Much Ado About Marriage

  To his surprise, she melted into his arms.

  “You’re quite strong for a Sassenach,” Fia murmured.

  Thomas tried to ignore the sensations her warm body ignited in his own. Sweet Jesu, she is a snug armful.

  “Och, I think . . .” Her breath was ragged, her gaze fixed on his mouth. “I think you mean to kiss me.” Her lips parted, and the edge of her tongue moved slowly across the fullness of the lower one.

  It was almost more than he could stand; the stirring of excitement grew stronger yet. She should be terrified, damn it.

  Instead, she tilted her face to his as if to accept a kiss he’d not thought to offer. He knew he should try to scare her more, to frighten her into submission, for there was far more at stake here than the desires of a Scottish wench.

  He should have.

  But he didn’t.

  All he could think about was the promise of Fia’s lips, the warmth of her in his arms, and the delicate fragrance of heather that drifted from her hair.

  Turn the page for rave reviews of Karen Hawkins . . .

  Much Ado About Marriage is also available as an eBook

  Praise for

  KAREN HAWKINS

  “Always funny and sexy, a Karen Hawkins book is a sure delight!”

  —Victoria Alexander

  “Karen Hawkins writes fast, fun, and sexy stories that are a perfect read for a rainy day, a sunny day, or any day at all!”

  —Christina Dodd

  “Karen Hawkins will make you laugh and touch your heart.”

  —Rachel Gibson

  . . . and her sparkling historical romances featuring the MacLeans

  THE LAIRD WHO LOVED ME

  “Readers who met Caitlyn in Sleepless in Scotland will applaud her return. . . . The story is filled with biting repartee, humor, and sexual tension that will keep you turning the pages with glee.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars, Top Pick)

  “Delightful in every way.”

  —Reader to Reader

  SLEEPLESS IN SCOTLAND

  “Amusing yet profound . . . Readers will be sleepless in America due to a one-sitting enjoyable time.”

  —Harriet Klausner

  “Delightfully humorous, poignant, and highly satisfying novels: that’s what Hawkins always delivers.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars)

  TO CATCH A HIGHLANDER

  “Love and laughter, poignancy and emotional intensity, endearing characters, and a charming plot, are the ingredients in Hawkins’s utterly delightful tale.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Karen Hawkins’s best book to date! Fast, sensual, and brilliant, it tantalizes and pleases all in the same breath. . . . This is romance at its best!”

  —Romance and More

  TO SCOTLAND, WITH LOVE

  “Hawkins brings another hardheaded MacLean brother and a sassy miss together in a sensual battle of the sexes. Her humor, intelligent characters, and story are simply delightful.”

  —Romantic Times

  HOW TO ABDUCT A HIGHLAND LORD

  “Hawkins takes a fiery Scot lass and a wastrel lord and puts them together in a match made in, well, not heaven, but one that’s heated, exciting, and touching. Hawkins excels at taking tried-and-true plotlines and turning them into fresh, vibrant books.”

  —Romantic Times

  “In How to Abduct a Highland Lord, the characters are as wonderful as the story. . . . [It] is laced with passion and drama, and with its wonderfully romantic and thrilling ending, it’s a story you don’t want to miss!”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  Also by Karen Hawkins

  The MacLean Series

  How to Abduct a Highland Lord

  To Scotland, With Love

  To Catch a Highlander

  Sleepless in Scotland

  The Laird Who Loved Me

  Contemporary Romance

  Talk of the Town

  Lois Lane Tells All

  Available from Pocket Books

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  Pocket Star Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

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

  Copyright © 2000, 2010 by Karen Hawkins

  Originally published in different form in 2000 by Love Spell as One Lucky Lord by Kim Bennett

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Pocket Star Books paperback edition September 2010

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

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  your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Cover illustration by Craig White, hand lettering by Ron Zinn.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-4391-8760-9

  ISBN: 978-1-4391-8762-3 (ebook)

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to dedicate this book to Hugh Jackman,

  who inspires each and every one of my heroes.

  (Hugh, if you’re reading this, call me!)

  Dear Reader,

  Congratulations, you have found my secret book! Much Ado About Marriage is the first book I wrote, but like many first books, it was hard to sell. Various publishers said it was set in a difficult time period (Elizabethan Scotland and England), was too long (126,000 words), or didn’t have enough conflict (which is Very Bad).

  By the time I figured out how to correct the book, I’d already sold the next book, The Abduction of Julia, which was a Regency set historical. The book did very well and my publisher asked for more books set in that time period.

  This left Much Ado About Marriage languishing in a box under my bed. Later, on a whim, I sold the book to a different publisher on the condition that it would be printed under another name. It came out with very little fanfare, sold fairly well, and then disappeared. I regained the rights some years later. After that, the book was once again relegated to a box under my bed.

