Highland Awakening

Highland Awakening
is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Loveswept eBook Original

Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Haymore

Excerpt from
Highland Temptation
by Jennifer Haymore copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Haymore

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

L
OVESWEPT
is a registered trademark and the
L
OVESWEPT
colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book
Highland Temptation
by Jennifer Haymore. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

eBook ISBN 9781101965276

Cover design: Carrie Divine/Seductive Designs

Cover photographs: Novelstock.com (couple), Period Images (background)

randomhousebooks.com

v4.1

ep

Camden McLeod stood at attention, his stance stiff and his arms straight at his sides. All his senses were on alert: his eyes focused, his hands poised to retrieve his pistol or his dirk in a fraction of a second. He listened for any suspicious noises while at the same time trying to ignore the sounds of grunts and pants emanating from behind the closed door at his back.

His gaze moved around the tiny anteroom. It brimmed with sumptuous décor, from the white-painted and gold-trimmed door that opened into the corridor, to the plush Aubusson carpet that dominated the floor and the red-velvet-covered settee that spanned the length of one wall.

Of course, Pinfield only chose the best. The best horses, the best brandy, the best damned whorehouse in all of London. Not to mention the most skilled men in England to protect him from danger.

Which was why Cam was here, armed to the teeth and standing guard at the closed door of one of the many elegant bedrooms in Mrs. Trickelbank's high-class brothel. The Highland Knights, the elite mercenary group of which Cam was a member, were guarding Viscount Pinfield, who had been receiving so many death threats that he had been granted the Knights' protection twenty-four hours a day.

Unfortunately, it was Cam's assigned week for evening duty.

“Oh yes, my lord. Yes! There!” The lass's high-pitched squeal was followed by the groaning complaint of the mattress as its occupants thrashed about.

Cam pasted a stony look on his face and crossed his arms over his chest. He tried to ignore the sounds of the bed-sport, but it wasn't easy. He concentrated on the closed door in front of him rather than the one behind him, and other noises emerged: the muted sounds of quick footsteps in the corridor, and low but urgent female voices.

Cam stiffened when the footsteps stopped outside, and the voices grew louder.

“But who…?” one of the females began to say. The handle turned. Cam's hand went to his pistol just as the door burst open. Two women stood at the threshold. He knew one of them—Mrs. Trickelbank, the mistress of this place. The other wore a hooded cloak and stood in shadow with her head down, her hands clasped around a small book she held tightly to her middle. Cam could see just enough of her body shape to know that she was female, and of the slope of her cheek to conclude that she was young.

Probably one of Mrs. Trickelbank's lasses who'd been out at a client's for the evening. Perhaps the book was some kind of means to keep records of her conquests.

He dropped his hand from his weapon and locked eyes with Mrs. Trickelbank, who knew full well that Lord Pinfield required privacy while he conducted his “business.”

“Sorry, lad,” the older woman said briskly, ignoring his pointed look. She grasped the cloaked woman's shoulders and thrust her into the antechamber. The woman stumbled inside, and would have tumbled headlong into Cam had he not caught her by grabbing her upper arms. She made a low sound of distress as he held her at arm's length and looked over her shoulder to raise a brow at Mrs. Trickelbank.

She gave him a pursed-lip grin and brushed a lock of her graying hair back, tucking it efficiently into her chignon as she said, “Be a peach and keep an eye on the chit for a minute, will you, Mr. McLeod? I've a problem with one of the newer girls and Mountebank. You know how he is.”

Cam gave an inward sigh. Oh yes. He knew Mountebank well. Cam's charge, Lord Pinfield, was a run-of-the-mill profligate. Mountebank, on the other hand, was a perverse bastard.

He gave a short nod of agreement. “Go on, then,” he said, his voice a quiet rasp.

“That's right, plum nubbins,” Pinfield said gleefully from beyond the door at Cam's back. “Bounce upon me. Bounce! Bounce!”

Plum nubbins?
Cam fought not to roll his eyes heavenward. The cloaked woman made another small sound of distress, and her arms tensed under his hands. All rather odd, considering she must be quite familiar with sounds like these. Chuckling, Mrs. Trickelbank disappeared, closing the door softly behind her.

