Margaret Moore - Highland Rogue, London Miss

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Moore:

‘The talented Moore has penned another exciting Regency.’

—RT Book Reviews on HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS

‘The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.’

—The Romance Readers Connection on THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT

‘Readers continue to ask for “Moore”.

Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.’

— RT Book Reviews on HERS TO DESIRE

‘Colourful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.’

—Publishers Weekly on HERS TO COMMAND

‘A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.’

—International bestselling author Roberta Gellis

on HERS TO COMMAND

‘This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end.

It’s a keeper!’

—Romance Junkies on BRIDE OF LOCHBARR

‘Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.’

—Affaire de Coeur

‘When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.’

—Under the Covers

‘I hardly think a simple kiss is cause for such an extreme reaction.’

His unrepentant cavalier attitude cut her to the quick—until she realised it was another proof of his degeneracy. ‘It was a kiss that I did not want, did not invite and did not enjoy. It was also an affront to my dignity, as well as a sign of gross disrespect.’

The man grinned. ‘Good God, all that? Was it treason, too?’

‘How would you like it if I reached over and started pawing at you?’

‘Why don’t you try it and we’ll see?’

She was horrified, appalled, disgusted—and tempted, which was surely wrong and sinful.

‘Or do you fear for your virtue?’ he asked. ‘If so, rest assured. You’re the last woman in England I would ever want to seduce.’

‘As if you’d have any hope of succeeding!’

‘Careful, Miss McCallan,’ he replied. ‘I like a challenge.’

USA TODAY bestselling author MARGARET MOOREhas written over forty historical romance novels and novellas. She graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, has served in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, and is a past president of the Toronto chapter of Romance Writers of America. For more information about Margaret, including a complete list of all her books, please visit her website at www.margaretmoore.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE OVERLORD’S BRIDE

COMFORT AND JOY (in The Christmas Visit ) BRIDE OF LOCHBARR LORD OF DUNKEATHE THE VAGABOND KNIGHT (in Yuletide Weddings ) THE UNWILLING BRIDE THE DUKE’S DESIRE HERS TO COMMAND HERS TO DESIRE THE DUKE’S DILEMMA MY LORD’S DESIRE THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT KNAVE’S HONOUR

And as a Mills & Boon ®Historical Undone! eBook:

THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS

Highland Rogue, London Miss

Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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London February 1817

Esme McCallan paced restlessly in the solicitor’s office in Staple Inn. From beyond the closed door she could hear the hushed voices and footsteps of clients coming to meet with other attorneys. Some of the steps were as brisk as Esme’s, others slow and shuffling and defeated.

None of them belonged to her brother.

Esme hated waiting, as Jamie well knew, yet here it was almost 3:30 p.m. on a wet, chilly afternoon and Jamie was not here to meet her, even though he himself had set the time. There was only one thing that could irritate her more and—

It happened.

Quintus MacLachlann strolled into the office without so much as a tap on the door. Of course she hadn’t heard him approaching; the man moved as silently as a cat.

Dressed in a brown woollen jacket, indigo waistcoat, white shirt open at the neck and baggy buff trousers, one could easily assume he was the son of peasants and earned his keep bare-knuckle fighting. Only his voice and lord-of-the-manor self-importance suggested he was something else, if not the truth—that he was the disgraced, rakehell son of a Scottish nobleman who had squandered every advantage his family’s wealth and station had provided.

“Where’s Jamie?” he asked with that combination of arrogance and familiarity she found particularly aggravating.

“I don’t know,” she replied as she perched on the edge of the small, serviceable, oval-backed chair her brother kept for his clients. She smoothed out a wrinkle in the lap of her dark brown pelisse and adjusted her unadorned bonnet by a fraction of an inch so that it was more properly centered on her smoothly parted, straight brown hair.

“That’s not like him,” MacLachlann unnecessarily observed as he leaned back against the shelves holding Jamie’s law books. “Was he meeting someone?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, silently chastising herself for her ignorance. “I’m not informed of all the appointments my brother makes.”

MacLachlann’s full lips curved up in an impudent grin and his bright blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “What, the mother hen doesn’t know every move her little chick makes?”

“I am not Jamie’s mother and since Jamie is a grown man with a fine mind and education that he has not wasted, no, I don’t keep watch over his every move.”

Her words had no effect on the wastrel, who continued to grin like a demented gargoyle. “No? Well, he’s not with a woman, anyway, unless she’s a client. He never indulges in that sort of thing during the day.”

Esme’s lips tightened.

“So there’s something else the mother hen doesn’t know, eh?” MacLachlann said with a chuckle that made her feel as if she’d stepped into some kind of low establishment where all manner of indecencies occurred—probably the sort of place MacLachlann spent most, if not all, of his evenings.

“My brother’s private life is not my concern,” she said, sitting up even straighter and fixing MacLachlann with a caustic glare. “If I made all his business mine, I would know why he ever hired a rogue like you.”

The sparkle in MacLachlann’s blue eyes changed into a different sort of fire. “Is that supposed to hurt, little plum cake?” he asked, thickening his brogue and using an epithet she hated with a passion. “If it is, ye’ve missed the mark entire. I’ve been insulted in ways that’d curl the toes of your thick-soled boots.”