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Make Me Yours
Betina Krahn
Mariah Eller was only trying to save her inn from being trashed.So how did the widow manage to attract the unwanted–and erotic–attention of the Prince of Wales? Not that being desired by royalty is necessarily bad. . .Only, Mariah much prefers the prince's best friend. . . . Jack St. Lawrence is very tempting, and very loyal. And he knows that the prince gets involved only with married women. So he figures sexy Mariah is safe. . . until the prince demands Jack find her a husband!The problem? Jack and Mariah can't fight their sizzling attraction. And once they give in to their desires, the situation is even worse. Because the prince's man has found a husband for Mariah. Himself. . .
Look what people are saying about Betina Krahn…
“Ms. Krahn is truly ingenious…. You have to read her books!”
—The Literary Times
“One of the genre’s most creative writers. Her ingenious romances always entertain and leave readers with a warm glow.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Wonderfully romantic…brilliantly written and a joy to read…humorous, witty, and original…Betina Krahn is talented and gifted. Her writing is superb…perfectly charming.”
—The Literary Times
“Merry, heart-charming…Betina Krahn is a treasure among historical writers, and The Husband Test is a story to savor.”
—BookPage
“Witty, rollicking romance…Krahn’s amusing follow-up to The Husband Test quickly blossoms into a bright, exciting adventure.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Wife Test
“With The Marriage Test, Krahn has perfected her unique recipe for highly amusing historical romances as she deftly brings together two perfectly matched protagonists to create a delectable romance most readers will find impossible to resist.”
—Booklist (starred review)
Dear Reader,
Welcome to my Harlequin Blaze debut! The minute I heard about Blaze Historicals, I was intrigued. Now, after writing my first book, Harlequin’s vision for “big, sexy books in a smaller format” has me totally hooked. Some friends joked that I usually take 60,000 words to say hello! Well, eat those words, my friends; after writing 120,000-word books forever, I found this shorter format for a historical a dream come true!
Writing Make Me Yours was the most fun I’d had at the keyboard in years. The characters were so compelling, the story came so naturally and the tighter focus on “pure romance” was so freeing! My favorite heroines have always been gals with the gumption to go after what they want and a plan to get it. My favorite heroes are strong, stubborn men who think they know best, but get “taken to school” by a smart, sexy woman. I think I’ve been writing a Harlequin Blaze heroine for years without knowing it!
I’m hoping you enjoy Jack and Mariah and the Prince and Mercy. Come by my Web site afterward (BetinaKrahn.com) and let me know how you liked the way we’re setting history a-BLAZE!
Happy reading!
Betina Krahn
New York Times Bestselling Author
BETINA KRAHN
Make Me Yours
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times bestselling author Betina Krahn, mother of two and owner of two (humans and canines, respectively), shares the Florida sunshine with her fiancé and a fun and crazy sister. Her historical romances have received reviewer’s choice and lifetime achievement awards and appear regularly on bestseller lists…including the coveted USA TODAY and New York Times lists.
Her books have been called “sexy,” “warm,” “witty” and even “wise.” But the description that pleases her most is “funny”—because she believes the only thing the world needs as much as it needs love is laughter.
You can learn more about her books and contact her through her Web site, BetinaKrahn.com.
For Rex,
who always believes in me.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Author’s Note
1
England’s Lake Country, 1887
“ALL I WANT is to be left alone to run my own life and tend my business in peace. Is that too bloody much to ask?” Mariah Eller muttered as she pulled her cloak tighter against the wind-whipped rain and squinted, trying to make out the lights from the Eller-Stapleton Inn. There were at least a dozen things she’d rather be doing at nine o’clock on a rainy October evening…most involving a glowing fire and toasty slippers.
“Hurry, miz!” The boy with the lantern looked back anxiously and halted for her to catch up. “Pa said they wus about to blow the winders out.”
“They’d better not touch my blessed windows,” she declared, wishing the threat didn’t sound so thin in her own ears. She motioned the boy forward on the darkened gravel path that led from her house to her inn. “That glazing cost me a fortune. I’m in hock up to my—” She pulled her icy hands inside her cloak. “If they lay one finger on that glass—”
She’d do what? Scold them? Send them to bed without supper? What could she possibly do to a group of men who were drinking, out of control and bent on destruction?