Without releasing the woman, Cam looked down at her for the first time. From beneath her hood, she peeked up at him with wide brown eyes that sparkled with amber flecks. Golden candlelight splashed over smooth olive skin colored faintly across the cheekbones with a blush. Her scent—it was so different from the usual fleshy odors of this place. It was sweet and fresh, evoking sun-swept meadows and crisp country air.

She was clearly not one of Mrs. Trickelbank's girls—not yet, at least. He knew most of them, but more than that, he knew the jaded look in their eyes. This woman—she was…pure. Fresh. Hell, she was
virginal.
She would be none of those things for very long if she remained in a place like this.

She was also quite beautiful, but not in the traditional sense of the word. Taken separately, her features would not be considered attractive—her cheekbones a bit too broad, her nose and eyes too large, her brows too thick, her mouth too wide. But somehow, arranged upon her face, they came together in a way that captured a man's attention.
Striking
—that was what she was.

Cam gazed down at her for a long moment, unable to move. Combating a sudden sensation that coursed through him. Sadness…or regret…or something like that. He sure as hell didn't want to put a name to it.

He shook himself inwardly and dropped his hands, taking a step back from her. He didn't even know this woman. If she chose to become one of Mrs. Trickelbank's high-priced whores, it was of no consequence to him.

She swallowed hard and looked down, her lashes fluttering. “Sorry,” she whispered.

He frowned. “What for?”

“For intruding upon you and your…ah…solitude?”

She spoke like a lady. Intriguing.

He gave a low laugh and then revealed how he spoke as well—like a Scottish gentleman, which ultimately wasn't fair to her, since he
really
wasn't one. “Aye, well, I generally prefer my solitude to be more solitary.”

As if to punctuate his statement, a high-pitched giggle emanated from the door behind him.

The woman took a hesitant step backward, her gaze flickering toward the door his body was blocking. “I…uh…er…”

Still clutching that wee book to herself, she dropped her gaze to the floor, as though the leather toes of her boots poking out of her floor-length wool cloak were the most fascinating things in the world. Her shoulders shuddered as she drew in a long breath. He could only see a bit of her skin, where the candlelight brushed her cheek. It had turned bright pink.

His lips twisted into a wry grin. What did she think? That he intended to tear off her clothes and drag her to the floor right here, right now?

Yes!

His body made the command, shouting it in his head as if through a hunting horn. He squeezed his hands into fists at his sides as images tumbled through his mind. Tossing away that drab brown woolen cloak. Thrusting his hands into her hair. Dragging her to the floor, flipping up those skirts, and discovering the treasures that lay beneath…

Hell, he was on duty. He shouldn't allow that thought—any of those thoughts—to enter his head.

He thrust them out. They weren't so easily deterred, though. They still crowded the edges of his mind, nudging, trying to find a way back in.

He clenched his jaw and reached forward, tilting her chin up. He would merely reassure her.

“I won't bother you,” she said, her words rapid and breathy. Her face had turned a deep, alluring shade of pink. “I'll just wait for Mrs. Trickelbank—”

“You're no bother,” he said, his voice rough. Though she
should
bother him. She was a distraction from his duty, and he shouldn't have allowed her to step one foot inside this little room.

Her skin…it was impossibly soft. Instinctively, his fingers moved in tiny circles under her chin, as if he might drink in that softness through his fingertips.

“And I wilna bite.” His lips curled. “Unless you give me permission to.”

Energy shimmered from her…When he stood close to her like this, he could
feel
it, skipping off her in waves of light and sweetness, insinuating beneath his skin, making him feel…
alive.

He kept a firm hold on her chin and reached up his other hand to push her hood back. “You dinna need this in here.”

The hood fell away to expose a mass of rich dark brown hair only partially wrestled into a single braid, which plunged down her back and disappeared behind the collar of her cloak.

Her gaze had dropped somewhere in the vicinity of his chest.

“Look at me,” he commanded, squeezing her chin gently.

Her eyes flew up to meet his.

The speed at which she obeyed stunned him. It made him instantly hard. He lost his focus for a fraction of a minute as the erotic images crashed through him once more. When he regained it, he asked softly, reverently, “What's your name, lass?”

She took a stuttering breath. “Esme.”

