To Wed A Rebel. Sophie Dash
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It was done, they were bound, all was finished…
A fighter, a drinker and a notorious seducer, Isaac Roscoe was the last man that innocent Ruth Osbourne would ever consider as a husband – but that was before Roscoe ruined her prospects and reputation!
Now destitute and disinherited Ruth is faced with an impossible choice: a life on the streets or exchanging vows with the man who put her there. Yet, knowing that marriage was Roscoe’s last wish, Ruth knew her revenge would be best served by saddling him with a reluctant wife.
Determined to punish Isaac for his actions Ruth will stop at nothing to destroy him, body and spirit. Until it becomes clear that nothing she can do will hurt her disloyal husband more than he can hurt himself…
To Wed a Rebel
Sophie Dash
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016
Copyright © Sophie Dash 2016
Sophie Dash asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2016 ISBN: 9781474050012
Version date: 2018-06-08
SOPHIE DASH is usually found chained to a laptop in her David Bowie pyjamas, with a spaniel dribbling on her feet, a pen in her hair and biscuit crumbs across her keyboard. She has a cardboard cut-out of Spock in her basement, knows all the words to Disney’s The Little Mermaid and has seen Pride and Prejudice more times than you. Follow her on Twitter @TheSophieDash
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Four
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Soup-thick smoke pressed against the tavern walls, beer-soaked straw lay matted upon the flagstones, and all the furniture was as chipped, stained and weathered as the drunks who nursed their tankards around it. The Navigation was packed with rowdy customers after the evening’s boxing match beside the docks: celebrations, commiserations and coins were exchanged in abundance. Amongst all the filth was one individual who did not belong. The merchant’s birdlike features were scrunched up in distaste and his fine coat was crumpled with travel, dotted with Bristol Harbour’s rain, and smudged with the coal-smoke scents that dirtied the night. A man in his middling years, he shuffled cautiously past unkind faces and vulgar scenes, with a handkerchief pressed against his mouth, as though it would protect him from catching the ill repute that hung about the place as stubbornly as its grime.
“Roscoe,” he muttered to a barkeep. “Where?”
A rag was waved towards a corner occupied by three shapes. False female laughter could be heard, accompanied by a lower, amused tone. Lounging in between two women was a bruised and bloodied man. There was a cut above his eye and marks along his knuckles. Dark hair flopped across his forehead, mussed and damp, while yesterday’s five o’clock shadow had stolen away any sign that he was ever once a gentleman.
“Ladies, I’ve already told you,” said Isaac Roscoe, with an easy manner and a cocky smile, “I cannot afford your company tonight.”
“Don’t be cruel,” replied one, stocky and comely, her skin goose-pimpled from the chill and how little she wore. “You threw that fight. Got paid well for it an’ all. That’s what they’re