Gayle Wilson - Her Dearest Sin

Sebastian lifted his head. Pilar felt the slow breath he released, sighing out over the moisture his lips had left on her skin. She shivered again, uncontrollably, and his hand soothed across her back, holding her gently against his chest.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he whispered, his mouth moving now against the thin, fragile skin of her temple. The words were as soft as the breath he had taken.

“I’m not afraid,” she said. “Not of you. Not of this.”

He held her a moment more. And then, putting his hands on her shoulders, he set her away from him so that he could look down into her face. In his eyes were promise and hunger. And she wanted them both.

“Rich historical detail, intriguing mystery, romance that touches the heart. These are the elements that keep me waiting impatiently for Gayle Wilson’s next book.”

—USA Today bestselling author BJ James

Anne’s Perfect Husband

“The author excels in creating compelling characters who behave intelligently and honorably. Gayle Wilson never disappoints.”

—The Romance Reader (theromancereader.com)

My Lady’s Dare

“…three-dimensional characters and intriguing plot twists kept this reader glued to the pages.”

—Romantic Times

Lady Sarah’s Son

“…a moving tale of love overcoming great obstacles, of promises kept and trust restored.”

—Romantic Times

#608 NAVAJO SUNRISE

Elizabeth Lane

#609 BRIDE OF THE ISLE

Margo Maguire

#610 CHASE WHEELER’S WOMAN

Charlene Sands

Her Dearest Sin

Gayle Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Honor’s Bride #432

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To Melissa, with my admiration and affection

A multitude of thanks to Olivia Ouijano for answering innumerable questions concerning names and titles for this book. Any mistakes are mine or were deliberately written to be made by my English-speaking characters.

Olivia, I love you!

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

Epilogue

Spain, 1813

“Did you say bathe?” Lord Wetherly drawled, never stirring from his comfortable occupancy of his host’s only chair. His booted feet, dusty of course, but elegantly crossed at the ankle, were propped on the edge of the cot, the other major furnishing of the tent.

“Bathe,” Captain the Honorable Sebastian Sinclair reiterated. “As in to become clean again.”

“I think you’ve had too much sun, my dear. Likely prove fatal to venture out in your condition. Best lie down and rest until the fit passes.”

“Would you care to be seen in London in our present state?”

“The thing of it is, Sin, we ain’t in London,” the viscount remonstrated with a grin. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’ve noticed,” Sinclair said shortly.

With his knee, he pushed Wetherly’s boots off the cot to allow himself passage across the tent. Once there Sebastian began to rummage in the trunk he’d brought out from England two years ago.

“Frankly, it’s damned impossible not to notice,” Sinclair went on, “when one is forced to sit down to dinner with gentlemen who haven’t had more than a rudimentary spit and polish in months. And in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a perfectly good river within a quarter mile of camp. I see no reason not to avail ourselves of the opportunity.”

“The Beau’s orders seem reason enough for me,” the viscount said mildly, watching his friend lay clean clothes on the end of the cot. “The presence of a few bands of French deserters and the occasional Spanish bandit in the area might provide another. Not that I expect either to make the slightest difference to your plans, of course.”

“Good,” Sinclair said, lifting the breeches of his spare uniform out of the trunk and holding them up for inspection. “What the hell did they clean these with?” he muttered. “Mud, do you suppose?”

Wetherly recognized the observation as rhetorical and not requiring an answer.

“Boredom,” the viscount said instead. “That’s all that’s wrong with you. Our collective stench hasn’t bothered you before. Now, all of a sudden things have quieted down, no Frenchies to kill, and you damn well can’t stand it. So you plan this little adventure into enemy territory—”

“The enemy is a dozen miles away,” Sinclair said absently, brushing at the suspicious brown smear on the otherwise spotless white linen. “The rabble that’s out there…” He gestured outside the tent with a tilt of his head. “They want nothing to do with soldiers. Attacking old men and girls is more their style.”

“If you’re taken, and they demand ransom, Wellington won’t pay it,” Wetherly warned. “Not after that last harebrained episode he was forced to extricate you from. And if no one pays the ransom, Sin, my lad, you’ll be sold to the highest bidder. Probably end up in a harem somewhere. Spend the rest of your days as a rich old woman’s lapdog.”

The famous Sinclair eyes, deep blue and surrounded by a sweep of long black lashes, lifted from their consideration of the uniform.

“Do you think so?” Sinclair asked. For the first time he seemed genuinely interested in his friend’s opinion. “How exciting. Of course, Dare would be displeased to have me disappear into Spain. Family feeling and all that. Never forgive me, I suspect. Or the Beau.”

Despite the seeming arrogance of that last phrase, everyone in camp was aware that Sebastian Sinclair, who had been affectionately and rather accurately known as Sin since his school days, never sought to trade on Wellington’s well-known friendship with his oldest brother. And because the viscount knew him so well, he understood that Sebastian would never dream of doing so. To Sinclair that would be a far worse offense than sneaking off for a dip in the nearby river.