Bronwyn Scott - Untamed Rogue, Scandalous Mistress

‘This.’ Crispin moved quickly. Their closeness made it no great matter to slide his hand behind her neck, to cup the back of her head through the layers of her thick hair, and draw her the short distance to his body. He took her lips in an open-mouthed kiss that tempted and tested.

She was more than up to the challenge, responding with a fierceness that rocked Crispin to his core. Her tongue tangled with his, she sucked hard on his lower lip, grazing the tender skin with her sharp teeth. At length, she pulled back, a knowing smile on her lips. ‘Well, I suppose we can all be thankful for small miracles.’

‘What would that be?’ Crispin gave a smile. This was more like it. Women were usually impressed with his kisses. He stepped forward, ready to claim more.

She stepped backwards towards her mount. ‘At least you kiss better than you ride.’

I had a great time with each of the Ramsden brothers. They’re all a bit different: there’s Paine, the youngest who, by birth order, has the opportunity to dabble in business to make his fortune abroad in exotic India, since there’s no chance he’ll inherit. There’s Peyton, the heir, born to be the Earl and the patriot. Then there’s Crispin, who’s born to be wild. He loves horses and women and shuns commitment—until he meets Aurora Calhoun.

Crispin’s story was fun to write. My favourite section is the part at the St Albans Steeplechase. England is mad for horses, and the historical records are quite thorough. I was able to find a list of horses and riders that ran in the 1835 race, and a report of the race itself—who finished and who fell. It’s all accurate, so pay special attention to the race and know you’re reliving history.

Crispin’s tale was meant to be the last, but it’s not necessary to read the three stories in order. Be sure to check out Paine’s story in NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY and Peyton’s in THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD. There is also a short story—GRAYSON PRENTISS’S SEDUCTION—giving Julia’s cousin her own romance (available on the eHarlequin.com website), which runs concurrently with Julia and Paine’s story.

Thank you for all your interest in the Ramsden brothers. I enjoyed getting your e-mails and the comments you left on my blog, urging me to get those Ramsden books on the shelves.

Readers can reach me at

www.Bronwynswriting.blogspot.com,

or at my web page, www.Bronwynnscott.com

Stay in touch!

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Bronwyn Scottis a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.Bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.Bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.

Recent novels from Bronwyn Scott:

PICKPOCKET COUNTESS

NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY

THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE

THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD

and in Mills & Boon® Historical eBook Undone!:

LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS

PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY

To Suzanne Ring, thanks for your support of the

South Sound Titan’s swim club annual auction.

Thank you also for your personal friendship.

Your commitment to the community is inspiring.

Early February 1835

Crispin Ramsden never saw it coming. One moment he was trotting peaceably down the dirt lane that led to the turn towards Dursley Park, savouring a country-side he hadn’t seen in three years, and the next he was flat on his back, having been unceremoniously spilled from his stallion, who was even now rearing and flailing his dangerous hooves in reaction to whatever had spooked him.

Straining against the pull of a sore hip and buttocks that had taken the brunt of his fall, Crispin levered himself into an upright position to take in the scene. He saw the cause of the accident clearly: a tall, slender youth and his horse, an impressive-looking bay hunter that went at least sixteen hands. Even with a sore hip, Crispin noticed such things. The youth was standing in the road, managing to calm Crispin’s highly strung stallion.

‘Miraculous,’ Crispin called out, hoisting himself to his feet carefully. He’d only ever met a handful of people who could handle Sheikh.

‘That’s what I was going to say about you.’ The youth turned from the horse and faced Crispin, hands on hips, and Crispin realised his mistake. It was no youth who’d calmed his horse, but very clearly a woman; a woman with long athletic legs shown off to advantage in riding breeches that did nothing to disguise the delicious curve of her rear-end and high breasts that rose and fell provocatively beneath a man’s cut-down white shirt.

‘Miraculous? I can be.’ Crispin sauntered towards Sheikh, doing his level best to not limp, wince or otherwise indicate the fall had left him in need of a hot soaking bath. This woman didn’t appear to be the type to appreciate infirmities or she would have run straight over to him first and seen to the horse second. He reached out a hand and stroked Sheikh’s quivering flank.

At this close proximity he could make out the long braid of dark hair tucked down the back of her shirt. In fact, it was quite amazing he’d mistaken her for a young man at all.

She shot him a hard look with eyes the colour of summer grass, a deep verdant green. ‘I meant it was miraculous you didn’t hear me shout when I entered the roadway. I called out twice to warn you of my presence. You had plenty of time to get out of the way. What were you thinking?’ she snapped.

He’d been thinking how nice it would be to get home, to see his brother, Peyton, to see his twin nephews, who had been born two years ago, and the new baby, who had arrived a month early in January. He’d been thinking about settling the inheritance that had finally compelled him to stop making excuses and come back to the Cotswolds.

His attention might have been errant in regards to his surroundings, but Crispin Ramsden didn’t like being taken to task by anyone and certainly not by a black-haired virago dressed in men’s clothing a mile from his home.

Crispin folded his arms over his chest and faced her squarely. ‘The better question is—what were you thinking? You’re the one racing a horse into a country lane out of nowhere. In case you haven’t noticed, this is a public thoroughfare. Any number of people or conveyances could have been on this road and you would have bowled right into them.’

‘How dare you impugn my abilities as a horsewoman,’ she shot back, boldly stepping forwards so that now they stood toe-to-toe, her dusty riding boot touching his. It was hard to tell whose was dirtier. ‘You have no right to pass judgement on my skills when you were as absentminded as the vicar’s grandmother. You could have ruined that fine animal of yours.’

Not only were they toe-to-toe, they were nearly nose to nose, give or take a few inches on her side, Crispin observed. He appreciated the benefits of her height. Being a tall man himself, he’d always had a preference for taller women—better compatibility when it came to dancing, which he abhorred, and bed sport, which he liked quite a lot.