden to a lady of refinement.
He succeeds only to discover, he preferred the free-spirited Scottish lass who first captured his heart.
Genre: FICTION / Romance / Historical*2015 RONE Finalist*
*2015 Aspen Gold Finalist*
*The Romance Reviews Top Pick*
*Kindle Bestseller*
Marquardt had the temerity to reach through the bars and gently grasp her outstretched hand in his much larger one. A jolt of sensation lanced from her fingers to her breast, causing her heart and lungs to do all manner of peculiar things. His chest was but a foot from her nose. The scent of spicy maleness drifted between the bars.
“Adaira, please. You have to trust me. Yvette’s life may depend on it.”
Trust him? One didn’t become a spy without being a master of deception. Why, next he’d be trying to convince her that a monster lived in the depths of the loch or fairy cats roamed the woodlands behind the keep. No, she’d never trust him.
Adaira yanked her hand free and rubbed it against her thigh as if burned. “Just give me the bloody matches!” she yelled, panic for Yvette churning her innards. “If you’ve a shred of decency in you—”
Her voice caught on a sob. “Please . . . I’m begging you. Please, give me the matches.”
“And what, pray tell, are you going to do alone?” Marquardt struck the wall. His bicep bulged. “Dammit, I told you, I’m not Edgar! You’re wasting precious minutes arguing with me.”
Adaira stared into his piercing eyes. She could find no trace of subterfuge. She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust him. All that mattered now was helping Yvette.
He raked a hand through his mahogany hair, leaving the damp strands sticking up at awkward angles. The scar on his forehead stood out, a white beacon of ire.
