As he approached the pool of sunlight spilling through the abbey doors, Emma discovered that the Sinclairs didn’t have a monopoly on either revenge or tempers. “Go ahead and run, Jamie Sinclair! Run away from the only woman you’ll ever truly love. Why, the Hepburn was right about you all along! You’re nothing but a miserable coward! But don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be very happy with nothing but your memories and your pride to warm your bed during those long, cold Highland winters. And your sheep!”
Jamie froze in his tracks.
“Aw, hell, lass,” Bon breathed into the stunned silence that had fallen over the church. “Why’d ye have to go and say that?”
Jamie’s men began to back away from her as Jamie slowly turned, gazing at her with such scorching intensity she wondered how she could have ever thought his eyes were cold. Everyone else seemed to disappear. It was as if they were the only two souls in that abbey, the only two souls in the world.
Shaking his head, he came striding back toward her, his eyes narrowed and his jaw as hard as granite. She had seen that look on his face before, the very first time he had driven his horse down that aisle to steal her away from another man.
“What are you doing?” she whispered as he drew nearer, torn between hope and alarm.
“Making the biggest mistake of my life,” he said grimly, before dragging her into his arms and claiming her lips in a wild and desperate kiss that stole both her breath and her heart away.
It was the kiss of a lover, the kiss of a conqueror, the kiss of a man who was not only willing to seize his destiny but to fight for it—and for her—with every breath in his body until the day he died.
By the time he finally surrendered her lips, she was light-headed with desire and giddy with joy.
He cupped her cheek in his big, warm hand with devastating tenderness, no longer trying to hide the desperate desire—or the love—shining in his own eyes. “I wasted so many years searching for the truth when I should have been searching for you. I didn’t ruin you, lass. You ruined me. Ruined me for any woman that isn’t you.”
She gazed up at him through a shimmering mist of tears. “Then I suppose I have no choice but to marry you, do I? Because no one else will have you.”
His brow furrowed in a mock scowl. “How do I know you’re not just a greedy English lass marrying me for my title and fortune?”
“Oh, but I am! I want it all! Jewels, furs, land, gold… and a strapping young lover to warm my bed.”
“Only one?”
She nodded solemnly. “The only one I’ll ever need.”
As their lips met for another wild and tender kiss, Bon leaned over to peer behind the altar.
The minister was still cowering there, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clasped in fervent prayer.
“Now that yer prayers have been answered, sir, I do believe the new earl and his bride are goin’ to have need o’ yer services.”
Epilogue
“Ah, just look at the dear lass! She’s all a’tremble with joy.”
“And who could blame her? She’s probably been dreamin’ o’ this day her entire life.”
“’Tis every lass’ dream, is it not? To wed a handsome young laird who can afford to grant her every wish?”
“And the lad should consider himself blessed to have snared such a Great Beauty. Her freckles are so becomin’ I’m thinkin’ o’ tossin’ me own jar o’ Gowland’s Lotion right in the trash.”
Emmaline Marlowe smiled at the women’s whispers. She had been dreaming of this day her entire life.
She’d dreamed of standing before an altar and pledging her heart and her lifelong fidelity to the man she adored. She’d never caught a clear glimpse of his face in those misty dreams but now she knew he had broad, powerful shoulders, thick sable hair and frosty green eyes that flared with desire every time he looked at her.
A wistful sigh drifted to her ears. “And just look at him! He cuts a magnificent figure in red and black, doesn’t he? I’ve never seen anyone wear the Hepburn plaid with such… vigor.”
“Indeed! It does one’s heart proud. And you can tell he positively dotes upon the lass.”
Agreeing with them wholeheartedly, Emma lifted her eyes to meet the adoring gaze of her bridegroom.
There could be no denying the passion smoldering in Jamie Sinclair’s eyes as he vowed to love, honor and cherish her for the rest of their days. Once the minister pronounced God’s blessing on their union, he would be free to sweep her up in his powerful embrace and carry her to the tower bedchamber where generations of his Hepburn ancestors had come to claim their brides.
He would lay her back on the satin coverlet and lower his lips to hers. He would kiss her tenderly, yet passionately, as his hands sifted through the silky softness of the copper-tinted curls spilling over the—
The minister cleared his throat, jerking Emma out of her dreamy reverie and giving her a disapproving look over the top of his spectacles.
She dutifully repeated her vows, only too eager for him to pronounce them man and wife.
But instead of doing that, he began to read another endless passage from the Book of Common Order.
Jamie scowled. That scowl continued to deepen until he finally reached down and seized the book by its spine, snapping it closed. “Excuse me, sir, but are we done here?”
The minister blinked up at Jamie, plainly fearing he might be on the verge of drawing a pistol from his plaid or perhaps sending one of his men for a horse to trample them all. “I… I suppose so.”
