By Karen Ranney
A guy within the shadows a few say he's risky. Others say he's mad. None of them understands the reality approximately Marshall Ross, the satan of Ambrose. He shuns right society, sworn to enable not anyone realize his poor mystery. together with the gorgeous girl he has selected to be his spouse. A fallen lady purely desperation might deliver Davina McLaren to the mythical Edinburgh fort to develop into the bride of a guy she hasn't ever met. stricken by scandal, left with out offerings, she has made her cut price with the satan. And now she needs to proportion his mattress. a hearth not like any they have ever identified From the instant they meet, Davina and Marshall are rocked via an unforeseen wish that leaves them merely longing for extra. however the pleasures of the wedding mattress can't defend them from the sins of the earlier. With an enemy of Marshall's drawing ever nearer and every little thing they now cherish so much at stake, he and Davina needs to struggle to guard the fervour they can't deny.
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Extra info for The Devil Wears Tartan
So must he have looked as they sailed into Canton Harbor. He clenched his left hand tightly. His bride was walking down the aisle toward him, her white lace dress and elbow-length gloves much too elaborate for this small chapel. Her gaze was on the front of the chapel, and he knew when she saw him. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and her footsteps slowed. His solicitor had said she was pretty. She wasn’t. His bride was radiant. Glorious. Perfect. There was color to her face, a ﬂush that lent her pearlized skin a soft glow.
He glanced at her. ” she asked. ” he asked. His eyes were crinkling at the corners, amusement seeming to color them even darker than normal. “I don’t think it’s that entertaining, Your Lordship,” she said. She couldn’t decide if she was annoyed or hurt, and the very fact that she was vacillating between the two emotions irritated her even further. “I didn’t know you were so well versed, Davina,” he said, still smiling. Before she could comment, he leaned over her. Without warning her of what he was about to do, he pushed her down on the bed.
When his mouth surrounded her nipple, she gasped. His hands were everywhere, his ﬁngers skimming across the ﬂesh of her stomach, her thighs. His palm THE DEVIL WEARS TARTAN 55 pressed against her left hip, and she wondered at the sensation. How could she feel so many things at once? He kissed her right breast and tongued the nipple, and then pulled at it gently. Surely that sound didn’t come from her? He pulled back and looked at her. What other sight in this garish room was as beautiful as Marshall Ross?