Never Kiss a Scot Read online

  Never Kiss a Scot

  The League of Rogues - Book 10

  Lauren Smith

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  An Earl By Any Other Name

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  About the Author

  Other Titles By Lauren Smith

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Smith

  Font and Print Layout design by Cover by Combs

  Lauren Smith supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  * * *

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-947206-60-1 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-947206-61-8 (mass market print)

  1

  Excerpt from the Quizzing Glass Gazette, June 30, 1821, the Lady Society column:

  * * *

  Lady Society has been hearing the most delicious tales. Dare I say rumor has it that Lord Kincade—a Scottish earl—and his two brothers have recently come to Bath and are setting the fans aflutter and the matrons atwitter? I’m tempted to suggest matches for these Scottish rogues, but then again, if I know anything about Scots, they will take what they want, when they want it. Ladies of Bath, if you desire one of them for a husband, I wish you the best of luck!

  * * *

  Hampshire, June, 1821

  * * *

  The wild Highland lord grasped the woman in his arms, pressing his lips to hers. Wind tore at her skirts as they stood upon the highest point of the heather-covered hill, embracing each other. There was nothing so wondrous as this, nothing so fulfilling as a perfect kiss…

  “A perfect kiss?” Joanna Lennox glared at the last page of her Gothic novel, Lady Jade’s Wild Lord. “There is no such thing as a perfect kiss.” A perfect kiss was a myth. She was sure there wasn’t, because if there were, she would have been kissed by now and known that, wouldn’t she? Yet here she was at twenty years old, unkissed, uncourted, and utterly alone.

  She stared into the depths of the fireplace in her library, her heart empty. After three arduous seasons in London, she was a failure as far as the standards of the marriage mart were concerned. The rumor mill had begun to spin tales of why she was still single. London society loved to mock a woman who could not catch a man, especially a woman with a large dowry. Desperate men would overlook any number of problems with a woman so long as her dowry was bountiful.

  So what is it that I lack that sends even fortune hunters running to the hills?

  It wasn’t that she hoped to be married for the sake of marriage itself, or to stop those silly peahens from gossiping. She was an independent, intelligent, opinionated woman. Yet something was missing within her, some grand secret that only someone in love was privy to. At least, if the books she had read were any indication. She wanted to love and be loved by a man, but she knew just how rare love matches were.

  She tried to focus on the book in her lap as she pulled her tartan shawl tight around her shoulders. The library in her old country home was a little chilly, even with the fire lit. She usually could lose herself in a book, but not tonight. Her older brother, Ashton, had fallen ill with the grippe, and his fiancée, Rosalind, was tending to him. But the house was quiet, an awful quiet that lent itself to restless nights and melancholy thoughts.

  Joanna had witnessed Ashton banish the depths of his coldness and shed the burdens of the past so that he might embrace a warm future with his bride-to-be. It was clear that her brother loved Rosalind dearly, even if he was too damn stubborn to admit it.

  Will someone ever love me like that? She blew out a frustrated breath. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t tried to find the perfect gentleman. She’d been charming, polite, and endearing. Men loved to engage her in conversation, yet no man came to call on her, and none sent flowers. There was not one flicker of hope that she was to be courted.

  The worries plagued her more and more, leaving her sleepless at night and irritable during the day. But she wasn’t the sort of woman to sit and mope, which was why she found her current mood most irritating. Joanna knew she ought to be doing more to distract herself from these doldrums.

  Perhaps the Society of Rebellious Ladies would appreciate another member.

  Joanna giggled at the thought and turned to the last page in her book. That would at least keep her distracted from her unsuccessful husband hunt. The society was a secretive and increasingly sought-after group for young ladies of the ton, and yet joining it was also considered scandalous—which was part of its appeal to those who were members. Rumors suggested that the Society was always in the midst of schemes, some of which even graced the pages of the Quizzing Glass Gazette, and they seemed quite happy to be off on adventures of their own without men shadowing them. Their husbands hadn’t the faintest idea that the balls, teas, and dinners were often a ruse for the Society’s activities.

  Since Joanna had no man who was eager to shadow her, she would be a perfect candidate to join the Society. They had been known to accept single ladies, married women, and even declared spinsters among their ranks. Each member of the Society had to possess the characteristics of strength of will and purpose, and they understood that loyalty to the other members was paramount.

  A sudden creak of the wood floor startled her. No one should be about at this hour, yet there were any number of reasonable situations in which someone might be. She was still up, after all. Slowly, she peered around the edge of her chair.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in black trousers and a long black shirt stood in the doorway, staring at her. His eyes were a mercurial grayish-blue, and intensely focused on her. For a moment, Joanna was arrested by the sight of his chiseled jaw and aquiline nose, his dark hair a tad too long to be considered respectable.