  Last year, as I wrote the MacLean Curse series and developed the idea for the Hurst Amulet series, it dawned on me that Much Ado About Marriage could be rewritten as a prequel for both series. And so I set to work.

  The book is now quite different from the original in many ways. However, I worked hard to leave my heroine’s unique spirit intact. Fia MacLean is one of my favorite heroines and I hope you feel the same way about her after you’ve read her story, Much Ado About Marriage.

  Thank you for reading my lost book!

  Love and laughter,

  Karen Hawkins

  Chapter One

  Duart Castle

  Isle of Mull, Scotland

  May 2, 1567

&n
bsp; It was one thing to fall—it was quite another to be shoved from the ledge of a second-story window.

  Thomas Wentworth landed flat on his back with an ominous thud, his head saved from the rocky ground by a thick patch of herbs. Light exploded before his eyes as the breath left his body in a whoosh, and blessed blackness beckoned.

  For several long moments, he fought for breath. Just as sweet air swept in to reassure him that he wasn’t dead, a lilting voice exclaimed softly, “Och, I’ve killed him!”

  Low and husky, the voice flowed over him as rich as sweet cream. The grass rustled as someone knelt beside him. “I’m cursed for certain,” she murmured. “’Tis an ill omen to kill the finest man you’ve ever seen.”

  The luscious voice demanded his attention. Wincing, Thomas forced his eyes open and focused on the figure kneeling above him.

  “Blessed Mother Mary, you’re alive!” She smoothed the hair from his forehead with a feather-soft touch.

  The moon made a nimbus around the thickest cloud of hair he had ever seen. Luminous in the moonlight, her hair streamed in waves and curls, frothing in abandon across her shoulders.

  The end of one persistent curl brushed his ear and he weakly swatted it. “Aye, I live,” he muttered, struggling to rise.

  Before he could do more than lift his shoulders, the wench pressed him back to the ground. “Don’t get up ’til we’ve certain you’ve no injuries.” Warm hands slid lightly over his arms and legs.

  He caught her wrists and pushed her away, the rough wool of her sleeves telling him her position within the castle was menial. He forced his aching body upright. “Leave me be,” he growled unsteadily. “I am well.”

  There was a long pause and then she said, “You’re a Sassenach.” A faint note of accusation hung in the air.

  Thomas silently cursed. His throbbing head had made him forget to disguise his voice with a Scottish accent.

  “You, sirrah, are no simple thief.” She brushed a hand over his shirt. “Your clothing is too fine.”

  A flicker of annoyance increased his headache. He had chosen his dark garments with the utmost care to blend with the shadows should anything go awry.

  The thought brought a twisted smile. In truth, little had gone right with this venture. From the second he’d crossed into Scottish waters, the famous Wentworth luck had been tested to the breaking point.

  First his ship had run into a gale off the rocky coast and had barely managed to get to safety. Once in port, Thomas had discovered that his horse had been severely bruised by the rough crossing and it had taken several days to find a suitable replacement.

  And now this: shoved from a window and accosted by a saucy wench. ’Twas yet another delay in his carefully laid plans.

  Delays caused risks, and risks were something he rarely took without exquisite preparation and consummate attention to detail. Hurried plans inevitably ended in failure. Thomas Wentworth never hurried, and he never failed.

  The woman rested back on her heels, her head cocked to one side. “What are you doing so far from your home, Sassenach?”

  “’Tis no concern of yours,” he returned curtly.

  “I cannot agree. ’Twas me who opened the shutters and bumped you from the ledge. I have a responsibility for you now.”

  He frowned. “Who are you? A housemaid?”

  “I belong here, but the same can’t be said of you, Mr. Thieving Knave—or whatever you are.”

  Her lilting voice tantalized even as her words challenged. Thomas leaned forward and sank his hand in the silken softness of her hair. Ignoring her surprised gasp, he tilted her face until the moon slanted cold rays across the smoothness of her cheek.

  He glimpsed a small, straight nose and a pair of very kissable lips before she shoved his hand away, her voice full of breathless outrage. “Stop that! What were you doing, perched on the window ledge like a big chicken?”

  Despite his aches and irritations, he couldn’t help but grin. “I prefer to think of myself as a more noble bird, like a hawk.”

  “I’m sure you do. But you flew more like a chicken than like any hawk I’ve seen.”

  He chuckled. “Point taken.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Sassenach. Why were you on the ledge?”

  “I don’t remember.” For emphasis he rubbed his head, which still ached a bit.

  She stood, her skirts rustling. “Aye, ’tis known that Englishmen have delicate heads made of eggshells.”

  “No doubt you heard that from some heathen Scotsman wielding a claymore the size of a tree.”

