Margaret McPhee - Untouched Mistress

In response, Lord Varington raised his gaze to hers and lifted her hand until it was just short of his mouth. Then slowly, carefully, never taking his eyes from hers, he touched his lips to the center of her palm. It was as if he had touched the very core of her being. A spontaneous gasp escaped her, and she found she could not take her eyes from his, could not move, could barely breathe.

“My lord, I must protest!” she said in a breathy whisper.

“You are beautiful,” he said, and she sat as if mesmerized, watching his head bending toward hers until he was so close that she could examine every detail of his face. Helena knew that he was going to kiss her, and, despite the knowledge, she did nothing.

“Helena,” he whispered, and her name rolled off his tongue as if it had been made to do so. There was a richness to his voice, a sensual ripeness.

She felt her eyelids flutter shut. Tilted her mouth to accept his.

The carriage suddenly swerved to the side, throwing Lord Varington off balance and bringing Helena to her senses in an instant.

Untouched Mistress

Harlequin ®Historical

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“A fresh new voice in Regency romance. Hugely enjoyable.”

—Bestselling author Nicola Cornick

THE WICKED EARL

“McPhee skillfully weaves a tale of revenge, betrayal and an awakening love in this emotional and compelling romance about an innocent young woman, a forbidding lord and an evil villain.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

MISTAKEN MISTRESS

“McPhee spins a lovely Cinderella story.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

THE CAPTAIN’S LADY

“Captivating high-seas adventure.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

I’ve always enjoyed reading Harlequin’s historical novels, and I still do. I love to lose myself in a good romantic story, preferably set in Regency times, with a dangerous dashing hero, a heroine I’m rooting for and a happy ending. With Harlequin I know that’s what I will get. I’m so pleased and honored to be a part of this famous romantic tradition with my own few books.

Knowing how much Guy hated the countryside in his brother’s story, The Wicked Earl, made me mischievously place him on the rugged coastline of western Scotland for his own story—Untouched Mistress. It was during a cycle along the shore on a cold gray day, with a stiff breeze blowing and a smir of rain in the air, that I thought of the idea of Guy stumbling upon a beautiful, half-drowned woman washed up with the seaweed on the sands. And so came about Guy and Helena’s story. I hope you enjoy reading it.

The Captain’s Lady #785

Mistaken Mistress #815

The Wicked Earl #843

Christmas Wedding Belles #871

“A Smuggler’s Tale”

Untouched Mistress #921

#919 ONE CANDLELIT CHRISTMAS

Julia Justiss, Annie Burrows and Terri Brisbin

Have yourself a Regency Christmas! Celebrate the season with three heartwarming stories of reconciliation, surprises and secret wishes fulfilled….

#920 THE BORROWED BRIDE—Elizabeth Lane

Fully expecting to marry her childhood sweetheart, Hannah Gustavson is torn by his sudden disappearance. With Hannah desperately needing the protection of a man, Judd Seavers cannot stand by and watch his brother’s woman struggle alone. So begins their marriage of convenience….

Can he give up the woman he has come to love?

#922 HER WARRIOR SLAVE—Michelle Willingham

Kieran Ó Brannon sold himself into slavery for his family, but despite steadfast loyalty, he cannot deny the intensity of his feelings for his master’s betrothed—Iseult. She, too, must decide if succumbing to her fierce desire for the captured warrior is worth losing what she prizes most….

A dramatic medieval tale of untamed passion…

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

1 November 1815—Ayrshire, Scotland

A white froth of waves crashed against the rocks as the solitary figure picked its way along the shore. The morning sky was a cold grey and the fine drizzle of rain had penetrated the woollen cloth of his coat and was beginning to seep through his waistcoat to the cotton of his shirt below. Beneath his boots the sand was firm, each step cutting a clear impression of his progress. A gull cried its presence overhead, and the wind that had howled the whole night through stung a ruddy rawness to his cheeks and swept a ruffle through the darkness of his hair. Guy Tregellas, Viscount Varington, ignored the damp chill of the air and, not for the first time, thought longingly of London: London that had no gales to part a man’s coat from his back. No incessant rain. No empty landscape that ran as far as the eye could see, with only the hardiest sheep and cattle for company. Guy suppressed a shudder and continued on, avoiding as best he could the mounds of seaweed and driftwood that the sea had cast upon the sand during the night’s storm. The pain in his head was dulling and the nausea in his stomach had almost disappeared; the memory of just how much whisky he had drunk had not. And so he continued, walking off his hangover in this godforsaken place. He crossed the stream that ran down to meet the sea, taking care not to lose his balance on the stepping stones, and followed the curve of the shore round. It was then that he saw the body.

A dark shape amidst the seaweed. At first he thought it was a seal that had been unfortunate enough to suffer the worst of the storm in open water. But as the distance between him and the shape lessened, he knew that what lay washed upon the shore was no seal. The woman was curled on her side, as if in sleep. The dark sodden skirt of her dress was twisted around her body to expose the white of her lower legs. Her feet were bare and the one arm he could see was bloody and bruised beneath the torn sleeve of her dress. Guy rolled her over on to her back and cleared away the long strands of hair plastered across her face. She was not old, in her middle twenties perhaps, and even in her bedraggled state he could see that she was beautiful. He bent closer, touching his fingers to her neck, feeling the faint flutter of her pulse. Guy had seen too many dead bodies in his life. He breathed a sigh of relief that this was not one of them, and as he did so her eyelids flickered open and a pair of smoky green eyes stared up at him.