  A splash of clarity hit her. A strange man had just walked into the library close to midnight—and she was there alone. She kept calm. If she needed help, she could cry out. A servant would hear her, surely.

  “Who are you?” she asked. He wasn’t one of her brother’s friends. Ashton belonged to an infamous band of English peers known in some circles as the League of Rogues. She knew nearly all of his friends, as well as the members of the League, and this man was neither. So who was he?

  “It doesn’t matter who I am. Who are you?” His voice was low, silky, yet the brogue was thick enough that she knew he had to be Scottish. Was he perhaps tied to Ashton’s fiancée? She was Scottish.

  “I’m Joanna Lennox.”
She closed her book and set it aside with her blue tartan shawl on the chair as she stood.

  “I know that clan,” the man said, noticing the tartan. “MacLeod. Are you Scottish?”

  “What? Oh no, my family has relatives who are, but not me.” She thought of how very not Scottish she was, and the idea amused her. She had to admit she’d often dreamt of living in the Highlands, not caring a whit what London society or its damned rules thought about her. She put those thoughts aside to focus on the stranger in black. She came closer, wanting to see him better. Logically, she knew she ought to be shouting for help, but she didn’t feel as though she was in any danger. “You didn’t answer me. Who are you?”

  The man glanced about, clearly struggling to think of an answer.

  “I…” He hesitated, and then his eyes narrowed. “Is Lady Melbourne here?”

  “Why yes, she’s—wait a moment.” Joanna knew then why she was so fascinated by him. There was something acutely familiar about his eyes, that same serious shade of grayishblue. And the way he frowned was so like Rosalind, who was quite a serious woman.

  “Are you one of her brothers? Did you come down for the wedding?” That had to be it. In all the excitement of her brother’s unexpected engagement and then his sudden illness, they must have forgotten to tell her that Rosalind’s three brothers had been invited from Scotland for the wedding.

  “Aye. I received a letter from my sister and came down to attend the wedding. I only just arrived and didn’t wish to disturb the household.” He widened his stance, the move strangely aggressive. Joanna had the sudden concern that he might try to grab her, but that was silly. He was Rosalind’s brother, not some villain, even if he was dressed like a highwayman. Perhaps he’d only just arrived and wasn’t prepared to meet her, which would explain his interesting choice of clothing. He would be exhausted from travel and need time to rest, and here she was judging him as though he was a man sent to cause trouble.

  “Oh dear, you must be tired after such a long ride. Have the servants taken your things to your chambers?”

  “Thank you, my lady, I’ve already been seen to. I was just looking for a room to warm up in a bit before going to bed.” His gaze searched hers, and she had a suspicion he was expecting her to challenge him, but she had no reason to. He was Rosalind’s brother and quite welcome here.

  “Well then, come sit by this fire. I just finished my novel and was planning to retire soon. I’d be happy to lend it to you—if you enjoy novels, that is.” She returned to her chair and picked up her book, then came back and placed it in his hands. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  He stared at the title. “Lady Jade’s Wild Lord? Thank you.”

  It was an L. R. Gloucester novel, a torrid Gothic novel, and he was staring at it with a reverent expression that tugged at her heart. Like a man who hadn’t held a book in his hands in years.

  “I’m afraid I’m still at a loss as to your name. Which one of Rosalind’s brothers are you?”

  His storm cloud colored eyes darted around the room before they came back to her. “How do you know about us?”

  “Oh, she told me all about the three of you. Let me guess…” She tapped her chin, grinning. “Are you Aiden, Brodie, or Brock? I shall guess…Aiden.”

  He snorted. “Like hell. Do I look like some young pup?”

  He certainly didn’t. He looked more like a Scottish Highlander out of her girlish fantasies.

  “Brock then,” she said. “You look like a Brock. It’s a very old name, Brock. I like learning about names and their meanings. Did you know Brock means badger?” She stared at his lips, surprised at how full they looked. Then she wanted to kick herself. She should not be dreaming about this man’s lips. He was a guest, and she needed to act like a proper lady, not some wanton creature obsessed with someone’s mouth.

  “Badger?” He tilted his head. “I didn’t know that.” Those full lips curved into a smile, and she couldn’t help but grin back. Her heart raced wildly as she met his eyes. His devil-may-care grin hit her so hard that she had trouble standing. Brock set the book down and suddenly caught her by the waist, pulling her flush against his body.

  “It’s a custom from my village to offer a kiss to those whose families are about to be joined.”

