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Authors: Karen Ranney
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IN YOUR WILDEST SCOTTISH DREAMS
Seven years have passed since Glynis MacIain made the foolish mistake of declaring her love to Lennox Cameron only to have him stare at her dumbfounded. Heartbroken, she accepted the proposal of a diplomat and moved to America, where she played the role of a dutiful wife among Washington's elite. Now a widow, Glynis is back in Scotland. Though Lennox can still unravel her with just one glance, Glynis is no longer the naïve girl Lennox knew and vows to resist him.Â
With the American Civil War raging on, shipbuilder Lennox Cameron must complete a sleek new blockade runner for the Confederate Navy. He cannot afford any distractions, especially the one woman he's always loved. Glynis's cool demeanor tempts him to prove to her what a terrible mistake she made seven years ago.Â
As the war casts its long shadow across the ocean, will a secret from Glynis' past destroy any chance for a future between the two star-Âcrossed lovers?
Available January 2015
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July, 1855
Glasgow, Scotland
G
lynis had planned this encounter with such precision. Everything must go perfectly. All that was left was for Lennox to come into the anteroom.
A few minutes ago she'd given one of the maids a coin to take a message to him.
“I don't know, Miss MacIain. He's with those Russian Âpeople.”
“He'll come,” she said, certain of it.
The girl frowned at her.
“Really, it's all right. Go and get him, please.”
She could understand the maid's reluctance. Lennox was an excellent host while his father was away in England. This ball was held in honor of the Camerons' Russian partner, a way to offer Count Bobrov, his wife, and daughter a taste of Scottish hospitality. Hillshead, Lennox's home, was lit from bottom to top, a beacon for all of Glasgow to witness.
She took a deep breath, pressed her hands against her midriff and tried to calm herself. She wasn't a child. She was nineteen, her birthday celebrated a week earlier. Lennox had been there, marking the occasion by kissing her on the cheek in front of everyone.
The anteroom was warm, or perhaps it was nerves causing her palms to feel damp. Her spine felt coated in ice and her stomach hurt.
When was he going to arrive?
She pressed both palms against the skirt of her gown, a beautiful pale pink confection her mother had given her for her birthday. Pink roses were braided through her hair. A pink and silver necklace of roses was draped around her neck, and she fingered it now.
The anteroom wasn't really a separate room but a small area off the ballroom and accessible to the terrace stretching the width of Hillshead. A curtain hung between the door and the ballroom.
They would have enough privacy here.
He'd be here in a few moments. Lennox was too polite and honorable to ignore her request.
Had she worn too much perfume? She loved Spring Morning, a perfume her mother purchased in London. The scent reminded her of flowers, rain, and the fresh rosebuds in her hair.
Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together, took deep breaths in a futile effort to calm herself. She clamped her eyes shut, rehearsing her speech again.
Her whole life came down to this moment. She woke thinking of Lennox. She went to bed with one last glance up at Hillshead. When he called on Duncan at their house, she made sure to bring him refreshments, amusing Lily and their cook, Mabel, with her eagerness. When they met in the city, she asked about his latest ship, his father, his sister, anything to keep him there for a few more minutes. At balls she sometimes danced with him, trying hard not to reveal how much she adored him when in his arms.
The tips of her ears burned and her cheeks flamed. She would melt before he reached her, she knew it. She pressed the fingers of both hands against her waist, blew out a breath, closed her eyes and envisioned the scene soon to come.
She should be reticent and demure, but how could she be? It was Lennox. Lennox, who held her heart in his hands. Lennox, who smiled down at her with such charm it stole her breath.
Lennox was tall and strong, with broad shoulders and a way of walking that made her want to watch him. There was no more handsome man in all of Glasgow.
Suddenly he was there, stepping into the anteroom. Turning slowly to mitigate her hoop's swirling, she faced him.
He wore formal black, his snowy white shirt adorned with pin tucks down the front.