  “Testy, are you?” She patted his shoulder in a kindly way that was more insulting than spitting at him would have been. “I daresay that’s because your soft English head is aching.”

  It was tempting to challenge her, but he couldn’t allow himself to get distracted from his real purpose. He put a hand on his pocket, the reassuring crackle of paper calming him.

  She eyed him and said in a voice tinged with disapproval, “You were a fool to try to enter the castle through the upper window. ’Twould have been easier to climb in through a lower one.”

  Though she didn’t know it, he had been climbing out not in, when she’d knocked him from the window. “I suppose a Scottish thief would have walked in the front door and not taken a craven entry like a window?”

  She chuckled, the sound husky and warm like good Scots whiskey. “I’ve known one or two as would. There’s more gold and silver to be had in the lower floors, too.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the castle.”

  “I should. I’m the laird’s—” The silence was as complete as it was abrupt. “That’s not important. What is important is that you need to improve your thieving ways before you attempt such a fortified castle.”

  “I appreciate your assistance, Mistress Saucy Wench. I suppose you are a master thief, to offer such advice?”

  She shook her head, moonlight flowing across her hair like firelight on a rippled pond. “Not a master. Tonight was my first effort at reiving, and ’twas not near as exciting as I’d hoped,” she said wistfully.

  She was a thief? Had he heard her right?

  “’Twas dull work indeed ’til I knocked you from the ledge. ’Tis amazing, but you didn’t make a sound on the way down. You fell like a great rock, with nary a cry ’til you landed in the garden. Then you went ‘oof’ like a—”

  “For the love of Saint Peter, cease your prattle,” Thomas hissed, casting an uneasy glance at the looming castle.

  “Pssht. Don’t fash yourself about being heard. There’s no one home but the servants; Laird MacLean’s gone.”

  “Aye, he’s been traveling these last two months.”

  “Nay, he returned last week.”

  “What?” Damn it, my sources were wrong. According to the information Thomas had been given, the laird wasn’t to return for another fortnight.

  “Aye, but then that witch sent him a letter that crossed him. He stormed out immediately to enact vengeance.”

  Thomas frowned. “MacLean left again because of . . . did you say ‘witch’?”

  “Aye. The White Witch Hurst. I’ve never met her, but she’s cast her spell over MacLean until he doesn’t know if he’s coming or going. She gave the local magistrate some ancient documents that lay claim to half of the MacLean lands.”

  “Good God. No man would stand for such.”

  “Especially not the MacLean.” She shook her head, her mane of hair fluttering about her. “But I think ’tis lust as draws him to her. I hope he has a care. She’s a powerful witch, though Duncan claims that she’s but knee high to a goat.”

  “I don’t believe in witches or curses.”

  “I do,” she said simply. “I believe in all sorts of magic.”

  “I’m quite aware of the Scots’ love of all things mystical.”

  “And I know of the English love of coin.” She shrugged, an elegant motion that dismissed him. “We both have our weaknesses.”

&
nbsp; He clambered gingerly upright, his head swimming as he spaced his feet far apart to balance the swaying earth. Bloody hell, he felt as though he were on the deck of the Glorianna in a full gale. A warm hand tucked into the crook of his arm. “Are you well enough to be walking?” Concern filled her voice.

  “I’m fine,” he said curtly, shaking off her hand.

  “Very well.”

  Thomas wished he could see her expressions. Since the moon was behind her, her face was in shadow. On impulse, he grasped her arm and turned her so the moonlight spilled across her.

  For a moment he could only stare. His earlier glimpse had suggested she was comely, but he had never seen such beauty as he now faced. Her dark eyes sparkled, surrounded by a thick tangle of lashes, and her full lips begged to be tasted.

  Perhaps I believe in magic after all, he thought numbly.

  She yanked her arm free and hefted up a large bag that clunked and clanked. “I’ve wasted too much time here. If you’re of a mind to get caught, Sassenach, then stay where you are. The laird could return any time and I, for one, will not be here to greet him.”

  Some foolish part of him wanted to feel her honey-smooth voice a little longer. “You surprised me when you thrust open the shutters at this time of the night.”

  She’d already turned away but now paused. “I was trying to decide if I should climb out the window like a proper thief or take the stairs. After watching you fall, I thought ’twas very possible I could have dropped my bag during the climb down and broken and dented my reivings, and then all of my efforts would have been for naught.”

  Her casual attitude toward her less-than-honorable profession made him smile. “You are a saucy wench,” he said with grudging admiration.

  She laughed softly, the sound curling inside him and heating him in unexpected ways. “That’s exactly what Duncan says.”

  For a second, Thomas envied the unknown Duncan. “What’s your name, little thief?”

  “Fia.” She shifted the bag to her other shoulder. “I just took the best candlesticks. I think they’ll be easier to sell than heavy plate, don’t you?”