The sprawling Eller-Stapleton Inn, a coaching stop for travelers on the way north, was miles from the nearest town and constable. Ordinarily she and her staff took care of their own problems. Her capable innkeeper, Mr. Carson, maintained order with his razor-like glare, beefy arms and redoubtable old musket.
But something about this situation exceeded his unflappable grasp.
It must be bad indeed.
Taking a deep breath, she dashed the last few yards through the puddles in the backyard and through the open kitchen door. She stood for a moment taking her bearings, her long cloak dripping water on the worn flagstone floor. The inn’s staff was collected around the glowing stone hearth at the far end of the kitchen. They greeted her with “Thank the Lord, yer here”…all but Carson, who seemed little relieved by her presence.
“Since when do you need help to deal with a few drunk gentlemen?” she said, lowering her hood and wiping rain from her face.
“The wretches grabbed Nell,” Carson said, pointing to the inn’s cook and one of the serving women, who were huddled with their arms around young Nell Jacoby. The little chambermaid’s face was as white as her eyes were red. “Kissed an’ groped her—acted like they meant to have her right on the damned tabletop, fergive th’ French.”
His square, usually pleasant face burned dull crimson and his blocky shoulders were thick with tension.
“Wild as March hares an’ gettin’ wilder. I’d ’ave bounced the lot, except—” it clearly pained him to say “—I seen a crest on one gent’s snuffbox. And my boy says there be a coat o’ arms on the chase coach that brought their guns an’ baggage.”
Noblemen. Mariah groaned. It would be.
“Who are they? Did they not give names?” she asked, hoping they had refused. By law, an inn’s patrons had to identify themselves and sign a register to obtain lodgings.
“They give names, all right.” Carson glowered, reaching for his big leather register and opening it to the current page. “Jus’ not their own.”
“Jack Sprat and Jack B. Nimble,” she read aloud. “Union Jack. Jack A. Dandy. Jack Ketch. Jack O. Lantern.” She swallowed hard against the lump those names left in her throat. “Clever boys.”
Worrisome boys, too, she realized. Giving no names meant taking no responsibility. Apparently they did intend to blow her windows out tonight.
Lord, how she hated titled men “gone a-hunting.” Turned loose on a distant countryside, they felt free to vent every base impulse and indulge every low urge their otherwise “exemplary” lives denied them. When worse came to worst, as it often did, no mere innkeeper could manhandle them with impunity. Which left only the dicey art of diplomacy.
Dealing with powerful men behaving badly required a unique set of skills…sleight-of-hand, humor and whopping doses of honesty and flattery. It was like walking a tightrope. She looked at the apologetic expectation in Carson’s face and her heart sank. She had no noble neighbor to call for help, no well-born husband to step in on her behalf. It was up to her. She was going to have to be very, very good on that tightrope tonight.
Removing her soggy cloak, she handed it off to Carson’s son to hang by the door, then glanced down at what she wore. Her tailored navy woolen jacket, white blouse sans frills, and fitted gray wool skirt weren’t exactly ideal for disarming drunken noblemen, but she had no time to change.
“I need a mirror, a fiddle player and a bottomless bowl of wassail—” her eyes glinted with the resentment she had to harness “—spiked with the strongest rum we’ve got.”
Nodding with relief, Carson sent his son to fetch Old Farley the stableman and his fiddle, then ordered the scullery maid to get a mirror from the staff living quarters. Bursts of raucous male laughter rolled down the passage from the public room, interspersed with the sounds of metal cups crashing on the floor, calls for more drink and howls for the innkeeper to “send that ripe little maid back out here.”
Mariah looked at the faces turned her way and summoned all her determination. This was her business, her home, her life. Her people depended on her. She had to defend them with the only resources she had: her nerve and her wits.
The mirror arrived and she loosened and repinned her thick honey-colored hair into a freer style, removed her jacket and unbuttoned the blouse at her throat. She wasn’t a great beauty, but her mercurial and exacting husband had often bragged that men turned to look at her a second time when she smiled. Running a finger over her teeth and pinching her cheeks, she checked the mirror. Her eyes shone with a confidence that surprised her.
