Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress. Nicola Cornick

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      The moment in which I set out upon my journey to the house of Glen Clair and Mr. Sinclair behaves as no gentleman should.

      I drew a deep breath. My heart was hammering. “Are you, by any chance, asking me to be your mistress, Mr. Sinclair?”

      A disturbingly sensuous smile curled Neil Sinclair’s lips. “Would that be so very bad, Miss Balfour? I am offering you a comfortable home instead of a ruin in the back of beyond with relatives who do not want you.”

      “You are not offering it for nothing!”

      His smile deepened. He put out a hand and touched my cheek gently. I was so shocked at the physical contact that I jumped.

      “All I ask in return,” he said, “is something that should be intensely pleasurable for both of us.”

      Once again I felt that jolt deep inside me. I swallowed hard and pushed away the heated images of lust and loving.

      “I thought,” I said, “that you did not even like me very much.”

      I saw something primitive and strong flare in his eyes, scorching me.

      “Then you know little of men, Miss Balfour,” he said. His tone had roughened. “I wanted you from the first moment I saw you.”

      Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress

      Harlequin^®Historical

      To Elspeth and Sheila, the original Miss Bennies and

       so much nicer than their fictional counterparts!

      Author Note

      A few years ago my mother-in-law gave me an ancient copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic novel Kidnapped as a birthday present. I had read and enjoyed the book many years before and now I picked it up again and was plunged into a world of romance and intrigue and adventure. When I finished it I thought how exciting it would be to write my own version, inspired by the original, and so the idea of Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress was born. My husband’s family are Scots and we visit the Scottish Highlands every year, so I used all the places I know and love as the setting for my book. Writing a book set in Scotland was such a thrill that I definitely plan to write a sequel!

      I hope that you enjoy Kidnapped: His Innocent Mistress, which is a homage to both Robert Louis Stevenson’s wonderful story and to Scotland, one of the most beautiful countries on earth.

      NICOLA CORNICK

      KIDNAPPED: His Innocent Mistress

      Available from Harlequin^® Historical and NICOLA CORNICK

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      Also available from

      HQN™ Books

      Christmas Keepsakes

       “The Season for Suitors”

      Deceived

       Lord of Scandal Unmasked

      All’s fair in love and matrimony in Nicola Cornick’s wildly romantic new series Brides of Fortune. Meet the ladies of Fortune’s Folly—spirited heiresses who are more than a match for society’s most dashing rogues!

      Coming this summer from HQN Books!

      THE CONFESSIONS OF A DUCHESS

       THE SCANDALS OF AN INNOCENT THE UNDOING OF A LADY

      Praise for Nicola Cornick’s HQN novels

      “A beguiling blend of danger and desire.”

      —Booklist on Unmasked

      “Cornick expertly spices her latest Regency historical with danger, while the sizzle she cooks up between her sinfully sexy hero and delightfully resourceful heroine is simply spectacular.”

      —Booklist on Lord of Scandal

      “Nicola Cornick creates a glittering, sensual world of historical romance that I never want to leave.”

      —bestselling author Anna Campbell

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter One

      In which I meet the hero, as all good heroines should.

      My name is Catriona Balfour and this is the story of my adventures. I will begin on a certain afternoon early in the month of July in the year 1802, when I buried my father in the graveyard at Applecross, beside the sea. I was eighteen years old.

      A melancholy beginning, perhaps. Truth is, it had been a melancholy year. My mother had been taken a bare two months before, carried off by a fever brought to the village by a travelling peddler who came selling ribbons and buckles, gloves and scarves. My mother had bought a length of muslin for a new summer gown. When she died the pattern was only half made.

      I stood by my father’s fresh-turned grave and thought that at the least he had a fine view. The curve of the bay was before us, in all its harebell-blue beauty. Beyond it, across the shining water, were the jagged tops of the mountains of Skye. The air was soft that summer morning, and smelled of salt and seaweed. The sun was warm on my back and my best black bombazine dress—dreadfully disfiguring—crackled when I moved, the material so stiff that the gown would have stood up on its own. I admit it—even as I stood there, hazy with grief, I was aware of the ugliness of that dress and I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed that on the day of my father’s funeral I could be thinking of fashion and wishing for a silver gauze