The Fourth Book in the
Scorching Noble Passions Series by Sabrina York Releases!
Fans of Sabrina York’s steamy Regency series have been eagerly awaiting
the release of, the fourth book (following award winning Folly, Dark Fancy and the
scorching Dark Duke) which follows
the adventures of Violet Wyeth
who is captured by a vengeful Scottish Brigand…only to discover he is none
other than Ewan St. Andrews, the boy she once loved.
Noble Passions: Follow the decadent exploits of friends and enemies as
they find love and passion in the glittering world of the Regency—and its dark
underbelly. Each book is a stand-alone read.
Brigand
Sabrina York
Kidnapped
and held prisoner by menacing Scottish brigand, the notorious McCloud, Violet
Wyeth does her best to persevere…and resist his rakish charms. But when she
realizes The McCloud is really Ewan St. Andrews, the boy who once saved her
life, the boy who once kissed her and made her heart flutter, she is lost.
Ewan
has every intention of marrying Lady Kaitlin MacAllister. He desperately needs
the entrée into the ton this bride
can provide. But when his bride is delivered—bound and gagged—it’s not Kaitlin.
It’s Violet Wyeth—the girl who betrayed him and ruined his life when he was a
boy. He keeps her, determined to punish her for her sins. But when he discovers
the truth about what really happened so long ago, and seething passion rises
between them, he can no longer hold on to his rusty grudge. By the time he
realizes how much he loves Violet—that he always has—he’s lost her.
All
he can do is follow her. Follow her into the bowels of hell—and partake in the
torment of the glittering London Season, where the harpies are far more
dangerous than a Scottish brigand.
READ A
STEAMY EXCERPT
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An Excerpt From: BRIGAND
Copyright © SABRINA YORK, 2014
All Rights Reserved,
Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
Holy
Heaven. She would never take a bath for granted again.
Violet
stumbled on the stairs and the contents of the heavy bucket sloshed, dousing
her with hot water. She sucked in a breath as pain seared. She set the bucket
on the landing and pulled her skirts up. Her skin was red. She ruffled the
tatters of her petticoats, waiting for the sting to subside.
The
door to the Laird’s solar swung open. She stepped back so it wouldn’t hit her
and it slammed into the wall. The McCloud glowered down at her. His gaze stalled
on her bare legs. It was riveted—until she dropped her skirts—then he snapped,
“What the hell is taking so long?” His glanced back at her damp skirts and his
frown darkened. He picked up the last bucket and carried it to the tub, dumping
it in himself. “For god’s sake. How long does it take to bring a few measly
buckets up from the kitchen?”
A
few measly buckets? It had taken twelve trips, each with a bucket that weighed
near as much as she. Violet glared at him. “Is that enough?” She probably
didn’t need to clip the words quite so much but she had already worked for
hours. She was tired and sweaty and her skin ached and Morna was waiting for
her to come help prepare dinner.
He
swished his hand in the water. “Yes. I suppose that will do.”
Not
a thank you. Not a smile. Nothing.
Beast.
She
whirled and started for the door.
“Where
do you think you’re going?” His voice rumbled, a deep tenor. Her steps slowed.
“Back
to the kitchen.” She frowned at him over her shoulder. “I have work to do.”
“You
have work to do here.”
“I
beg your pardon?” What did he want her to do now, wash his bottom?
“You’re
going to bathe me.”
Her
heart stilled at his words, his intent, and especially his expression.
“Wh-what?”
“Come
now, Violet. The laird of the manor can’t be expected to scrub his own back,
can he now? Be a good girl, close the door and come over here.”
She
gaped at him. Gaped. He expected her
to remain in a room with a naked man? He expected her to touch him?
“Close
your mouth. You look like a trout.”
“But…I
c-can’t. I can’t b-bathe you.”
“You
can. And you will.” His eyes glimmered with something other than humor. The
unspoken threat hummed in the stony chamber. “You may want to turn around while
I undress, unless you want an early education.” He began to unbutton his shirt.
With
an undignified eep, Violet whirled
and showed him her back until she heard the splash and his gusty sigh.
“All
right, girl. Get to work. Scrub my back.” He gestured to a chunk of soap and a
sponge on a small table. She picked them up, approached the tub and knelt
behind him, trying not to stare at the bunching muscles, the broad expanse of
tanned skin. She couldn’t help but notice it was covered with scars. Long and
short, crisscrossing over one another. As though he’d been brutally beaten and lashed
time after time after—“Did you close the door?”
Her
bubbling sympathy evaporated in a rush. She stuck her tongue out at him, but
only because he couldn’t see. Then, with a heavy sigh, she levered herself off
the floor and closed the door. Well, slammed it.
His
chuckle annoyed her more.
