Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

He held onto her. “I have not forgotten anything about you.”


Her gaze snapped to his in the mirror. The wildness in her blue eyes slammed into him. His Cat. His wife. His lover.

Everything pulsed through him, hard. The ache and the fire and the madness he had carried for years. It pulsed through his blood and became a buzzing in his ears.

He dipped his head and nuzzled the sensitive skin at the back of her neck. Her spine arched helplessly against his mouth as he knew it would.

She smelled of roses, and warm skin, and woman. And she felt so damn good in his arms.

“You have not forgotten me, either.” Her skin was hot beneath his mouth. She shivered as he trailed kisses beneath her ear, then caught the sensitive lobe between his teeth.

God, he had missed her. He was a fool to have stayed away so long.

He lowered both his hands to cup her breasts and brushed his thumbs across her nipples. She dropped her head back against his shoulder, the sound of her breath heavy in the room.

She wanted him. He would not let her pretend that she didn’t.

He molded and shaped the heavy weight of her breasts until he felt her legs threaten to give way beneath her.

He caught her nipples and gently squeezed as he kissed the soft skin of her throat.

“Jamie,” she cried out, pressing back against him, seeking more contact.

Blood roared in his ears. He had loved this woman, had given her everything—his heart, his name, his future—and she’d made him look a fool.

Not just look a fool, but also feel a fool.

Yet he did not want to let her go.

“You’ll not get me to sign an annulment.” He turned her in his arms and claimed her mouth. Their first kiss in five years. She was soft and open and tasted of home. Of the very texture of his soul.

She was everywhere. In his breath. In his blood. She always had been and always would be.

Cat pressed her belly against the hard length of his cock. His hands found the hem of her robe and night rail, then the moist, wanting place between her legs. She shuddered in his arms, ready for him. Ready for more.

He backed her toward the bed. He would take her once, fierce. It could not be helped. Then he would pleasure her. He would remember every inch of her skin.

She froze in his arms. “No.”

A growl rose in his throat.

“I do not want this.” She panted for breath.

He clenched his jaw before speaking again. “You have about three seconds to get back into your room and lock the door before I’m coming after you.”

Her eyes widened as if she recognized the truth in his words. Her robe billowed out behind her as she fled.





Chapter Five





JAMIE DUG HIS SHOVEL deep in the earth and heaved a heavy clump of mud to the side. The strain on his muscles felt wonderful after the frustration of the night before.

Pent up as a rutting bull in a pen, that was he.

With a great shove, he buried the blade again. The mud made a sucking sound as he hauled out another load. The earth didn’t want to give up. Jamie knew how that felt, the stubbornness of clinging to muck and mire. He had let himself remain angry at Cat for five years now.

Holding a grudge was exhausting work. Maybe Cat was right, maybe it was past time he let it go.

With a sigh, he dredged out another clump of muck and threw it onto the growing pile.

He’d spent so many years reviewing the reasons he had to be angry with his wife—and they were good reasons—that he’d not even considered the possibility of forgiveness. He was like a ship sailing on one course for so long, he’d forgotten how to tack. An entire world waited on the other side of the horizon if he just dared to move the rudder.

Certainly, he’d wanted to set his course in Cat’s direction last night. Good Lord, but she was all temptation wrapped in soft silk, her hair down and golden in the firelight.

Annulment, his arse. He wasn’t letting Cat go.

“It will take a right mount o’tile to drain the field, milord.”

Dragging his thoughts back to the damp morning, Jamie glanced over at his land steward, Mr. Bourne. The man was short, with a brimmed cap and boots that went over his knees. He was half covered in mud.

Jamie leaned against the handle of his shovel. “Then we will fire more tile.” It seemed so simple, his plan to turn this swampland into arable fields. Change felt not only possible, but nearly guaranteed of success. What if his marriage could follow the same path? “Let’s lay the first tile, shall we? I’d like to test our theory.”

“Robert and I can do it, sir.” Mr. Bourne looked over his shoulder to where his boy waited with the horse and wagon. Three tiles were stacked within. “It’s a tricky thing.”

Jamie didn’t argue. The land steward had struggled enough that morning, watching the Marquess of Forster dig in the mud. He stepped back from the hole he’d dug and let the man and his boy take over.