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His Heir, Her Secret
Janice Maynard
“You’re carrying my baby. You will be my bride…”For two glorious weeks, Cate Everett shared Brody Stewart’s bed. Four months later and the seductive Scotsman is back in town. Will she be living a loveless sham or will he throw his heart into the bargain?
“You’re carrying my baby. You will be my bride.”
For two glorious weeks, Cate Everett shared the bed of Brody Stewart, a man she’d just met and never expected to see again. Fast forward four months, and the seductive Scotsman is back in town...with the solution to Cate’s baby-to-be dilemma. But if she becomes Brody’s bride, will she be living a loveless sham? Or will he throw his heart into the bargain?
USA TODAY bestselling author JANICE MAYNARD loved books and writing even as a child. But it took multiple rejections before she sold her first manuscript. Since 2002, she has written over forty-five books and novellas. Janice lives in east Tennessee with her husband, Charles. They love hiking, traveling and spending time with family.
You can connect with Janice at
www.janicemaynard.com (http://www.janicemaynard.com)Twitter.com/janicemaynard (http://www.Twitter.com/janicemaynard)Facebook.com/janicemaynardreaderpage (http://www.Facebook.com/janicemaynardreaderpage) and Instagram.com/janicemaynard (http://www.Instagram.com/janicemaynard).
Also by Janice Maynard (#ucbbd8857-d206-52ea-9c1d-de08b3efc14a)
A Not-So-Innocent Seduction Baby for Keeps
Christmas in the Billionaire’s Bed
Twins on the Way
Second Chance with the Billionaire
How to Sleep with the Boss
For Baby’s Sake
His Heir, Her Secret
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
His Heir, Her Secret
Janice Maynard
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07649-4
HIS HEIR, HER SECRET
© 2018 Janice Maynard
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For all of my friends who have ever fantasized about owning a quaint bookstore in a charming small town...this one’s for you...
Contents
Cover (#u00f676ce-30a8-5a37-84f0-9cf85e17111d)
Back Cover Text (#u50eac0fe-34b5-5bc8-93ab-a184fa4a8d08)
About the Author (#ud23fc56a-5f0c-50f7-aeae-849f32c0b939)
Booklist (#uc918e751-fad2-56bd-957f-8b049d0df9db)
Title Page (#u46fac0ec-e497-5087-b9a1-fbc5594996b7)
Copyright (#ude4072fe-ad51-540f-8d9d-22b8fee995ce)
Dedication (#u3096357b-5b76-5740-8e62-f7796694cea8)
One (#ud2a5c9d1-ad5e-52a3-a0f7-c39d08730fa1)
Two (#u1d8a2a15-3667-52a3-9e2a-b27dbde2fb8d)
Three (#u9ba5e734-c2fe-5d28-a872-63645e2d672b)
Four (#ub9a9f991-659f-57b3-8f24-31d41edcb3ae)
Five (#u33ee1d69-10b1-53da-a2b2-1a223368f487)
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Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
One (#ucbbd8857-d206-52ea-9c1d-de08b3efc14a)
The Scotsman was back. Heart pounding, hands sweating, Cate Everett leaned over her old-fashioned, nicked-up porcelain sink and eased the curtain aside with one finger. From the vantage point of her upstairs apartment, she had a perfect view of the comings and goings across the street.
Brody Stewart. The man she hadn’t seen in four months and believed she would never see again. Brody Stewart. Six feet and more of broad shoulders, sinewy muscles and a rough-velvet brogue of a voice that could shuck the panties off a girl before she knew what was happening. The Scotsman was back.
She wasn’t ready. Dear Lord, she wasn’t ready.
Her freshly brewed cup of tea sat cooling on the table behind her. The late February day had been icy and drear, a perfect match for the mood that had plagued her since climbing out of bed at dawn. She’d thought the comforting drink would cheer her up.
Instead, a clatter of slamming doors and deep male voices had distracted her...driven her to the window. And now she knew. The Scotsman was back.
In all fairness, Cate had never seen disaster coming four months ago. When a man’s grandmother introduces you to her grandson, a woman usually thinks the guy can’t get his own dates.
Only in this case, it wasn’t true. Brody Stewart could have any woman he wanted with one twinkle of his long-lashed, indigo-blue eyes. She still remembered the tiny lines that crinkled at the corners of those gorgeous eyes when he smiled. Brody smiled a lot.
Oh, jeez. Her legs wobbled in sync with the drunken butterflies in her stomach. She needed to sit down. She needed to drink her tea. But she couldn’t tear herself away from the window.
On the street below, a tiny, gray-haired lady gave orders to two remarkably similar men. Brody was one. The other must be Duncan, his younger brother. Suitcases came out of the trunk of a rental car. Hugs were exchanged. Snowflakes danced on the breeze.
None of the three people she spied on seemed to notice the cold. Perhaps because they hailed from the Scottish Highlands...a place where winter winds scoured the moors, and bloodlines went as far back as the hearty stock of warring clans and beyond.
Cate wiped damp palms on her faded jeans. She needed to focus. Voyeurism and dithering weren’t going to accomplish a thing. Besides, she had a shop to run.
