Claiming His Defiant Miss

Seduced by her bodyguard!

Aristocrat’s daughter May Worth is beautiful, headstrong...and in trouble. There’s only one man who can protect her: Liam Casek, her brother’s best friend, a government agent and the man whose sinfully seductive touch she’s never forgotten.

Rakish Liam always knew May’s wild beauty would be the death of him, but if he’s to protect her with his life, he’s damned if he’ll deny their still-sizzling chemistry! May is everything Liam wants—if only he dares claim this defiant miss for his own.

Wallflowers to Wives

Out of the shadows, into the marriage bed!

In Regency England young women were defined by their prospects in the marriage market. But what of the girls who were presented to Society…and not snapped up?

Bronwyn Scott invites you to

The Left Behind Girls’ Club

Three years after their debut, and still without rings on their fingers, Claire Welton, Evie Milham, May Worth and Beatrice Penrose are ready to leave the shadows and step into the light. Now London will have to prepare itself… because these overlooked girls are about to take the ton by storm!

Read Claire’s story in

Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss

Read Evie’s story in

Awakening the Shy Miss

Read May’s story in

Claiming His Defiant Miss

Available now!

And watch for Bea’s story—

Marrying the Rebellious Miss—coming soon!

Author Note

May and Liam’s tale is a coming of age story at its core, which makes it a very relatable storyline. It explores the practicalities of what it takes for love to survive. Is physical passion enough? There’s young love thwarted by the ‘wisdom’ of older minds—May’s father—and by a healthy dose of caution on May’s part. There’s also the issue of surviving change. We are not who we were at seventeen—how does love survive when we change? These are the issues that May and Liam deal with as former sweethearts who are reunited under unexpected circumstances.

These were interesting aspects to explore—not only against a Regency backdrop, in which family and reputation are everything, but also as timeless issues to explore in today’s world, where we are beset with technologies that make reconnection more possible than ever. One marketing site points out that modern high school sweethearts who marry in their teens only have a fifty-four per cent chance of that marriage lasting ten years. Only two per cent of high schoolers who marry their sweetheart go on to get a college education. I think that’s what would have happened to May and Liam, Regency-style, if she had married him the first time he asked. May recognises that, while she loves him, there are things like family and her own sense of independence she has to sort out before she can be a successful partner. Only when May and Liam know themselves can they fully engage in the love they have for one another.

I hope you enjoy their journey. I invite you to come and post your thoughts about first love and your own love journeys at bronwynswriting.blogspot.com.

Claiming His Defiant Miss

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and the proud mother of three wonderful children—one boy and two girls. When she’s not teaching or writing she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages. Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Books by Bronwyn Scott

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

and Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks

Wallflowers to Wives

Unbuttoning the Innocent Miss

Awakening the Shy Miss

Claiming His Defiant Miss

Rakes on Tour

Rake Most Likely to Rebel

Rake Most Likely to Thrill

Rake Most Likely to Seduce

Rake Most Likely to Sin

Rakes of the Caribbean

Playing the Rake’s Game

Breaking the Rake’s Rules

Craving the Rake’s Touch (Undone!)

Rakes Who Make Husbands Jealous

Secrets of a Gentleman Escort

London’s Most Wanted Rake

An Officer But No Gentleman (Undone!)

A Most Indecent Gentleman (Undone!)

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

For Catie, Tonia and my Brony, who came up with the name for this hero. Thanks for helping me create a memorable hero.

And to all the girls out there. If there’s one lesson I want you to have from this story, it’s that love will find you—sometimes you just have to wait.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Wallflowers to Wives

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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 Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Preston Worth might very well die this time. Liam Casek stripped off his shirt and tore away a wide strip with an efficiency born of too much experience—he’d patched up Preston more than once. But tonight might be the last time. He pressed the wad of cloth to the gash in Preston’s chest, alarmed by its location so near a lung and alarmed by the size of the crimson spread. It was too much for a mere strip of linen to staunch.

‘Case!’ Preston groaned with hoarse urgency, frantically grabbing at his arm to make him listen. ‘Leave me, they might be back.’ ‘They’ being the ambushers who’d come upon them on the road at dusk. There’d simply been too many to fight off, yet they had succeeded, at the price of Preston’s wound. It might have been Preston’s wound that saved them. The ambushers had retreated, perhaps convinced the natural course of events would finish off their prey.

‘Be still,’ Liam growled, all gruffness as he tied another strip around Preston’s chest to hold the bandage in place. ‘We have to get you stitched up.’ But the bleeding had to stop first. He racked his brain for a plan. The nearest town was two miles back. ‘Cover the bandage with your hand and press hard.’ Liam got his hands under Preston’s armpits. ‘We’re going to get you to the verge.’ He hated moving Preston, but the middle of the road was no place for a wounded man in the dark. It made an easy target for careless carriages and returning thugs.

