A Dangerous Seduction. Patricia Frances Rowell
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“Come now, sweet torment. Tell me, if you can, that you do not want me.
“Tell me you wish to leave me. Tell me that while I take your breath away, while I make you moan. Come, make me believe it.”
He pulled her into his arms, bruising her lips under his. She collapsed against him, and Morgan thought the victory won.
But suddenly she pulled back, holding him off with her palms, her eyes the ominous gray of a lowering storm. She spoke quietly at first, but her voice rose steadily with growing emotion. “You say I want you. And I do.” She wiped angrily at her eyes. “You know it. And you are taking advantage of it, and…” She was shouting now, tears trailing down her face.
“I will not be your whore!”
Praise for Patricia Frances Rowell’s debut
A PERILOUS ATTRACTION
“…promising Regency-era debut…
a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing
the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning
likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”
—Romantic Times
“…a promising first romance.”
—The Romance Reader
A Dangerous Seduction
Patricia Frances Rowell
MILLS & BOON
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In memory of my young friend Morgan Mitchell,
who left us at the age of nine
And for my grandchildren,
who are, happily, still with us—
Zachary Nathaniel, Eric Dean, Joseph Richmond,
Amber Nicole, Camille Elise, Joy Anna, Jillian Paige
and Andrew Houghton
And, of course, for Johnny
Acknowledgment
I would like to thank my friend Maria Budzenski
for her help with this story. She sent me literally
boxes of information in addition to her personal
observations of Cornwall. Thank you, Maria.
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
London, England, 1808
P ain. Gripping, grinding, paralyzing pain. He lay on the grass in the pool of blood that leaked through his fingers. But how could he…?
Five, six, seven—three more steps and he would kill the bastard. But there had been no more steps. Eight… A flash of light, a blast, and he was falling. Falling forward, propelled by a blow that knocked him off his feet and onto his face.
Laughter. Shouts. Running feet. Shots. The blood stained his coat and dripped over the hand he pressed in vain against his chest.
The scurvy dog shot before the count! Shot you in the back.
And he laughed.
The laughter echoed through the darkness that was closing around him.
The bastard laughed!
Hoofbeats. The laughter trailing away.
He had thought he hated the man. Now he knew better.
In that moment was conceived a hatred as deep as his soul.
He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to lift the pistol still clutched in his hand. Too heavy. Too dark. Hands taking the pistol. Voices calling his name. The darkness wrapping around him in a smothering cloud. Gasping. Choking.
Breathe, damn you, breathe. A breath. Another breath. One more. Another. You can’t die. Not now. The dog must pay.
He will pay. He will pay with everything.
Everything.
Chapter One
Cornwall, England, 1816
T here it lay.
Morgan Pendaris, Earl of Carrick, drew rein at the top of the knoll, bringing the curricle to a stop. Before him over the rolling hills spread the woods, fields and meadows of his home, lush and green, neatly divided and stitched across by ancient hedges.
Nineteen years. Nineteen long years. Nineteen years dark with blood and hate. But, at last, Merdinn again belonged to him. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction, the words that had been his polestar ringing in his head, the words of Genghis Khan.
The greatest joy a man can have is to see his enemy in chains, to deprive him of his possessions, to ride his horses, to see tears on the faces of his loved ones, and to crush in your arms his wives and daughters.
He had at last deprived Cordell Hayne of every possession, including the estate that Hayne’s father had stolen from his. Chains were not far behind. The cur was firmly under the hatches, his only choice debtors prison or the transport ships.
“Why are we stopping, Uncle Morgan?”
“Because we have reached the Merdinn lands, Jeremy.” Morgan raked his dark curls out of his face with impatient fingers, a gesture that was the despair of Dagenham, his long-suffering valet. He smiled down at the boy seated beside him. “It has been a very