His black hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. Intelligence as well as humor shone in gray-Âgreen eyes the color of the River Clyde. A stranger might think life amused him. Yet from boyhood he'd been intent on his vocation, fascinated with anything to do with ships and the family firm.
His face was slender, with high cheekbones and a square jaw. She could look at him for hours and never tire of the sight.
“Glynis? What is it?”
She took a deep breath, summoned all of her courage, and approached him. Standing on tiptoe, she placed her hands on his shoulders, reached up and kissed him.
He stiffened but after a second kissed her back.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on as he deepened the kiss. She hadn't been wrong. She thought kissing Lennox would be heavenly, and it was. If angels started singing she wouldn't have been surprised.
Long moments later Lennox pulled back, ending the kiss. Slowly, he removed her arms from around his neck.
“Glynis,” he said softly. “What are you doing?”
I love you
. The words trembled on her lips.
Tell him. Tell him now.
All the rehearsing she'd done, however, didn't make it easier to say. He must feel the same. He must.
“Lennox? Where have you gone?”
The curtains parted and Lidia Bobrova entered the anteroom. She glanced at the two of them and immediately went to Lennox's side, grabbing and hanging onto his arm as if she'd fall if he didn't support her.
Lidia was as frail as a Clydesdale. Tall and big-Âboned, she had a long face with a wide mouth and Slavic cheekbones. Did Lennox think she was pretty?
The girl had been introduced to her as the daughter of Mr. Cameron's Russian partner only an hour earlier. Lidia had barely glanced at her, dismissing her with a quick, disinterested smile, the same treatment she was giving her now.
“What is it, my Lennox?”
My Lennox?
“My father wishes to speak to you.” She fluttered her lashes at him. “He mustn't be kept waiting. You know there's something important he wishes to discuss with you.” She patted his sleeve. “The future, perhaps?”
Glynis pressed her hands against her midriff again and forced herself to breathe.
Lidia was clinging to Lennox, and all he did was glance down at her.
The Russian woman's gown of green velvet was too heavy for a Scottish summer. Gold ribbon adorned the split sleeves and overskirt and was threaded through Lidia's bright blond hair. Her hoop skirt was so large it nearly dwarfed the room, but she still managed to stand too close to Lennox.
Surely no unmarried girl should be wearing as many diamonds at her ears and around her neck. Were the Russians so afraid their wealth would be stolen that they wore it all at once?
“Come, Lennox.” Lidia's voice wasn't seductive as much as plaintive.
The Lennox she'd known all her life wasn't charmed by whining and wheedling.
“Come and talk to my father and then we'll dance. Lennox, you promised. Please.”
He glanced down at Lidia and smiled, an expression she'd always thought reserved for her. A particular Lennox smile made up of patience and of humor.
Until this moment he'd never treated her like a nuisance or a bother. Although she was Duncan's younger sister, he'd always seen her as herself, asking her opinions, talking to her about his future plans. Yet now he was as dismissive as Lidia.
She might not be there, for the attention either of them paid her.
Embarrassment spread from the pit of her stomach, bathing every limb in ice. She was frozen to the spot, anchored to the floor by shame.
“Please, my Lennox.”
Grabbing her skirt with both hands, Glynis turned toward the curtains. She had to escape now. She didn't glance back as she raced from the anteroom, tears cooling her cheeks.
The last thing she heard was Lidia's laugh.
“O
h, do let the silly girl go, Lennox,” she said. “We'll go meet with my father and then dance.”
Lennox turned to Lidia Bobrova. He'd known the girl nearly as long as he'd known Glynis, having traveled to Russia since he was a boy.
She smiled back at him, a new and curious calculating expression that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Has the child always been so rude?” she asked.
“I've never found her to be so.” Nor would he consider her a child, not the way she'd just kissed him.
Why hadn't her mother noticed the décolletage of Glynis's dress was far lower than normal? He wanted to pull it up himself to conceal the swell of her breasts. Wasn't her corset laced too tight? He'd never noticed her waist was that small.