“So Miss Marlowe here is my wife?”
“Y-y-yes, my lord.”
“And I’m her husband.”
The minister bobbed his head, terror having finally succeeded in robbing him of all power of speech.
Jamie grinned. “That’s all I needed to know.”
As the last hope of the Sinclairs and the future hope of the Hepburns swept his bride up in his arms and went striding down the aisle of the abbey with her, his men set up a rousing cheer, her sisters squealed their delight and the poor beleaguered minister collapsed on the steps of the altar in a dead faint.
Look for Goodnight Tweetheart
by Teresa Medeiros,
coming February 2011 from Gallery Books!
Dear Readers,
The question an author gets asked more than any other is, “When are you going to write the book of your heart?” I am absolutely blessed to be able to say that each of my twenty novels, including the one you just read, was the book of my heart at the time I wrote it. That’s exactly why I knew I had to pay attention when two new characters, Abby Donovan and Mark Baynard, started burning a hole in that heart.
I’ve always loved Sleepless in Seattle, You’ve Got Mail, Love Letters, and Same Time, Next Year—stories where two strangers brought together by chance discover a love with the potential to last a lifetime. After I signed up for the social media site Twitter last year and discovered the joy of connecting with my readers in such an intimate and immediate way, I was even more intrigued by the idea. Before long, Abby and Mark started “tweeting” in my head and insisting that I give them voices on the page.
I hope you’ll look for Goodnight Tweetheart: A Love Story in 140 Characters when it’s released by Gallery Books in February 2011. Until then, I’d like to leave you with a little peek at Mark and Abby’s first exchange.
Warmest,
Teresa
In this scene from Goodnight Tweetheart, former literary sensation Abby Donovan is reluctantly trying Twitter for the very first time after an extremely bad day spent reading to toddlers at a local bookstore. She’s about to meet Mark Baynard, a man who uses both humor and imagination to hide a secret that could change both of their lives forever.
According to the page that popped up, Abby was now “AbbyDonovan” and she already had seventeen followers. Having “followers” made her feel like some sort of kooky religious cult leader. An empty box invited her to answer one simple question—“What’s happen
ing?”
Her fingers hovered over the keys, torn between typing, “None of your business” and “I’m sipping Cristal on the beach at St. Tropez with Brad Pitt.”
Sighing, she finally settled on the truth: “I’m feeling sorry for myself.” She hit the update button and waited.
Nothing. Apparently users of Twitter had better things to do with their time than attend her little pity party.
She drummed her fingers on the MacBook’s touchpad for a minute, then typed, “Hallooo…? Is anybody out there?”
She refreshed her screen two times in quick succession. Still nothing. She decided to try one more time before retreating to the steamy oblivion of the shower. A message popped up on the screen, rewarding her persistence: “R U a virgin?”
Taken aback, Abby studied the cheery little profile pic of a plump bluebird that appeared to belong to one MarkBaynard for a long moment before cautiously typing, “That depends. Are you auditioning for TO CATCH A PREDATOR?” and hitting the update button.
MarkBaynard’s response was immediate: “Glad to see you have such high-brow taste in entertainment.”
A reluctant grin curved her lips as she typed, “What can I say? ROCK OF LOVE: TOUR BUS can’t be on every night.”
“Yeah & who hasn’t dreamed of marching up to some pedophile & saying ‘My name is Chris Hansen from DATELINE NBC & your sorry ass is toast’?”
“Ha!” Abby typed, hitting the exclamation mark with a triumphant flourish. “So you HAVE watched it!”
“Only when PBS is having a pledge drive. But I digress—R U a Twitter virgin?”
“This is my first time,” Abby confessed. “But you’re not being very gentle with me.”
She was growing increasingly comfortable with the rhythm of their exchange on the screen. It was like being in a tennis match with their words as the ball. Before she could draw back her racket, he lobbed another volley across the Internet:
MarkBaynard: What can I say? I like it rough. So how did you end up here? Attention span too short for Facebook?
AbbyDonovan: I didn’t like the answers to those silly Facebook quizzes. They kept telling me I was the love child of Marge Simpson & Marilyn Manson.
MarkBaynard: Maybe you’re just secretly one of those people who would rather have followers than friends.
AbbyDonovan: Yes, it’s part of my diabolical plot to achieve world domination.
MarkBaynard: If you start hanging out over here, won’t your Facebook friends miss you?
AbbyDonovan: Those people weren’t my friends. If they had been, they wouldn’t have sent me all those annoying quizzes.
MarkBaynard: A true friend never asks you to feed their imaginary fish. Or fertilize their imaginary crops.
AbbyDonovan: Or take home their imaginary kittens. So how is Twitter different?