“Stay awake, Carson, in case I should need you, and keep the drink coming.” After downing a gulp of the brew being prepared for their guests, she picked up a bottle of her best rum and strode into the public room.
Her strategy was both simple and risky: find the leader, engage him and enlist his aid in keeping things under control while the lot drank themselves into harmless oblivion. If that failed, she’d scream bloody murder and Carson would come running with his faithful musket, Old Blunder.
Six men, mostly young, all well-dressed, were sprawled on benches and chairs around the flickering hearth at the far end of the inn’s oak-paneled public room. There were no other patrons present, which was odd, given the miserable weather and the fact that the register showed every sleeping room in the inn was occupied. The men’s behavior had apparently cleared the room.
At close range she could both see and smell their careless affluence. Glinting gold watch chains and Corinthian leather boots…sandalwood soap and brandy-flavored tobacco…muddied chairs and tables where they propped their feet…ash from their cigars on her polished floor…empty ale cups abandoned on table, floor and hearth.
“More to drink, gentlemen?” she asked, striding toward them. The two facing her straightened and the others turned to see what had captured their interest. She paused a few feet away and gripped the bottle in her hands.
“Well, well. What have we here?” The closest man, a round-faced fellow with pomaded hair, looked up at her with sly speculation.
“I am the owner of this establishment, sirs, and as such, your hostess.” On impulse, she made a deep, sardonic curtsey. Sensing she had taken them off guard and intending to capitalize on it, she looked up…straight into a pair of golden eyes set in a strongly chiseled face.
She froze for a moment, absorbing the fact that the man’s dark hair was given to waves, his skin was sun-burnished, and his broad, full lips curled languidly up on one side. As their gazes met, his half smile faded and his eyes darkened. With interest. His stare dragged across her skin like a match, igniting something she seldom experienced these days: anticipation.
Suppressing a shiver, she jerked her gaze away and it landed next on a tall, fleshy man with thinning hair and a distinctive V-shaped beard.
The blood drained from her head.
She knew that face.
All of Britain knew it.
Merciful Heaven. Was it possible Carson hadn’t recognized their future king?
JACK ST. LAWRENCE froze with his ale cup halfway to his lips, his eyes fixed on the honey-haired beauty coiled into a deep curtsey a few inches from his outstretched legs. She was of middling height, but that was the only thing average about her. Her carriage was nothing short of regal; her abundant hair shone with fiery lights; her delicate face was clear and arresting, and—damn—underneath that starched blouse and fitted skirt she had curves that could make a bishop forget it was Sunday.
The pleasant ale-buzz in his head evaporated in a rush of unexpected heat. Then she looked up, and damned if she didn’t have eyes as blue as a summer sky—big, luminous pools of liquid get-lost-in-me—that were returning his stare with what could only be called interest.
Before he could react, she jerked her head to the side and her gaze fell on Bertie. Jack watched her color drain and her eyes widen with recognition of the Prince of Wales. He’d seen that reaction before, from women of all ranks and stations. Surprise and awe, followed close on by eagerness.
Glancing at the rest of the prince’s companions, he found them grinning, licking their lips, assessing her with lusty anticipation. Dammit. They were already half-sauced and getting rowdier by the minute. The last thing he needed was a sexual hot coal to juggle. He’d already had a close call with the little tavern maid who had brought them fresh pitchers of ale.
He had winced when they’d grabbed and fondled her, and was on the verge of intervening when the barrel-chested innkeeper appeared and roared for the girl to get back to her duties. Shocked by the innkeeper’s interference, his companions had let the terrified girl scramble from the table and laughed it off as they turned back to their drinking.
He had heaved a silent sigh and downed another gulp of the brew he’d been nursing for the better part of an hour. He didn’t relish having to rein in his companions. They could be a handful. Unfortunately, they were his handful. When he hunted with the prince, it was his responsibility to see that things never got too far out of hand.
The heir to Britain’s throne and empire, Prince Albert Edward—“Bertie” to his friends—leaned forward and looked the woman over, letting his gaze linger on her breasts before raising it to her face. He smiled, clearly pleased with what he saw. When he held out a meaty hand, she accepted it with aplomb and gave a second, rather charming dip.
