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Her Dearest Sin
Gayle Wilson
Sebastian Sinclair mirrored his notable brothers in every way, even when it came to pursuing an intense, impossible love. Surely the flame in his heart could be nothing else, for it drove him to rescue a brave and beautiful Spanish noblewoman–held prisoner to another man's dangerous desires!Doña Pilar tasted the sweetness of the epithet upon her lips and knew she'd named Sebastian Sinclair well. For the fearless Englishman had dared to snatch her from the grip of monstrous evil, had wed her to preserve her honor and had now become Her Dearest Sin.…
His hands and his mouth moved possessively against her body.
Sebastian lifted his head. Pilar felt the slow breath he released, sighing out over the moisture his lips had left on her skin. She shivered again, uncontrollably, and his hand soothed across her back, holding her gently against his chest.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he whispered, his mouth moving now against the thin, fragile skin of her temple. The words were as soft as the breath he had taken.
“I’m not afraid,” she said. “Not of you. Not of this.”
He held her a moment more. And then, putting his hands on her shoulders, he set her away from him so that he could look down into her face. In his eyes were promise and hunger. And she wanted them both.
Acclaim for RITA® Award winner Gayle Wilson
“Rich historical detail, intriguing mystery, romance that touches the heart. These are the elements that keep me waiting impatiently for Gayle Wilson’s next book.”
—USA Today bestselling author BJ James
Anne’s Perfect Husband
“The author excels in creating compelling characters who behave intelligently and honorably. Gayle Wilson never disappoints.”
—The Romance Reader (theromancereader.com)
My Lady’s Dare
“…three-dimensional characters and intriguing plot twists kept this reader glued to the pages.”
—Romantic Times
Lady Sarah’s Son
“…a moving tale of love overcoming great obstacles, of promises kept and trust restored.”
—Romantic Times
#608 NAVAJO SUNRISE
Elizabeth Lane
#609 BRIDE OF THE ISLE
Margo Maguire
#610 CHASE WHEELER’S WOMAN
Charlene Sands
Her Dearest Sin
Gayle Wilson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
GAYLE WILSON
The Heart’s Desire #211
The Heart’s Wager #263
The Gambler’s Heart #299
Raven’s Vow #349
His Secret Duchess #393
Honor’s Bride #432
Lady Sarah’s Son #483
My Lady’s Dare #516
Anne’s Perfect Husband #552
Her Dearest Sin #607
Other works include:
Harlequin Intrigue
Echoes in the Dark #344
Only a Whisper #376
The Redemption of Deke Summers #414
Heart of the Night #442
* (#litres_trial_promo)Ransom My Heart #461
* (#litres_trial_promo)Whisper My Love #466
* (#litres_trial_promo)Remember My Touch #469
Never Let Her Go #490
** (#litres_trial_promo)The Bride’s Protector #509
** (#litres_trial_promo)The Stranger She Knew #513
** (#litres_trial_promo)Her Baby, His Secret #517
Each Precious Hour #541
† (#litres_trial_promo)Her Private Bodyguard #561
† (#litres_trial_promo)Renegade Heart #578
† (#litres_trial_promo)Midnight Remembered #591
Dedication
To Melissa, with my admiration and affection
Acknowledgment
A multitude of thanks to Olivia Ouijano for answering innumerable questions concerning names and titles for this book. Any mistakes are mine or were deliberately written to be made by my English-speaking characters.
Olivia, I love you!
Contents
Prologue (#u37bc7a5d-9f86-5a3c-91bc-28a288c25a63)
Chapter One (#udcb61410-883a-5473-827e-e2cc51ad2e84)
Chapter Two (#u5df7b0e0-0fe8-5ec3-8072-7a2f98e30490)
Chapter Three (#u9727b699-9f18-57e9-9e3b-f5ca1c332760)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Spain, 1813
“Did you say bathe?” Lord Wetherly drawled, never stirring from his comfortable occupancy of his host’s only chair. His booted feet, dusty of course, but elegantly crossed at the ankle, were propped on the edge of the cot, the other major furnishing of the tent.