He glanced toward the door, wondering how to detach himself from Lidia. She'd latched onto him at the beginning of the evening, and from her father's fond looks, her actions had familial approval.
Cameron and Company was in the process of selling their Russian shipyards to Count Bobrov. Negotiations were in the final stage, and he didn't want to do anything to mar them. Yet allowing Lidia to signal to everyone that there was more to their relationship was going too far.
Lidia leaned toward him and a cloud of heavy French perfume wafted in his direction. Her face was dusted with powder and she'd applied something pink on her lips.
He needed to get out of the anteroom before anyone attached significance to his being alone with her. He needed to find Glynis and explain. Then they'd discuss that kiss.
He hadn't expected her to kiss him. His thoughts were in turmoil. He was just grateful LidiaâÂor anyone elseâÂhadn't entered the anteroom a few minutes earlier.
What would he have said?
She startled me
. Hardly a worthwhile explanation, although it was the truth.
He should have pushed her away, not enjoyed kissing her. It was Glynis. Glynis of the merry laugh and the sparkling eyes and the pert quip. Glynis, who had managed to muddle his thoughts tonight as well as confuse him thoroughly.
Lidia said something, but he wasn't paying any attention. He began walking back to the ballroom. Since she'd gripped his arm with talonlike fingers, she had no choice but to come with him.
With any luck, Duncan would help him out, take the possessive Lidia off his arm and waltz with her, leaving him to find Glynis.
He didn't know as he left the anteroom that it would be seven years until he saw Glynis again.
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KAREN RANNEY began writing when she was five. Her first published work was “The Maple Leaf,” read over the school intercom when she was in the first grade. In addition to wanting to be a violinist (her parents had a special violin crafted for her when she was seven), she wanted to be a lawyer, a teacher, and most of all, a writer. Though the violin was discarded early, she still admits to a fascination with the law, and she volunteers as a teacher whenever needed. Writing, however, has remained the overwhelming love of her life.
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Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at six brand-Ânew
e-Âbook original tales of romance from Avon Impulse.
Available now wherever e-Âbooks are sold.
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By Sophie Jordan
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By Charlotte Stein
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By Jennifer Ryan
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By Gwen Jones
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By Cynthia Sax
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By Candis Terry
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An Excerpt from
A Debutante Files Christmas Novella
by Sophie Jordan
Feisty American heiress Violet Howard swears she'll never wed a crusty British aristocrat. Will, the Earl of Moreton, is determined to salvage his family's fortune without succumbing to a marriage of convenience. But when a snowstorm strands Violet and Will together, their sudden chemistry will challenge good intentions. They're seized by a desire that burns through the night, but will their passion survive the storm? Will they realize they've found a love to last them through all seasons?
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H
is eyes flashed, appearing darker in that moment, the blue as deep and stormy as the waters she had crossed to arrive in this country. “Who are you?”
“I'm a guest here.” She motioned in the direction of the house. “My name is Vâ”
“Are you indeed?” His expression altered then, sliding over her with something bordering belligerence. “No one mentioned that you were an American.”
Before she could process that statementâÂor why he should be told of anythingâÂshe felt a hot puff of breath on her neck.
The insolent man released a shout and lunged. Hard hands grabbed her shoulders. She resisted, struggling and twisting until they both lost their balance.
Then they were falling. She registered this with a sick sense of dread. He grunted, turning slightly so that he took the brunt of the fall. They landed with her body sprawled over his.
Her nose was practically buried in his chest.
A pleasant smelling chest
. She inhaled leather and horseflesh and the warm saltiness of male skin.
He released a small moan of pain. She lifted her face to observe his grimace and felt a stab of worry. Absolutely misplaced considering this situation was his fault, but there it was nonetheless. “Are you hurt?”
“Crippled. But alive.”
Scowling, she tried to clamber off him, but his hands shot up and seized her arms, holding fast.