  A kiss? Excitement shot through her like quicksilver. Perhaps she would finally get to know whether her Gothic novels were telling the truth about kisses.

  “Really? I’ve read about parts of Scotland, but I’ve never—”

  His arm around her waist tightened, and she pressed against his body, feeling the hard muscles of his tall frame against her soft curves.

  “Shush, lass, and let me keep with tradition,” he whispered, then bent his head and slanted his mouth over hers.

  His taste exploded upon her tongue, seducing her with dark excitement. A hint of brandy was still on his lips, and she relished it. One of his hands dropped from her waist to cup her bottom. She squeaked in surprise against him and then moaned as he fisted his other hand in her hair, pulling her head back so he could deepen the kiss. Her knees buckled treacherously, and she tried to think, but it was hard to be rational when her stomach was filled with such a wonderful swooping feeling. She was kissing Rosalind’s brother…

  Joanna pulled herself away enough to separate their lips. She was amazed at the riotous sensations she was experiencing from just a single kiss. Maybe kisses really could be perfect. How could she feel something invisible yet so tangible when she didn’t even know this man? It didn’t make sense, and she liked things to make sense.

  Get control, Joanna—you don’t swoon at kisses. Kisses can’t be nearly as good as they are described on paper.

  Yet Brock’s kiss had been exactly that—devastatingly perfect. Of course, she had no way of knowing if all kisses were like that or just his, given that this was her first.

  “This is traditional where you come from?” If all the ladies in Scotland were kissed like this upon meeting a man…Lord…

  His lips twitched. “Old as the bones in the hills.”

  She kept her palms pressed on his chest, knowing she ought to push away, to behave like the English lady she had been raised to be. But part of her, a much stronger part, wanted to toss the rules of good behavior aside and do anything for just one more kiss. She looked up, gazing into his grayish-blue eyes.

  “And I suppose it would be rude of me to break with tradition.”

  His now arrogant smile would’ve made her slap him if she wasn’t so desperate to lose herself in his kiss again.

  “Incredibly rude. You’d be insulting my entire clan.”

  Her pulse fluttered, and she sucked in her lower lip briefly as she anticipated another kiss. “Well, Mother did raise me to respect other cultures.” She slid her palms up his chest and curled her fingers into his black shirt as their mouths met and that addictive fire burned through her all over again. She clung to Brock, exploring his mouth with hers, their tongues touching gently before the kiss became more insistent.

  His hands moved back to her waist, tugging at the blue sash above her hips as his other hand pulled pins loose from her hair until he was able to slide her hair ribbon free. Then he was pulling her wrists together, winding the sash around them. Her body melted at the sudden domination and the thrill of him binding her, but she tried to react rationally.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in a breathless mixture of anger, fear, and arousal. “This can’t be traditional.” She tugged on her now bound wrists, staring at him, hoping he would explain himself.

  “I’m sorry about this, lass, but I can’t have you calling for Lennox.”

  Lennox? He had to mean her brother, but why was he restraining her?

  “Call for—” She was silenced as he slid her hair ribbon between her parted lips and tied it around her head, gagging her. With gentle hands, he guided her to the chair by the fire and pushed her into it. She fell back with a muffled cry, not one of pain but indignation. How dare he truss her up
and—

  “Move from here in the next few minutes and I fear you will regret it,” Brock warned.

  She tried to curse him, but the gag muffled the noise. He gazed down at her a moment longer, a sharp flash of regret in those gray eyes that made her still. He didn’t want to leave her tied up. This wasn’t part of some game of seduction, so why had he? More importantly, what was the thing he was about to do that he clearly did not want her to see? A cold wave of dread swept through her, but she dared not move, not until she saw him vanish through the library door and into the corridor outside.

  Joanna waited only a moment before she leapt up from the chair and rushed to the door. She pulled at the handle and stumbled into the hallway, tripping over a wrinkle in the carpet and twisting her ankle. She yelped as she took a step on the injured ankle.

  At the sound of footsteps, she glanced up, expecting to see Brock, but instead it was Charles Humphrey, or as London knew him, the Earl of Lonsdale. Charles was a member of the League of Rogues and one of her brother’s closest friends.

  He jerked to a halt when he saw her hands were bound and her mouth gagged. “Joanna? What the devil?” He tugged the ribbon free from her lips and unbound her wrists. “What happened?”

  “There’s a man here…one of Rosalind’s brothers…” She tried to explain, but she honestly had no idea what was really going on.

  “You mean a Scotsman is in this house?” Charles snapped.

  “Yes, he said he was invited to the wedding, but then he tied me up and—”