Scandal: His Majesty's Love-Child. Annie West

was a lightening of the haunted shadows in her eyes.

      He next tugged Abby’s ponytail. “Nice to meet you.” Warmth unfurled in him when she smiled.

      Connor then stood before Nora and took her injured hand. A test, for old time’s sake. Just a harmless test. When he turned it over and kissed the pulse at her wrist, the soft flesh jolted. Hot triumph burned through him—she still reacted to his touch.

      Unfortunately his body reacted in kind.

      Stepping back, he nodded. “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure.” He turned and strolled down the sidewalk.

      He had reached the next line of stores when Nora called out, “You weren’t serious about staying here permanently, were you?”

      His step almost faltered. Everyone’s anxiousness to see him gone, especially Nora’s, angered him. He should set the record straight.

      He looked over his shoulder. Did he imagine the flicker of panic in her eyes? He still felt contrary enough to let the half-truth stand—for now. “Very serious.”

      He reached his pride-and-joy, a gleaming Harley-Davidson Fat Boy motorcycle, and straddled it. As he cinched on his helmet, he delivered his parting shot. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

      Nora gaped.

      After a careless salute, Connor revved the bike’s engine and roared off down the road. Next up, his meeting with the devil.

      Chapter Two

      The old church hunkered on the windswept hill at the west end of Maple Street. A third-generation building, it stood on the foundation of its predecessors. When the first two structures had succumbed to fire, no one had dared to move the location of the First Community Church of Arcadia Heights.

      No minister had guarded the First Community Church tradition more zealously than its current minister: the town’s first female pastor.

      The first thing that struck Connor as he sat on his motorcycle in front of the church was how little it had changed. Its clapboard still glared pristine white under the late-morning sun. Its steeple was a stark pillar thrusting upward to pierce the blue plane of the autumn sky. The steeple could be seen for miles. When its bells clanged on Sunday morning, few could escape their imperious summons.

      Connor kicked down the bike stand and slung his helmet over the handlebar. He ran his fingers through his hair and tucked in his T-shirt. He walked along the bricked sidewalk. At the path’s split, rather than taking the steps to the church’s entrance, he veered to the right. At this time on Saturday, if the keeper of the faith maintained her ritual, she’d be polishing her Sunday sermon in the cottage’s study. His practiced eye noted the stern, cropped lines of the viburnum hedges along the perimeter of the church. He knew the shrubs weren’t pruned just for the oncoming winter. Come spring, no twig would be permitted to sprout its spectacular white flowers.

      He turned the corner and faced the place where he had grown up. Reaching the pine-green-painted door, he opted to rap his knuckles rather than use the imposing brass knocker. He counted the seconds it would take the resident to rise from her chair and cross the hallway.

      The door swung out, and a tall woman with a smile that didn’t quite mask her annoyance stood in the entrance’s shadows. “I’m sorry, but could you please come back later when…” Her lips thinned with displeasure. “Connor. What are you doing here?”

      Because he knew it would irritate her, he leaned forward and brushed his lips across the woman’s cheek. “Hello, Mother. Nice to see you, too.”

      She grimaced and, with her hand on the knob, retreated a step into the dim shadows of the entryway.

      “Don’t bother inviting me in.” Connor leaned against the doorjamb, keeping one foot extended in case she tried to shut the door in his face.

      Sheila Devlin folded her hands in front of her body and studied him. “I see you haven’t changed. Still look like a third-rate hooligan.”

      Her disapproval, though expected, was a painful reminder of the abuse she once inflicted. “Thanks, Mom. I wish I could say the same for you.” He returned the survey. Gray hairs, like shards of ice, speared through her auburn hair. This sign of mortality only served to enhance his mother’s air of authority. Her aquiline nose and frosty blue eyes bespoke her Irish heritage, but the fine lines radiating from her full lips signaled rigid self-control. She wore her uniform of black tailored slacks, crisp Oxford buttoned-down shirt and polished black loafers.

      She arched a well-shaped patrician brow. “I assume your return has to do with Ed Miller’s death, but you’re a little late. His funeral was a month ago.”

      He shrugged. “There are other ways to pay one’s last respects.”

      “What?” His mother was the only person he’d ever known who could snort with elegance. “Uproot a flower in his honor?”

      Her barb, as intended, sliced deep, but Connor merely rubbed his chin. “What a great idea. Thanks, Mother.” He straightened. “I came by to let you know I’m here and will be staying at Ed’s farm.”

      His movement allowed a shaft of sunlight to stream into the hallway and fall short at his mother’s feet.

      “Why?”

      “Because Ed left me the place, and I have plans for it.” Motes danced in the sunbeam. Funny, when he had been growing up, Sheila had kept the rooms white-glove clean. He didn’t recall her allowing even one speck of dust to occupy the same space with her. She certainly hadn’t permitted a young boy’s toys.

      “What plans could you possibly have?”

      He jammed his hands into his pockets. Better than ramming one into the wood frame. “Nothing to interest you. Just a landscaping business.”

      “Still into dirt.” The motes scattered as if they could sense the derision emanating from her. “Have you seen her?”

      Trust his mother to get right to the point. Connor set his jaw. “Yes.”

      “We had a deal.”

      And he had never been able to sweat off the weight of his wretched promise under the unrelenting sun of Florida. His voice was rough. “Never fear, Mother. It’s over for both of us. I met Nora’s daughter.” He doubted if he would have any success of working this particular ache out of his system this afternoon.

      His mother laced her fingers. Despite the fact she couldn’t hurt him anymore, the gesture sent a chill racing along his spine. As a child, he’d learned that the linking of her fingers signaled her more violent outbursts. His gaze flicked up to her face; some emotion darkened her eyes momentarily. Then her face resumed its expressionless mask. “Good.” She hesitated. “I do hope your ‘plans’ won’t take you long.”

      Connor removed his foot from the opening. “Your welcome is overwhelming.”

      He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but his mother’s posture became even more rigid. “I’m up for a promotion to a higher office. A much more affluent parish.”

      His smile was rueful. “And you’re worried that my return will screw up your chances for ‘exalted-dom.’”

      Her chin lifted. “Crude as always, but accurate.”

      He turned on his heel. “Not to worry, Pastor Devlin. I’ll try not to lay too many sins at your door. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment to keep with Nora about legal matters.”

      He went down the porch steps.

      “Connor!” The unfamiliar note of anxiety brought him around in surprise. Sheila’s emotions normally lay dormant, except when she preached. His mother ventured into the sunlight. “There’s nothing for you here. Certainly not that McCall girl. If you try to take up with her, you’ll just ruin her life.”

      His hands clenched in his pockets. Keep them there,