“Unhand me! Serves you right if you are hurt. Why did you accost me?”
“Devil was about to take a chunk from that lovely neck of yours.”
Lovely?
He thinks she is lovely? Or rather her neck is lovely? This bold specimen of a man in front of her, who looks as though he has stepped from the pages of a Radcliffe novel, thinks that plain, in-Âbetween Violet is lovely.
She shook off the distracting thought. Virile stable hands like him did not look twice at females like her. No. Scholarly bookish types with kind eyes and soft smiles looked at her. Men such as Mr. Weston who saw beyond a woman's face and other physical attributes.
“I am certain you overreacted.”
He snorted.
She arched, jerking away from him, but still he did not budge. His hands tightened around her. She glared down at him, feeling utterly discombobulated. There was so
much
of himâÂall hard male and it was pressed against her in a way that was entirely inappropriate and did strange, fluttery things to her stomach. “Are you planning to let me up any time soon?”
His gaze crawled over her face. “Perhaps I'll stay like this forever. I rather like the feel of you on top of me.”
She gasped.
He grinned then and that smile stole her breath and made all her intimate parts heat and loosen to the consistency of pudding. His teeth were blinding white and straight set against features that were young and strong and much too handsome. And there were his eyes. So bright a blue their brilliance was no less powerful in the dimness of the stables.
Was this how girls lost their virtue? She'd heard the stories and always thought them weak and addle-Âheaded creatures. How did a sensible female of good family cast aside all sense and thought to propriety?
His voice rumbled out from his chest, vibrating against her own body, shooting sensation along every nerve, driving home the realization that she wore nothing beyond her cloak and night rail. No corset. No chemise. Her breasts rose on a deep inhale. They felt tight and aching. Her skin felt like it was suddenly stretched too thin over her bones. “You are not precisely what I expected.”
His words sank in, penetrating through the fog swirling around her mind. Why would he expect anything from her? He did not know her.
His gaze traveled her face and she felt it like a touchâÂa caress. “I shall have to pay closer attention to my mother when she says she's found someone for me to wed.”
Violet's gaze shot up from the mesmerizing movement of his lips to his eyes. “Your
mother?
”
He nodded. “Indeed. Lady Merlton.”
“Are you . . .” she choked on halting words.
He couldn't be
. “You're theâ”
“The Earl of Merlton,” he finished, that smile back again, wrapping around the words as though he was supremely amused. As though she were the butt of some grand jest. He was the Earl of Merlton, and she was the heiress brought here to tempt him.
A jest indeed. It was laughable. Especially considering the way he looked. Temptation incarnate. She was not the sort of female to tempt a man like him. At least not without a dowry, and that's what her mother was relying upon.
“And you're the heiress I've been avoiding,” he finished.
If the earth opened up to swallow her in that moment, she would have gladly surrendered to its depths.
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An Excerpt from
An Under the Skin Novel
by Charlotte Stein
I believed I would never be able to trust any man again. I thought so with every fiber of my beingâÂand then I met Noah Gideon Grant. Everyone says he's dangerous. But the thing is . . . I think something happened to him too. I know the chemistry between us isn't just in my head. I know he feels it, but he's holding back. He's made a labyrinth of himself. Now all I need to do is dare to find my way through.
An Avon Red Novel
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H
e said no sexual contact, and a handshake apparently counts. I should respect thatâÂI do respect that, I swear. I can respect it, no matter how much my heart sinks or my eyes sting at a rejection that isn't a rejection at all.
I can do without. I'm sure I can do without, all the way up to the point where he says words that make my heart soar up, up toward the sun that shines right out of him.
“Kissing is perfectly okay with me,” he murmurs, and then, oh, God, then he takes my face in his two good hands, roughened by all the patient and careful fixing he does and so tender I could cry, and starts to lean down to me. Slowly at first, and in these hesitant bursts that nearly make my heart explode, before finally, Lord; finally, yes, finally.