“Bathe,” Captain the Honorable Sebastian Sinclair reiterated. “As in to become clean again.”
“I think you’ve had too much sun, my dear. Likely prove fatal to venture out in your condition. Best lie down and rest until the fit passes.”
“Would you care to be seen in London in our present state?”
“The thing of it is, Sin, we ain’t in London,” the viscount remonstrated with a grin. “Just in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I’ve noticed,” Sinclair said shortly.
With his knee, he pushed Wetherly’s boots off the cot to allow himself passage across the tent. Once there Sebastian began to rummage in the trunk he’d brought out from England two years ago.
“Frankly, it’s damned impossible not to notice,” Sinclair went on, “when one is forced to sit down to dinner with gentlemen who haven’t had more than a rudimentary spit and polish in months. And in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a perfectly good river within a quarter mile of camp. I see no reason not to avail ourselves of the opportunity.”
“The Beau’s orders seem reason enough for me,” the viscount said mildly, watching his friend lay clean clothes on the end of the cot. “The presence of a few bands of French deserters and the occasional Spanish bandit in the area might provide another. Not that I expect either to make the slightest difference to your plans, of course.”
“Good,” Sinclair said, lifting the breeches of his spare uniform out of the trunk and holding them up for inspection. “What the hell did they clean these with?” he muttered. “Mud, do you suppose?”
Wetherly recognized the observation as rhetorical and not requiring an answer.
“Boredom,” the viscount said instead. “That’s all that’s wrong with you. Our collective stench hasn’t bothered you before. Now, all of a sudden things have quieted down, no Frenchies to kill, and you damn well can’t stand it. So you plan this little adventure into enemy territory—”
“The enemy is a dozen miles away,” Sinclair said absently, brushing at the suspicious brown smear on the otherwise spotless white linen. “The rabble that’s out there…” He gestured outside the tent with a tilt of his head. “They want nothing to do with soldiers. Attacking old men and girls is more their style.”
“If you’re taken, and they demand ransom, Wellington won’t pay it,” Wetherly warned. “Not after that last harebrained episode he was forced to extricate you from. And if no one pays the ransom, Sin, my lad, you’ll be sold to the highest bidder. Probably end up in a harem somewhere. Spend the rest of your days as a rich old woman’s lapdog.”
The famous Sinclair eyes, deep blue and surrounded by a sweep of long black lashes, lifted from their consideration of the uniform.
“Do you think so?” Sinclair asked. For the first time he seemed genuinely interested in his friend’s opinion. “How exciting. Of course, Dare would be displeased to have me disappear into Spain. Family feeling and all that. Never forgive me, I suspect. Or the Beau.”
Despite the seeming arrogance of that last phrase, everyone in camp was aware that Sebastian Sinclair, who had been affectionately and rather accurately known as Sin since his school days, never sought to trade on Wellington’s well-known friendship with his oldest brother. And because the viscount knew him so well, he understood that Sebastian would never dream of doing so. To Sinclair that would be a far worse offense than sneaking off for a dip in the nearby river.
After all, Wellington’s order hadn’t applied to his officers. They were simply charged with seeing that it was carried out. In leaving camp Sebastian would not be disobeying the letter of his commander’s directive, only its spirit. That was exactly the kind of moral hair-splitting at which the youngest Sinclair had always excelled.
“Oh, yes. Lapdog or a harem. I have it on the best authority,” Wetherly said solemnly. “And if your reputation with the ladies has in the least preceded you, I can guarantee there will be a spirited bidding for your services.”
Laughing, Sinclair aimed one of his extra pair of boots at his friend, who warded it off with a practiced twist of his wrist.
“There are, I suppose, worse fates than becoming a love slave,” Sebastian said.
