A Dangerous Man: A Loveswept Classic Romanceby Connie Brockway
Mercy Coltrane, a brash young American woman, has arrived in England to search for her missing brother. Willing to risk anything in her quest, she seeks out the help of Hart Moreland, the mercenary her/b>
In this spellbinding novel, Connie Brockway dazzles with her penetrating insights into the impossible dreams and dark desires of the human heart.
Mercy Coltrane, a brash young American woman, has arrived in England to search for her missing brother. Willing to risk anything in her quest, she seeks out the help of Hart Moreland, the mercenary her father enlisted years ago to protect his land—when Hart was known as Duke the Gunslinger.
Now Earl of Perth in his native England, Hart has turned his back on his past in order to achieve a hard-earned position of respect and power, and the last thing he needs is a reminder of his violent history. But Mercy proves to be much more than just a painful remnant of the world he left behind. Vibrant, witty, and beautiful, she embodies the possibility for happiness that Hart desperately craves.
Includes a special message from the editor, as well as excerpts from other Loveswept titles.
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She should say something, she thought dazedly when Hart finally lifted his head from hers. Something sophisticated and brittle and dismissive. Something that would prove to him that she could play these games as well as he. That was what this was about, was it not? she thought. A lesson for the na´ve American? That had been what he had meant in saying this was dangerous...
But for the life of her she could not say a word. She was entirely lost in the sensations he aroused. Helplessly, she blinked up into his aquamarine eyes; cool, unplumbed. He stared down at her, his face an unreadable mask, only his flushed throat any clue that he had been affected at all by their kiss.
She opened her mouth to speak. On the small movement his gaze fell like a predators She heard the slight catch of his breath, saw the flare of his bold nostrils, felt a shiver tighten the chest muscles beneath her hand.
"God," he breathed, and then he was kissing her again, his mouth warm and demanding, his arms pulling her ever closer.
She was naíve, she thought, twining her hands around his neck and clinging there weakly. For those few kisses stolen from shy cowboys had never anticipated such...hunger. His ardor frightened her, but more, it excited her, it inspired in her an answering appetite.
With each caress of his restless hands over her breasts and belly, she learned the power of her own desire. She was entirely lost to the wanting he awoke, and when his mouth opened over hers, coherent thought fled.
She did not refuse him, he thought in dim amazement. And whether she clung to him because he had left her nothing else to cling to, or because she wanted this, he was grateful. For with each moment he pressed her closer and kissed the sweet, plush velvet lips, she caught fire from his heat, meeting his entreaty with her own, arching herself into him, cupping the back of his head in her hands and holding his mouth to hers.
Her lips parted and his own passionate response to such munificence made him dizzy. He swung his leg over the saddle and, clamping her tightly to him, slipped with her to the ground. And still, he tried to bring her closer, arching possessively over the sweet body straining up into his, discover-ing the only way to do so was to invade her warm, moist mouth with his tongue. So sweet, so passionate--
Tentatively, her tongue brushed his. He delved hungrily, begging more with tongue and lip and hands. She moaned softly. It was a tiny sound, but one of abandonment, and it awoke his fast-fleeing conscience as nothing else could have done. He drew his head back, staring down at her flushed face, the crescent of lashes feathering her cool pink cheeks.
She had given herself entirely to him, trusting him. No matter what surcease passion offered, he would not take more than what she should offer, regardless of what he needed. Abruptly, he set her on her feet.
She blinked, disoriented and lip-swollen, her hair streaming down her back, undone by the hands that trembled at his sides and itched to be buried once more in that cool satin. He forced himself to stand acquiescent. He would not embrace her again.
"Oh, my," she whispered.
"Indeed," he answered, amazed he'd been so carried away by what was really no more than a simple kiss, a few-less-than chaste embraces; uncertain of how she would interpret the clipped sound of that single word.
"So, you've proven your point," she said, her eyes averted, her cheeks blooming with bright crimson roses. "You were right."
"What do you mean?"
"I am as common as God can make a maid, and a maid I am, it would seem, only because of a lack of opportunity." His demonstration of how easily he could effect her abandonment hurt, and she wanted to return the favor. Her words found their mark. He paled visibly. "Your point is well taken, sir."
"And what point is that?" he demanded in a rough voice.
"That I am unfit to be my own guardian. That I, most especially, must guard myself as I am at the mercy of unladylike impulses. Because, as you have very skillfully demonstrated, I am no lady."