Preston grunted against the pain as Liam hauled him to the side, no easy feat considering Preston was as tall as he was—a few inches over six foot, and nearly a dead weight—hopefully not about to become more dead. Liam propped his friend against a sturdy tree trunk and examined the bandage as best he could in the fading light. It would be entirely dark soon. Damn winter! There was never enough daylight and Liam desperately needed some now. He could feel rather than see the blood soaking the bandage.

‘I hurt, Case,’ Preston admitted and there was the briefest flicker of fear in his eyes.

‘Pain is good,’ Liam offered encouragingly. ‘You’re doing great. You’re conscious, you’re talking, you’re not numb.’ Numbness was what Liam feared most, a sure sign of impending death. He’d seen it too often in the wars. He was no doctor, but he was a veteran of battlefields.

‘Those men,’ Preston ground out, ‘Cabot Roan sent them.’

Liam nodded, too busy with his triage. He was not surprised. The attack tonight confirmed what they’d feared. Cabot Roan was a wealthy businessman suspected by important men in both the Home and Foreign Offices of leading an arms cartel. The cartel was made up of wealthy, private citizens who had manufactured arms for England during the recent wars and were missing their incomes now that the wars were over and there was no need for arms contracts. Now, those businessmen were selling arms to various revolutionary efforts across Europe. It went without saying that many of those efforts did not necessarily align with the British Empire’s own foreign-policy aims, which made these men traitors. But proof was needed that Cabot Roan was behind the arms deals. That was Preston’s job. If the ringleader was indeed Roan, the man was to be discreetly stopped. That was Liam’s job.

‘The hunches must be right, then. That’s good news. Roan wouldn’t have sent his thugs if there was nothing to hide.’ Liam kept talking, kept smiling. He didn’t want Preston to panic. He thought the bleeding might be slowing down at last. There was still too damn much of it, though. He couldn’t wait any longer to get help. ‘Do you think you can ride? Just a couple of miles?’

Preston nodded. ‘Even if I can’t, we have to try. We can’t stay here and this is serious. You’re going to need light to work by, Case.’ As opposed to the other times Preston had been shot, knifed or otherwise needed his attentions, Liam thought wryly. If the situation wasn’t dire, he would have laughed. As it was, Liam thought he needed a sight more than light to make Preston right again.

Liam moved to help him rise, but Preston stayed him with a hand. ‘Wait, before you do that I have to tell you something.’ Liam heard the unspoken message. In case I become unconscious because moving hurts too bloody much. Which was better than the other unspoken message: In case I become unconscious and don’t wake up. Ever.

‘You can tell me after the doctor has you stitched up and you’re resting.’ Liam didn’t like Preston thinking in those terms. It was always bad when the patient recognised how serious the situation was.

Preston grabbed for his arm. ‘No doctor, Case. No inn. Promise me.’ He was breathing hard with the force of his words. ‘It’s too public. Inns are the first places Roan will look for us and doctors will be the first people he’ll question.’

Liam nodded in understanding. He had a plan now. He’d remembered something. ‘There’s a farmhouse not far back. But you have to let me go for a doctor.’

Preston shook his head, adamant. ‘You can be my doctor. You’ve stitched me up enough to know how to do it right.’ He tried to laugh and grimaced against the pain.

‘None of that now.’ Liam held him upright until the spasm passed. ‘We’ll laugh about this later.’ He doubted he’d laugh about this ever. But it was just like Preston to offer reassurance even when he was the one bleeding on the roadside.

The spasm over, Preston drew a shaky breath. ‘Now, will you listen to me? I found proof about Cabot Roan and the cartel yesterday, before you joined me.’

This was good news. ‘Where is it?’ If anyone had thought Preston had the information was on him the thugs would never have left him alive. Liam hoped it wasn’t in the saddlebags of the horse that had bolted.

‘I mailed two copies of the proof. One, straight to London and another to my sister in case the London mail is intercepted.’ Preston continued to grip his arm. ‘She’s in Scotland, outside Edinburgh in a small village with a friend. You need to go to her and keep her safe until the information can be used to bring Cabot in.’

Liam didn’t like the sound of that at all. He didn’t like the sound of anything that involved May Worth. ‘Why would Roan even think to go after your sister?’ After all these years, it was still difficult to speak her name.

‘Because...’ Preston was growing agitated ‘...Cabot Roan knows I’m the one who broke into his house. I was sloppy, he saw my face. He’ll go after May, Case, and I can’t be there to protect her.’