He liked it. It suited her, and that made him smile. “I've never met a woman with that name before.”

“It…is not very common. My mother…” Her words dwindled.

He waited patiently for a moment then raised one brow, expecting an answer.

She understood the unspoken order, and she licked her lips before answering in a shaky voice. “My mother is…eccentric.”

“Ah, I see.” His thumb moved up from her chin to stroke the soft skin of the lower part of her cheek. Her skin here was hot with the flush, and she fairly vibrated with tension.

He released her and lowered his hand, moving it to cover hers, which still held that book against her stomach. “And what's this?”

“My notebook,” she breathed. Her fingers tightened over the book. Clearly she wasn't ready to volunteer anything more on that topic.

“Come. Sit down,” he said, letting that topic go. For now. If she thought she could hide the contents of that mysterious notebook behind her delicate little hands, she was grossly mistaken.

He steered her to the settee, noting that the corridor had gone quiet and the grunts and moans behind the door had diminished to murmurs and the occasional giggle. A break in the action, then. Pinfield would start up again soon, no doubt, after taking some time to regain his strength—Cam had enough experience with his habits to know this.

Cam pressed Esme onto the velvet cushion and stood gazing down at her. She rounded her shoulders and clasped the leather-bound notebook to her chest, the posture closing her off completely.

His fingers itched to pry that book away from her. To force her to sit up straight and look him in the eye.

Perhaps someone somewhere had infused a bit of the gentleman into him, because he was in the mood to be patient. So he did none of those things.
Yet.

Instead, he sat beside her, keeping a distance between them that might be considered decent, though he'd never been much for propriety and other restrictive nonsense people had always attempted to force upon him.

He cocked his head, listening once again for anything suspicious. Hearing nothing, he turned back to Esme, who gazed down at her lap, her shoulders still hunched.

He stared at her. God. Why was this woman in this place? She didn't belong here. The wolves would eat her alive.

And he was one of those wolves. Not only that, in most situations he was the leader of the pack. The one who would fight to the death, if necessary, to become the dominant. The one who would be the first to conquer his prey.

He reached out and touched her cheek, gentle despite the predatory instincts that throbbed within him. “Why are you in this place?”

She didn't look at him. Just pressed her lips together and shook her head.

“Why won't you look at me, Esme?” His voice rumbled when he spoke. “Why do you have difficulty speaking to me? Is it shyness? Or fear?”

He watched her close her eyes in a long blink. Finally, she turned her head to him. “I…am not good with people. Especially…” She swallowed. “Ah…men.”

He cocked a brow, impressed by her candor. But still…“You'll be in the wrong place, then, if you're no good with men.”

She winced. “Well, I hope to become better. Oh!” Her flush deepened. “I don't mean…” For the first time she separated one hand from that infernal notebook, raising it in a frustrated gesture. He watched her.
Patience.
Finally, she shrugged. “You see? I am hopeless. I cannot help myself. I always say the wrong thing.
Always
.”

“On the contrary,” he murmured. Because even though she didn't fit in this place, she fascinated him. He
liked
what she said. He liked how she looked, though he wished he could see more of her body, and her hair loose. He liked her soft, breathy voice. He liked how the flush still pinked her cheeks. He liked those downcast eyes, and how whenever she looked at him they sparkled with a rare vivacity.

She wasn't one of Mrs. Trickelbank's whores, so who was she? What the hell was she doing here?

“If you won't tell me why you're here, I will be forced to form my own conclusion,” he said in a low voice. Her gaze flickered in his direction, and in that brief glance, he saw the flare of interest. She wanted to know how he saw her.

“You're a lady come upon hard times,” he told her. “You heard of Mrs. Trickelbank, mayhap you've a brother or a father who frequents this place…”

She blew out a breath—half laugh, half gasp. It either meant he'd hit the nail on the head or was very, very wrong. It didn't matter. He continued.

“You heard of this establishment and came to Mrs. Trickelbank tonight to see if she might have use of your services. If you could sell your bonny self to one of her gentleman patrons who would be discreet about your identity after he took his fill of pleasure from your body.”

“Oooh,” Esme breathed. She gazed at him directly now, clearly fascinated by what he would say next.