“Seducing me won’t change my mind,” she said.
“Won’t it?” Reynaud sounded unconcerned. “That remains to be seen.”
Beatrice watched him a moment as he stripped off his stockings, breeches, and smallclothes. When she raised her eyes to his, he was watching her. He nodded and cupped himself.
“This is for you. Look your fill.”
“What if I don’t want it?”
“Then you lie.”
That sent a spurt of anger through her. “I think I have the ability to know when I want something or not.”
He shook his head. “Not in this case. You haven’t experienced a fraction of what can be between a man and a woman.”
She was warm now—and wet—but she still addressed him with sarcasm. “And if you show me all that can be, and I’m still not interested, will you desist then?”
“No.” He strolled toward her, implacably confident. “You belong to me, and I intend to demonstrate that fact to you.”
“Elizabeth Hoyt writes with flair, sophistication, and unstoppable passion.”
—Julianne MacLean, author of Portrait of a Lover
PRAISE FOR
ELIZABETH HOYT’S NOVELS
To Beguile a Beast
“Hoyt works her own brand of literary magic… in the exquisitely romantic, superbly sensual third addition to her extraordinary Georgian-set Legend of the Four Soldiers series.”
—Booklist
“4½ Stars! Top Pick! A magical love story that reads like a mystical fable and a very real and highly passionate romance. Hoyt has found a unique niche that highlights both her storytelling abilities and her considerable talents for depth of character and emotion.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Desert Isle Keeper! Books such as this one are the reason I read romance… Just about as good as it can get.”
— LikesBooks.com
“Fascinating… A heady mix… part love story, part history, and part fairy tale… I recommend it and cannot wait for the final book in the series.”
—Historical Novels Review
“5 Stars! An amazing novel… Extraordinarily touching and noteworthy… Hoyt did an exceptional job.”
— CoffeeTimeRomance.com
“Everything a historical romance should be… Every aspect of this tale is first-rate. The characters come alive, the plot moves along at breakneck speed, and the images and details are so vivid the reader feels totally immersed in the words that spring to life. I loved this book from beginning to end… definitely one for the keeper shelf!”
— RomanceReaderatHeart.com
“Another scorching hot historical romance by one of the best… I thoroughly enjoyed Elizabeth Hoyt’s story of mystery and sensual romance filled with suspense.”
— FreshFiction.com
“Elizabeth Hoyt is three for three with a beguiling tale… and never misses a beat.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Spins a web of pure delight… another sparkling diamond for the author’s crown. Nothing less than magnificent!”
— HuntressReviews.com
To Seduce a Sinner
“Superbly nuanced historical romance.”
—Chicago Tribune
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! Hoyt’s magical fairy-tale romances have won the hearts of readers who adore sizzling sensuality perfectly merged with poignancy. Her latest showcases her talent for creating remarkable characters and cherished stories that make us believe in the miracle of love.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Hoyt expertly sifts a generous measure of danger into the latest intriguing addition to her Four Soldiers, Georgian-era series. Her ability to fuse wicked wittiness with sinfully sensual romance is stunning.”
—Booklist
“I thoroughly enjoyed this story of action, mystery, and hot, hot romance. Be prepared to sizzle through this sensuous and exciting story that’s impossible to put down until the last page is finished.”
— FreshFiction.com
To Taste Temptation
“Hoyt… is firmly in control of her craft with engaging characters, gripping plot, and clever dialogue.”
—Publishers Weekly
“4½ Stars! Hoyt’s new series… begins with destruction and ends with glorious love. She begins each chapter with a snippet of a legend that beautifully dovetails with the plot and creates a distinct love story that will thrill readers.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“4½ Stars! There’s an interesting suspense embedded in this book… The sensuality is breathtaking and the reader is carried into the headiness of growing love… I loved this book, the high quality of the writing, the engaging plot, and, most of all, the character development. A terrific novel… highly recommended.”
— TheRomanceReadersConnection.com
The Serpent Prince
“Exquisite romance… mesmerizing storytelling… incredibly vivid lead characters, earthy writing, and an intense love story.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Wonderfully satisfying… delightfully witty… with just a touch of suspense. Set in a lush regency background, Elizabeth spins a story of treachery, murder, suspense, and love with her usual aplomb.”
