On the Shelves
Robert Hurst leaned forward, his broad form blocking the light. “You haven’t answered; was he blackmailing you, too?” The words were gently spoken and they filled Moira’s heart with such longing that tears actually filled her eyes. If only she could tell him, explain things, lean on him, trust him. But she already knew the cost of trust. She pulled her wrist from his grasp, turning away so she could quickly swipe the tears from her eyes. “Don’t be foolish. What could that horrible man possibly hold over my head? I don’t know anything about your precious onyx box. If I did, do you think I’d be here?” A flicker of something crossed Robert's face – was it disappointment? He shrugged. “You must have thought it might be here, or you’d have never come.” “I'm sorry, Mr. Hurst, but I haven't the faintest idea what you’re talking about. George Aniston hired me to fetch something for him and I did it. I had no idea he was blackmailing your sister-in-law. I never asked and he never mentioned it.” “I don’t believe you.” “Fine.” His face hardened. “No, it’s not fine, Mrs. MacJames.” He almost spit the name. “You don’t like it? MacJames is a time honored name that—“ “—is completely false. I know your real name, which you've apparently forgotten. Your real name is Moira MacAllister—” He paused and then added in a voice sharp with unspoken anger. “—Hurst.”
Marcail leaned forward, her blue gaze fastened on his face. “William, I am desperate." After such a look, any other man would have begged to help her. Any other man would have been taken in by her earnest expression and black-haired beauty, too. But William knew too well the cold, icy heart that beat beneath Marcail's lace-covered and delectable exterior. She was an actress and could play any part she desired. He'd discovered that bitter truth at the hands of life's cruelest teacher - experience. She blinked away tears, her long lashes shadowing her eyes. "I don’t know who is blackmailing me or why or— All I know is that they must stop.” “But you know what information they hold over your head. Information you don’t wish your protector to know. Information you won't tell me.” "The fewer people who know, the better." William watched Marcail over the edge of his glass as he took another drink. At her closed expression, he lowered his glass. “What happened, Marcail? Did you stray? Is that the secret? That you can no more be true to a man than a dog can stop himself from chasing a squirrel?” Her eyes flashed fire. “Damn it, William, this is important! If my secret were revealed – and no, it’s nothing so tawdry as what you suggest – it wouldn’t be me who would pay, but others.“ “What others?” She folded her lips firmly as if to hide her words. After a moment’s obvious struggle, she said, “It doesn’t matter. Others. Innocent people.” “Innocent compared to you?” She leaned back in her chair, a sudden bleak expression on her face as she whispered, “You aren’t going to help me, are you?" "No." Her gaze dropped to where her hands were now clasped together beside her full glass. "I should have known better than to ask.” “Yes, you should have. I am done with secrets and hidden lies.” He leaned back in his chair and pushed his empty glass away, suddenly tired of it all. Tired by the deceptions that had left him so beaten all those years ago. Tired by the fire her appearance stirred today, even though he knew her black soul for what it was. “You should go.” “Fine. But first . . .” Her gaze narrowed as she examined his face. A faint flicker of a smile touched one corner of her lovely mouth. Oddly enough, it seemed to carry a touch of regret. “Ah, William,” she said softly. “Life never gave us a chance, did she?” What in the hell did she mean by that? “Just go, Marcail. We’re done speaking.” His mouth felt dry and he wished he had more port in his glass. Marcail rose and came toward him, pausing just shy of where he sat. He thought about standing, but decided he was too tired to do so. The ride from Whitby must have wearied him even more than he’d expected. “Say what you will and then leave.” “Oh, I shall leave, but not until you’ve helped me.” “I’ve already said I wouldn’t help you.” Damn it, was that his voice, slurring his words? He found himself looking at his hand where it cupped loosely around his empty glass. I can’t feel my hand. Oddly, the thought frighten him at all, but only floated through his mind with an odd sort of detachment. How could this be? He’d only had one glass. Normally it took far, far more than that to— He looked up at Marcail and tried to say, “You put something in my drink.“ but his mouth wouldn’t make the words. His vision suddenly wavered, a wave of weakness crashing through him so that he almost slumped in his seat. No. He gathered all of his energy, every ounce of his strength, and forced his numb arms to pull him to his feet where he swayed dangerously. She frowned. “William, don’t! You’ll hurt yourself and—“ He toppled forward and fell upon the floor, unable to move. Damn. She’s poisoned me.
Excerpt from MUCH ADO ABOUT MARRIAGETo Thomas’s surprise, Fia’s mouth curled into a sensual smile. “Fine then,” she murmured huskily. “Kiss me if you must.” She closed her eyes and lifted her face to his. He should have tried to scare her more, thought of a way to frighten her into submission for there was far more at stake than the cares of a Scottish wench. Thomas should have. But he didn’t. All he could think of was the promise of her lips and the delicate fragrance of heather that drifted from her hair. He kissed her with every bit of passion that welled inside him. Her bag of stolen goods dropped to the ground in a noisy jangle as she clutched at his loose shirt, pulling insistently. Her lips, soft and yielding, drank hungrily from his. He brushed aside her entangling hair and tasted the sweetness of her neck. His hands traced the contours of her back and hips, stopping to pull her bodice from the waistband of her skirt, her skin was deliciously warm and inviting. He pulled impatiently at the ties at her waist, his mouth ruthlessly possessing hers. Through a haze of raw passion, he became aware of a razor sharp point pressed into his side, cold and deadly. Thomas opened his eyes. Fia regarded him with a cool smile. “‘Tis time you were on your way, Sassenach.” As she spoke, she moved away and her knife shone wickedly in the moonlight. But it was her other hand that caught and held his gaze. In it, she held his purse. Thomas silently cursed. No wonder she hadn’t been frightened; he had played right into her hands.
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