By Sabrina York
Only a Scot can steal her heart.
There's nothing ladylike about Katherine Killin.
She's a spitfire who cannot be tamed. To rid himself of her, and to honor a
truce set by the Duke of Glencoe, her father agrees to wed her to his clan's
mortal enemy, Ben Rannoch. But when Katherine meets the enticingly masculine
Kurt Rannoch, brother of her betrothed, she suddenly craves domination.
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AN EXCERPT!
It
was a glorious ride. Kate wanted to throw out her arms, turn her face to the
downpour, and revel in the moment. Racing across the lea with Kirk, warm and
strong behind her, was magnificent.
She’d
always loved storms and the savage beauty of nature. It made her feel one with
the world. Alive. But there had never been a more exhilarating tempest than
this.
She
could taste the acrid scent of lightning on her tongue, feel the crackle of its
energy in her hair. Danger stalked them, and it excited her.
But
something else did too.
An
enormous, muscled man, held her tightly, breathing against her neck in harsh
pants. The movement of their bodies against each other created a friction as
they rode in manic union. The damp heat of the plaid conjoined them and an
earthy scent rose between them.
Ah,
it was splendid.
It
was nearly a disappointment when it ended, when he slowed and guided the horse
to an outcropping protruding from the rocky tor.
And
then, he slid from the horse, leaving her alone and suddenly cold. When she
frowned at him as he reached up for her, he stilled. “Are you all right,
lassie?”
“Aye,”
she said, setting her hands on his broad shoulders and allowing him to ease her
down. Lord, he was large. So hard and strong. So…tantalizing with his fierce
expression. She didn’t bother to hide her shudder.
“You’re
freezing,” he said in a low, feral growl.
She
was not. She was on fire.
The
thrill of the manic ride, the exhilaration of their near disaster, and the pure
elation of life and living pulsed in her veins. Which was why she stepped
toward him, rather than stepping away. Why she reached up and cupped his nape.
Why she tugged him down and whispered, “You saved me.”
And
she kissed him.
Surely
she intended it only to be a kiss of gratitude, one of pure and simple thanks.
It was meant to be quick and passionless and chaste.
Perhaps
she had been deluding herself, because she fiercely wanted, to the depth of her
being, to taste him.
Glory.
It was a mind-numbing kiss. It began as a brush of her lips against his. But
then, transfixed by the flavor of his breath, the velvet caress of his mouth,
she lingered. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tightened. She eased closer and
sealed them together from chest to groin.
Though
he allowed this familiarity, she could tell he was resisting the urge to kiss
her back. His muscles bunched, he arched away.
The
thought annoyed her so she tipped her head and deepened the kiss, pressing her
tongue between his lips.
He
made a sound, something like a growl, and he broke the kiss completely.
In
a rush, he whipped her into his embrace and backed her against the wall. She
loved his power, the heat of his muscles, his raging passion. But even more,
she loved that he did not give rein to his savagery.
Even
now, as he consumed her in a series of hungry kisses, he held back. Refrained
from crushing her against the granite tor.
With
a growl, he reared back and stared at her. “Lass, you tempt me,” he said in a
gravely tone.
She
tried to hold back her smile, and failed.
“We
canna do this.”
Ah,
her mood plummeted. And the least of her despair was her plot to scuttle the
wedding to his brother. Her body hummed with a desire she’d never experienced
before. It was a soul-deep yearning. A need.
To
her surprise, he chuckled, and that irked her. “What is so funny?” she snapped.
Did he not know how she ached?
“Lass,
lass.” He stroked her hair and cupped her cheek in an attempt to soothe her.
She scowled at him. He would have to do better than that. Yet what did he do?
He chuckled again and pulled her into his arms, though she remained stiff. “I
have work to do before we play,” he murmured. He said this in a teasing tone,
one that indicated there would indeed be more kissing.
More
of…everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Her Royal Hotness, Sabrina York, is the New York
Times and USA Today Bestselling author of hot, humorous romances. Her titles
range from sweet & snarky to scorching romance in historical, contemporary
and fantasy sub-genres. Represented by Nicole Rescinti at the Seymour Agency Visit her webpage at www.sabrinayork.com to
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