— RomanceatHeart.com
“Delectably clever writing, deliciously complex characters, and a delightfully sexy romance between perfectly matched protagonists are the key ingredients in the third book in Hoyt’s superbly crafted, loosely connected Georgian-era Prince trilogy.”
—Booklist
The Leopard Prince
“4½ Stars! TOP PICK! An unforgettable love story that ignites the pages not only with heated love scenes but also with a mystery that holds your attention and your heart with searing emotions and dark desire.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“The new master of the historical romance genre.”
— HistoricalRomanceWriters.com
“An exhilarating historical romance.”
—Midwest Book Review
The Raven Prince
“A sexy, steamy treat! A spicy broth of pride, passion, and temptation.”
—Connie Brockway, USA Today bestselling author
“Hoyt expertly spices this stunning debut novel with a sharp sense of wit and then sweetens her lusciously dark, lushly sensual historical romance with a generous sprinkling of fairy-tale charm.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Will leave you breathless.”
—Julianne MacLean, author of Portrait of a Lover
OTHER TITLES BY ELIZABETH HOYT
The Raven Prince
The Leopard Prince
The Serpent Prince
To Taste Temptation
To Seduce a Sinner
To Beguile a Beast
Copyright
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 © 2009 by Nancy M. Finney
Excerpt from Wicked Intentions copyright © 2009 by Nancy M. Finney
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: November 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56819-7
Contents
Copyright
A Letter from the Author
Out of the Woods
Across an Ocean
England
Acknowledgments
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
Epilogue
A Preview of Wicked Intentions
For my editor, Amy Pierpont, whose insight and patience made this book immeasurably better.
A Letter from the Author
Gentle Reader,
To Desire a Devil is the final book in my Legend of the Four Soldiers series, and brings back a hero long thought dead: Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope and the true Earl of Blanchard. For seven long, wretched years Reynaud was held captive in the American Colonies. At the beginning of To Desire a Devil, Reynaud bursts into his ancestral London home, delirious with fever, sporting an earring and crude tattoos on his face, and demands—in French, unfortunately—his inheritance. But Reynaud’s home and his very family has changed in seven years—his father is dead, another man has inherited his title and lands, and a rather lovely young woman is the chatelaine of his home.
And therein lies a book. ;-)
But whilst researching Reynaud’s story, I became interested in what came before To Desire a Devil opens. How, exactly, did Reynaud make the journey from the wilds of North America to civilized London? To assuage my curiosity I penned the vignettes below. I hope, Gentle Reader, that you find them amusing.
Yours Most Sincerely,
Elizabeth Hoyt
One
OUT OF THE WOODS
People stared as he walked down the civilized streets of Boston. They sidled away nervously, taking care not to meet his eyes. He was obviously savage, raw with suppressed violence, and quite possibly mad.
He didn’t give a damn what they thought. He was too busy containing the shivers of unease that racked his body. He’d not been around so many people in years—seven years to be precise. The noise was loud in his ears--carriages rattling by, people talking and shouting, and the clip-clop of iron-shod horse hooves. The movement of so many bodies dazzled his eyes, making him start at phantom attacks, giving him no place to rest his gaze. He stopped for a moment, trying to get his senses under control, but a passing soldier jostled his shoulder.
He whirled, his knife already drawn, a snarl upon his lips.
The soldier’s eyes widened and he backed away hands raised before turning and running.
“Damned French frog,” someone muttered.
He spun, seeking the speaker, but all that he saw were white faces, hostile or fearful, all of them strange and foreign. Except that wasn’t right. They weren’t foreign and he wasn’t French. He blinked and sheathed his knife, inhaling to steady himself. He was close, so close. He merely needed to contain his demons for a little while longer.
He ducked his head and continued. Months of walking had brought him here, to so-called civilization. He’d lived on what game he could hunt, on what berries and roots he could forage. Had walked through rain and searing heat. Had hidden from Indians and French and those he simply couldn’t identify. He’d stepped out of the woods seven days ago and still wasn’t used to the lack of cover around him.
Yet still he walked. He’d sacrificed too much—blood, people he’d held dear, and his own honor—to get here.
He could smell the salt of the ocean now, along with the stink of rotting fish. In another minute the harbor came into view. Tall ships sat at anchor and he could hear the cries of seagulls. His heart began to beat faster. So close. So close.