Forcing herself to step back and abandon her intense fascination with the tableau on the street, she cradled her teacup in two trembling hands, drank most of the cold liquid and set the delicate china aside before making her way downstairs. Lunch break, such as it was, was over.
For five years she had found solace and pride in her charmingly eccentric bookshop, Dog-Eared Pages. The little store with the uneven hardwood floors and the rows of antique bookshelvesheld a place of honor on the main street of Candlewick, North Carolina. From the spring solstice until almost Thanksgiving, tourists came and went, bringing dollars and life to the region.
Tucked away in the Blue Ridge Mountains an hour from Asheville, Candlewick hearkened back to a simpler time. Neighbors knew each other’s business, crime was rare and the quality of life made up for the lack of first-run movie theaters and big-name restaurants.
Cate straightened the local History section and dusted one volume at a time, congratulating herself on avoiding the front of the store. She didn’t need to know what was happening across the street. It had nothing to do with her.
Without warning, the tinkling of a bell above the door announced the arrival of a customer. Cate’s heart stopped for a full three seconds, and then lurched ahead with a sickening whoosh when she recognized her visitor.
She cleared her dry throat. “Miss Izzy. What can I do for you?”
Isobel Stewart stood barely five feet tall but carried herself with the personality of an Amazon. Decades ago she had left her parents’ home in Inverness for a secretarial job in the big city of Edinburgh. While there, she met a charismatic American who had come to Scotland for a study-abroad semester.
After a whirlwind courtship, Isobel married the lad and followed him back to the United States—Candlewick, North Carolina, to be precise. She embraced her new life with only one request, that she keep her maiden name. Her new husband not only agreed, but also legally changed his last name to hers so that the Stewart line would continue. Together, the young couple launched a business building cabins in the mountains.
The intervening years produced vast wealth and a single son. Unfortunately for his parents, the young man felt the pull of his Scottish roots and after college settled in the Highlands. His two sons were the two men Cate had been spying on across the street. Izzy’s grandsons.
Isobel Stewart scanned the titles on the New Release shelf. “I want ye to come to dinner tonight, Cate. Brody is back. And he’s brought Duncan with him this time.”
“You must be thrilled,” Cate said, avoiding the question. Actually, it was more of a command. Isobel rarely accepted no for an answer.
The little woman suddenly looked every one of her ninety-two years. “I need you,” she muttered as if mortified by her weakness.
The smell of lemon polish permeated the air. Cate leaned a hip against the oak counter that supported the cash register. “What’s wrong, Miss Izzy?”
When the old Scottish lady blinked back tears, Cate couldn’t tell if they were genuine or manipulative.
Isobel’s bottom lip quivered. “I don’t have room in the apartment for two huge men, so I’ve told the lads they have to stay up at the big house.”
The big house was Isobel’s lavish and incredibly beautiful property on the mountaintop above Candlewick. Izzy hadn’t been able to spend the night there since her husband died six months before. Like many of the businesses in Candlewick, Stewart Properties was housed in a historic building on Main Street. Izzy had taken to sleeping on the second floor above her office.
“Makes sense,” Cate said carefully, sensing a trap. “But what does that have to do with me?”
“The boys wanted to surprise me for my birthday. They’ve hired a caterer to prepare dinner for us tonight. I hadn’t the heart to tell them I didn’t want to come.”
“Oh, I didn’t remember it was today. Happy birthday. But Brody was here before. Surely the two of you spent time up on the mountain.”
“He did a few chores for me. Checked on things. I pretended like I was busy. And since it was just Brody, he slept on the sofa, ye know...in the apartment...with me.”
“Miss Izzy...” Cate trailed off, searching for words. “Your grandsons must have an inkling of how you feel. Maybe this is their way of breaking the ice. It’s been six months. The longer you stay away, the more difficult it will be. I’m guessing they planned the birthday dinner to lure you up there.”
“It doesn’t feel like months,” the old woman said, her words wistful. “It seems like yesterday. My dear Geoffrey’s spirit is a ghost in every room of that house. Go with me,” Izzy pleaded. Gnarled, arthritic hands twisted at her waist. For a split second, Cate witnessed the depth of Isobel Stewart’s anguish at losing the love of her life.
“It’s a family celebration,” Cate said. “It will seem odd if I come.”
“Not at all,” Izzy said. “It was actually Brody’s idea.”
* * *
Five hours later Cate found herself on the doorstep of Stewart Properties, bouncing from one foot to the other in a futile attempt to keep warm. At the curb, she had left the engine running in her modest four-door sedan.
At last, when Cate’s fingers were numb, Izzy appeared. She looked remarkably chipper for someone who was about to face an unpleasant experience. “Right on time,” Izzy said. “You’re a lovely young lass. Men don’t like a woman who can’t be punctual.”
Cate helped the old woman into the car. Izzy was wrapped from head to toe in a brown wool coat and a heavy woven scarf in brown and beige. “That’s a stereotype, Miss Izzy. I’m sure there are as many men as women who have trouble being on time.”
Isobel snorted and changed the subject. “I thought ye’d wear a dress,” she complained.