MarkBaynard: Twitter is the perpetual cocktail party where everyone is talking at once but nobody is saying anything.
AbbyDonovan: Then why are YOU here?
MarkBaynard: Because no one will invite me to their cocktail parties.
AbbyDonovan: I can’t imagine that. Not with your warmth and charm.
MarkBaynard: Well, if you must know, I was considering a career as a DEmotivational speaker.
AbbyDonovan: And just how would that work?
MarkBaynard: You get a fabulous, innovative new idea then pay me to come to your house and explain why it’ll never work.
AbbyDonovan: How do I know you’re not a serial killer or some lonely 14-year-old living in your mom’s basement?
MarkBaynard: For all you know, I’m a lonely 14-year-old serial killer living in my mom’s basement.
AbbyDonovan: With your girlfriend’s head in the refrigerator?
MarkBaynard: That would be my EX-girlfriend, thank you very much. I tried to tell her I didn’t care for cream in my coffee. Or wire hangers.
AbbyDonovan: Is that your mom I hear knocking on the basement door?
MarkBaynard: No, it’s the police. Did you just call 911?
AbbyDonovan: C’mon… who are you really? Are you hiding a secret identity? Are you Batman? Ashton Kutcher?
MarkBaynard: Would you believe I’m just a lowly college professor on sabbatical?
AbbyDonovan: Let me guess. You’ve taken a year off from teaching English Lit to travel the world and write the Great American Novel.
MarkBaynard: If you must know, I’ve taken a year off from teaching English Lit to travel the world and write the Mediocre American Novel.
AbbyDonovan: Oops. My bad. I’m Abigail Donovan, the author. But you can feel free to pretend you’ve never heard of me if you like.
MarkBaynard: Um… that shouldn’t be too hard… since I’ve… um… never heard of you.
AbbyDonovan: Oh. Reading limited to SPORTS ILLUSTRATED SWIMSUIT EDITION?
MarkBaynard: And the special double Christmas issue of JUGS.
AbbyDonovan: I’m not quite sure how all this works yet. I just assumed you were one of my followers.
MarkBaynard: I am now. Your name popped up when I just happened to be trolling Twitter looking for new vic—um… friends.
AbbyDonovan: Now that we’ve successfully humiliated each other, maybe we should start over.
MarkBaynard: Why not? So what are you wearing?
AbbyDonovan: A bunny suit.
MarkBaynard: Playboy?
AbbyDonovan: Biff.
MarkBaynard: Ah, does this mean you’ll be expecting Felicity the Fawn and Henrietta Hedgehog for tea this afternoon?
AbbyDonovan: Oh my gosh! Do you mean to say you’ve actually heard of that wascally wabbit???!!!
MarkBaynard: Hasn’t everyone? After all, he inhabits the exalted toddler stratosphere formerly occupied only by Barney the Dinosaur and Tinky Winky.
AbbyDonovan: At least Tinky Winky had an inkling of fashion sense. Biff wears an apron and no pants.
MarkBaynard: Who are you kidding? Tinky Winky’s purse looked like something Queen Elizabeth would carry.
AbbyDonovan: Don’t you want to know why I’m dressed like Biff the Bunny and smell like pee?
MarkBaynard: I was just assuming there was a strict “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy.
AbbyDonovan: You’re right. There are some things I should only share with my therapist. So what are YOU wearing?
MarkBaynard: The trenchcoat and fedora Bogey had on when he said good-bye to Ingrid Bergman on the tarmac in the last scene of CASABLANCA.
AbbyDonovan: Sigh… we’ll always have Twitter.
MarkBaynard: I’m afraid not. I have to go now.
AbbyDonovan: Oh. Well, tell your mom I said hi. Or your parole officer.
MarkBaynard: If you’ll log on tomorrow around 3 PM, I’ll teach you a few Twitter survival tricks.
AbbyDonovan: What makes you think I have nothing better to do with my time than take Twitter 101 lessons from a serial killer?
MarkBaynard: The fact that you’re wearing a Biff the Bunny costume and you smell like pee?
AbbyDonovan: Point taken.
MarkBaynard: You can click on my profile and hit the follow button if you want to follow me.
AbbyDonovan: And just why would I want to follow you?
MarkBaynard: Because I make really tasty Kool-Aid?
AbbyDonovan: So if I do follow you, does that mean we’re going steady?
MarkBaynard: It’s more like a quickie in the back of a cab where we trade fake phone numbers afterward.
AbbyDonovan: That would be the longest (and most meaningful) relationship I’ve had in quite a while.
Abby refreshed the screen four times but there was still no reply. She was wondering if her last post had made her sound too pathetic when the words “Me too” appeared on the screen.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chap
ter 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
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Teresa Medeiros, The Devil Wears Plaid
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