He
leaned forward and peeped at her over his shoulder. “Come along now. My back
isn’t going to scrub itself.”
She
took her place behind him again, being very careful not to look at his broad,
be-furred chest as she approached. She wet the soap and sponge and created a
lather. Being very careful not to touch him, she began to scour his back. He
winced. “Not so hard.”
His
plaintive tone probably shouldn’t have sent a shard of evil satisfaction
through her, but it did. This man had been a boor to her from the moment he’d
found her on the floor in Callum MacAllister’s cottage. She dug deeper.
He
lurched forward. “Ouch!”
“Hold
still,” she muttered, making a wide swath across the ridged skin. “You’re
filthy. I need to scrub.”
“I
am not filthy.”
“You
are. Stop wriggling.”
Amazingly,
he did, though her efforts bordered on abuse. But my, it felt good.
When
she started on his neck and ears, he caught her wrist. “All right. I think
that’s enough.”
“I’m
not done.”
“Oh,
you’re not done.” He tugged her around to the side of the tub so she faced him.
She focused on his crooked nose, schooled her attention not to drift lower.
“Now it’s time for you to scrub my front.”
She
really disliked his tone. There was mischief—and something much darker—coiling
in there. “Fine.” She dropped to her knees and wet the sponge again, but rather
than dunking it, merely skimmed the surface of the water.
Fortunately
the bath was murky, so she couldn’t see
anything. But she knew what was down there and she didn’t want to find it by
accident. She trained her attention on his chest, and her heart lurched.
A
long, nasty scar scored him. Like a puckered lightning bolt, it made its jagged
way from his left nipple down to his belly. Her pulse skittered. Her breath
snagged in her throat. She’d only ever seen a scar like that once before.
A
scar exactly like that.
Her
gaze snapped back to his face. She looked at him. Really looked at him, perhaps for the first time. Her mouth went dry. The
gray eyes laced by thick black lashes. The broad, smiling mouth. The curve of
his jaw.
It
couldn’t be. Could it?
“W-where
did you get that scar?”
He
glanced down and stilled. Annoyance flickered across his features. “Every man
has scars.”
“Not-not
like that.” She sat back on her haunches. She didn’t realize she was squeezing
the sponge until water seeped through her skirts.
“All
right. A knife fight.”
“Knives
don’t cut like that.” It was uneven and rippled, as though the flesh and been
shorn off in places and sliced in others.
“Well,
it was a goddamn knife fight. I was in a vicious battle with a man in an alley.
I gutted him.” His lip curled into a sneer. “Does it frighten you, my lady?”
“No.”
But that was a lie. It did frighten her. Because Ewan, her friend, the boy who
had saved her, had gotten an eerily similar wound rescuing her from a watery
grave. And surely this wasn’t Ewan. It couldn’t be.
Ewan
was gentle and sweet. He had liked her, maybe loved her. He had kissed her. And
this man… This man had taken her prisoner and mauled her and put her to work.
And
she hated him.
He
couldn’t be Ewan. He couldn’t. It would break her heart.
“Goddamn
it, girl, finish washing me. The water’s getting cold,” he barked
But
she couldn’t. She needed to know. She had to know.
“It
wasn’t a knife. It was ice.” A whisper, but he heard it. He froze, his gaze
locked to hers. “You jumped in and found me in the water. Lifted me out. But
you couldn’t get out yourself.”
“I
don’t know what you’re babbling about.”
But
he did. She could see it in his eyes. There, for a flash of an instant, she saw
that boy in his eyes.
She
licked suddenly dry lips. “Ewan? Is it you?”
He
rose from the tub in an unholy rush. She didn’t have time to glanced away. The
vision of his naked body, hard and lean, scarred and perfect, burned on her
brain. He grabbed a cloth and covered his loins.
“This
bath is over. Get out.”
She
stood. Tried desperately not to tremble. “It is you. It is.”
“Get
out. Go!”
“What
happened to you, Ewan?”
A
dark cloud lowered on his already stormy brow. “What happened to me? You mean
how did I become the beast that I am?” The vitriol in his voice made her shake,
but she didn’t back down.
“No,
Ewan. Where did you go? No one would tell me and I always wondered…”
Every
muscle in his body tensed, vibrated. Violet knew, because she could see them
all, a magnificent panoply.
She
should have been afraid. She should have been horrified. She should have
skittered away like a frightened little rabbit. But she wasn’t afraid. She
didn’t run.
She
knew—knew—her Ewan would never hurt her.
Indeed,
as he stared at her, his fury passed. He scrubbed a palm over his broad face.
“Go,” he croaked. His tone was laced with an emotion she couldn’t decipher.
Desolation? Greif? “Just go.”
This
time, she did.
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commenter. The package includes an ecopy of Folly, Dark Fancy and Dark Duke as
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