"Unladylike?" He sounded genuinely confused.
"Yes. I am sure"--she bit back a sob--"I am sure that your sisters never reacted so to a man's kiss."
"I wouldn't have any idea," he answered, bewildered.
"Well, I do. They wouldn't even feel the things I did when kissing you. They aren't the things a nice woman feels."
"Are you sure your horse didn't upend you on your head?"
"Don't mock me! I have read many books on deportment and--and other feminine concerns and they all agree; a nice woman does not feel excited by a man's...physical displays." And now her eyes did fill with tears. Angrily, she dashed them away, facing him with as much dignity as she could muster, seeing how she could not ignore the shape of his mouth or forget the texture of it.
He shook his head. There was a touch of bitter sadness in his pale eyes, a hint of despair and yearning. How had she ever thought his face expressionless? Subtle emotions played constantly across his features. One merely had to attend.
He reached over, spanning the short distance between them, and she thought he meant to take her in his arms again. She would have gone; indeed, she swayed forward to meet the anticipated embrace. But he only tipped her chin up with a single finger.
"You are wholly lovely and uncontrived," he said, finally understanding. She'd thought he'd kissed her to teach her a lesson, to illustrate her vulnerability, and that she'd revealed instead a defect in herself, a baseness. He could not allow her to be so misled. "Any sane man would be ecstatic to know he was able to kindle in you more than curiosity with his kiss. Being a lady does not mean being dead to pleasure, Mercy, no matter what fantasies are being perpetuated by society's scribblers."
When she did not reply, he dropped his hand and stepped back, casting a glance in the direction of the house. He did not have time to convince her and he could see from the flush still staining her cheeks that she was unconvinced, clinging stubbornly to some mistaken notion that equated passionlessness with feminity.
Frustrated, he tugged on the bridle, forcing the gelding closer. Soon someone would look out his window and see them and he would have ruined
Mercy in truth. For whatever his assurances as to the naturalness of her response, he knew too well that society was unnatural and it was according to society's rules that Mercy had chosen to live--for whatever time. They had to hurry.
"You have nothing to upbraid yourself for. I am entirely at fault here, Mercy," he said. "Whatever has happened, I have precipitated. I have taken complete advantage of a situation in which you should have been able to rely on me to act the gentleman. I beg your forgiveness."
She looked at him in surprise. "You're accepting all the responsibility for our...for my--"
"My kissing you, yes," he said tersely as a light blinked on in one of the upper windows of the Actons' house.
"Very noble," she said scowling. "And what of my part in our kiss? I was the"--she searched for a word and found one and it did not appear to make her very happy--"the unwitting victim?"
His chest tightened. "If that is how you perceive it," he answered gravely.
"It is not!" she exclaimed. "I am many things, Hart, but I am not unwitting! I kissed you back, in case you hadn't noticed."
He stared at her, an incautious joy awakening within. "Why, yes, I believe I did."
"Good." She colored as soon as she'd said the word and he badly wanted to sweep her back into his arms. "I am an equal partner in what transpired here--ill advised as you assured me it was. I never said I wanted to be a lady, you know." She made a great show of straightening her skirts. "Now," she sniffed, "I suggest we forget about trying to determine who was more culpable."
He nodded, smiling. "Agreed. We'd best be back to the house before our absence is noted." He swung into the saddle and turned, offering her his hand, and when she'd given hers into his care, he lifted her in front of him.
She was a cheat, she thought, and as common as she'd always suspected she was and Hart had just tried to convince her she was not. Because she knew full well that except for these next few minutes, Hart Montrose would never hold her again. And she wanted to hoard whatever sensations she could from these brief moments, because she had never felt so much, so intensely, before and she did not expect she ever would again.
So she lay back against the hard wall of his chest, burrowing between the open flaps of his coat, and, sighing softly, turned her head. The warmth of his body toasted her cheek through his thin cambric shirt. His heart beat strongly beneath her ear. She snuggled closer still, and his arm closed more securely about her.
"As soon as we're back we'll forget it happened, shall we?" she asked.
"Oh," he replied quietly, "I don't think I can promise that."
From the Paperback edition.
Meet the Author
New York Times bestselling author Connie Brockway is an eight-time finalist for the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award. She has twice been its recipient, for My Dearest Enemy and The Bridal Season. Brockway lives in Minnesota with her husband, David, a family physician, and two spoiled mutts.
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