He had no money or influence here. The clothes on his back were ragged, his moccasins were worn, and he was skeletally thin from lack of food and walking. But he would sail on a ship bound for England even if he had to scrub the decks to pay his way.
He was Reynaud St. Aubyn, the Viscount of Hope, and by God or the devil, he was going home.
Two
ACROSS AN OCEAN
The ship rolled violently, tossed by the ocean like a bull flinging off fleas, and Jenkins’ muttered prayers rose into a shriek in the dark.
“Shut yer trap,” Wilton the cook growled.
Jenkins didn’t seem to hear. His voice was high and hysterical now, imploring God, the angels, and various saints to save him from a grave at sea. Reynaud closed his eyes, drawing the filthy blanket over his shoulders as he lay in his swinging hammock. Half the men were weak from a fever, he was damnably cold, and Jenkins’ prayers were truly irritating. The ship might well go to the bottom of the sea in this storm, but he very much doubted God or any saint cared.
A dreadful cracking came from above and the first mate flung open the door. “The main mast is giving way! Everyone on deck!”
Reynaud tumbled from his hammock along with every other man in the room, scrambling to pull on shoes. He headed for the door as Jenkins screamed behind him.
“No, God, no!” Jenkins was shouting. He was a slight man, an American on his way to visit an uncle in London with the vague promise of some type of apprenticeship.
For a moment Reynaud felt sorry for the man.
Then the first mate cuffed Jenkins. “Every bleeding one of you on deck if you want to live to see the dawn!”
Reynaud ran down the passage and out the door to the deck. The night was black with the storm, the only light from the wildly swinging lanterns. He was immediately drenched to the bone by the stinging rain, even as a wave crashed over the bow.
“Frenchie! Give a hand here!” A sailor named Hood bellowed into the wind.
Reynaud stumbled toward him, sliding on the wet deck. Hood was braced, using his entire weight to hold onto a rope attached to the main mast. Reynaud grasped the rope above the other man’s hands and pulled hard.
“Have to take down the sails,” Hood panted, “afore they pull us all into the water!”
Reynaud had signed on in the lowly position of Cook’s helper, but he’d found out that in a crisis everyone helped on a ship. The sails above them were already mostly down, but they’d broken free at one end, whipping in the wind. The mast was tilting dangerously, the push of the flapping sails weighing it down.
The ship rolled, leaning so far over that Reynaud was sure they’d capsize. The fist mate was cursing and cuffing men left and right. “Hold fast! Hold fast you bloody whoresons!” Stinging seawater and rain streamed into his eyes and a shiver racked his frame. Reynaud was suddenly at once freezing cold and burning hot. He gripped the rope, feeling the skin abrading from his palms.
The ship lurched and suddenly righted itself. At the same time there was a terrible wail and Jenkins slid across the deck and tumbled overboard.
For a moment Reynaud merely stared at the place where the man had fallen over.
Then Hood leaned over and bawled in his ear. “Always fancied his smoking pipe.”
Jesus. He was in a den of thieves. Reynaud concentrated on holding the rope, pulling grimly. He could show no weakness or they’d fall upon him like wolves. He would not let that happen. He’d not succumb to the storm, the fever, or the predators on the ship.
Whatever happened he was making it home.
Three
ENGLAND
L
ondon was a brown and gray miasma, Reynaud thought hazily as he glanced over his shoulder and saw the docks. He pulled with all his strength on the rowboat oars, but one still caught and skimmed over the top of the waves.
“Feelin’ poorly, are ye, Frenchie?” Hood asked with mock solicitude from behind him.
Reynaud ignored him. To rise to the bait would only show weakness and that he could ill-afford. He was nearly there, nearly home. His heart beat in a too-fast flurry, a sign of the illness he’d recovered from only recently. For days he’d lain in his swinging hammock, his hand on his unsheathed knife, hallucinating night attacks. Except when Reynaud had finally felt well enough to rise, Hood had had a new scar on his jaw and one of the other sailors a slash in his sleeve. Not all of the attacks had been nightmares, it seemed.
They docked the rowboat and Reynaud leapt ashore as agilely as he could. His muscles ached, his very bones ached, and he could feel sweat break out along his hairline, but he stood on English soil at last.