He closes that gap between us.
His lips press to mine, so soft I can barely feel them. Yet somehow, I feel them everywhere. That closemouthed bit of pressure tingles outward from that one place, all the way down to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my toes. I think my hair stands on end, and when he pulls away it doesn't go back down again.
No part of me will ever go back down again. I feel dazed in the aftermath, cast adrift on a sensation that shouldn't have happened. For a long moment I can only stand there in stunned silence, sort of afraid to open my eyes in case the spell is broken.
But I needn't have worriedâÂhe doesn't break it. His expression is just like mine when I finally dare to look, full of shivering wonder at the idea that something so small could be so powerful. We barely touched and yet everything is suddenly different. My body is alight. I think his body is alight.
How else to explain the hand he suddenly pushes into my hair? Or the way he pulls me to him? He does it like someone lost at sea, finally seeing something he can grab on to. His hand nearly makes a fist in my insane curls, and when he kisses me this time there is absolutely nothing chaste about it. Nothing cautious.
His mouth slants over mine, hot and wet and so incredibly urgent. The pressure this time is almost bruising, and after a second I could swear I feel his tongue. Just a flicker of it, sliding over mine. Barely anything really, but enough to stun me with sensation. I thought my reaction in the movie theater was intense.
Apparently there's another level altogetherâÂone that makes me want to clutch at him. I need to clutch at him. My bones and muscles seem to have abandoned me, and if I don't hold on to something I'm going to end up on the floor. Grabbing him is practically necessary, even though I have no idea where to grab.
He put his hand in my hair. Does that make it all right to put mine in his? I suspect not, but have no clue where that leaves me. Is an elbow any better? What about his upper arm? His upper arm is hardly suggestive at all, yet I can't quite bring myself to do it. If I do he might break this kiss, and I'm just not ready for that.
I probably won't be ready for that tomorrow. His stubble is burning me just a little and the excitement is making me so shaky I could pass for a cement mixer, but I still want it to carry on. Every new thing he does is just such a revelationâÂlike when he turns a little and just sort of catches my lower lip between his, or caresses my jaw with the side of his thumb.
I didn't think he had it in him.
It could be that he doesn't. When he finally comes up for air he has to kind of rest his forehead against mine for a second. His breathing comes in erratic bursts, as though he just ran up a hill that isn't really there. Those hands in my hair are trembling, unable to let go, and his first words to me blunder out in guttural rush.
“I wasn't expecting that to be so intense,” he says, and I get it then. He didn't mean for things to go that way. They just got out of control. All of that passion and urgency isn't who he is, and now he wants to go back to being the real him. He even steps back, and straightens, and breathes long and slow until that man returns.
Now he is the person he wants to be: stoic and cool. Or at least, that's what I think until he turns to leave. He tells me good-Âbye and I accept it; he touches my shoulder and I process this as all I might reasonably expect in the future. And then just as he's almost gone I happen to glance down, and see something that suggests that the idea of a real him may not be so clear-Âcut:
The outline of his erection, hard and heavy against the material of his jeans.
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An Excerpt from
A Christmas Novella
by Jennifer Ryan
(Previously appeared in the anthology
All I Want for Christmas Is a Cowboy
)
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Before The Hunted Series, Caleb and Summer had a whirlwind romance not to be forgotten . . .
Caleb Bowden has a lot to thank his best friend, Jack, forâÂsaving his life in Iraq and giving him a job helping to run his family's ranch. Jack also introduced Caleb to the most incredible woman he's ever met. Too bad he can't ask her out. You do not date your best friend's sister. Summer and Caleb share a closeness she's never felt with anyone, but the stubborn man refuses to turn the flirtatious friendship into something meaningful. Frustrated and tired of merely wishing to be happy, Caleb tells Jack how he feels about Summer. With his friend's help, he plans a surprise Christmas proposal she'll never forgetâÂbecause he can't wait to make her his wife.