Obviously. Wounded, Preston could do nothing to protect anyone. But even hale, Preston would be a beacon leading Roan straight to May if he tried to reach her. Roan would be watching Preston’s every move...if he lived through the night. ‘Give me your word, Case. You will protect May.’

‘With my life,’ Liam promised, because he would have promised Preston Worth anything, even if it was walking into the special hell that was May Worth. ‘Now, let’s get you up on that horse.’ He owed Preston more than he could repay. He just wished he didn’t owe Preston that.

He had a thousand questions. What was May really doing in Scotland? It seemed an unlikely place for the daughter of an influential Englishman like Preston’s father. Which village? Preston hadn’t given him a name. But questions would have to wait. There was no chance for them now. Preston was unconscious before they’d even gone a quarter-mile, his body sagging against Liam’s as they rode, exhausted from the fight, the pain, the loss of blood. It was probably better for him this way, but it sure made it deuced hard to get off the horse with an unconscious man.

‘I need help! I have a wounded man!’ Liam called out as he nudged his horse cautiously into the farmyard. It was full dark now and strangers at this hour would make an isolated farmer wary. ‘I come peacefully!’ But he slid a hand over the smooth comfort of his pistol butt even as he spoke. A man could never be too careful.

He waited several long moments before the farmhouse door opened and a man emerged, lamp in hand. ‘Please, help us. He’s hurt badly. I need to stitch him up.’ Liam struggled to keep the panic out of his voice. Preston Worth would not die on him. But if he was going to be any help to Preston, he had to remain calm, had to take charge. People didn’t question authority, they responded to it. The man hurried forward, calling for others to come and help. Two tall, gangly boys spilled out of the house behind him, followed by a woman who came and silently held the lamp.

Hands reached for Preston as Liam eased him down. ‘Careful, he’s been stabbed,’ Liam ordered more sharply than necessary, but the family took it in their stride. His best friend was bleeding out right before his eyes and he’d never felt so helpless. What if his skill wasn’t enough? What if he should risk a doctor after all? Liam swung off the horse and tossed the reins to the other boy. ‘Take care of him, I’ll need him rested.’ The movement, the command, was enough to regain his focus. He couldn’t think about what he couldn’t do. He had to focus on what he could do. That was the trick to surviving disaster. He’d survived enough of those to know. Just think about the next thing that needs to happen.

He caught the woman’s eye and issued another set of instructions. ‘I need compresses, bandages and hot water heating.’ She gave a sharp nod and led everyone inside.

Liam scanned the room. ‘Clear the table and let’s get him laid out.’ It would be the best place to work, near the fire with plenty of heat and light. Liam took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, finding a basin of hot water ready at his elbow.

‘Leftover from cooking dinner,’ the woman explained with a kind smile. ‘It will do until fresh is ready and you’ll be wanting these.’ She produced a needle and thread.

‘And a candle, some whisky, too, if you have it.’ Liam pulled back Preston’s shirt, able to see the wound clearly for the first time.

‘You’re a doctor, then?’ The woman passed him a brown bottle.

‘Something like that.’ What he did could hardly be called doctoring. Doctors were wealthy men who went to schools and universities and had white lace-curtained offices. The only schooling Liam had was what Preston had given him and the only doctoring he’d acquired was on a Serbian battlefield. He prayed tonight it would be enough.

Liam pulled out the stopper, taking a deep sniff. It was good whisky, strong whisky, and it was going to hurt like hell. He nodded to the older boy. ‘Take him by the shoulders and hold him firm. He’s going to want to jerk when this firewater hits him.’ The boy was pale, but he did what he was told.

Liam bent over Preston and offered the explanation out of habit, the words more for himself than Preston, who remained unconscious. ‘I’m sorry to do it, old friend, but it’ll clean out the wound and cut down your chances of inflammation.’ He poured the whisky on Preston’s chest, lending his own weight when Preston roared and bucked. Good, good, Liam thought. Preston could still be roused, he still had some strength. ‘Be still, Pres, we’re at the farmhouse and I’m stitching you up just like you wanted,’ he murmured the reassuring words.

‘No doctors.’ Preston’s voice was hoarse and insistent.

‘No doctors.’ Liam smiled, his face close to his friend’s so Preston could see his eyes. ‘We’re safe here.’ He hoped that was true. He hoped Roan’s men wouldn’t come barging through the door any minute. He hoped they wouldn’t come and harass this kind family tomorrow. He’d been careful with his trail even in the dark, but there was only so much care one could take with a wounded man who needed speed more than he needed discretion. Discretion took time and Preston hadn’t any of that to spare.

‘Here’s the items you wanted.’ The woman held up a needle, already threaded. She offered a friendly smile. ‘I have to be prepared with these three around. There’s always cuts and bruises on a farm.’ She sobered. ‘How bad is it?’

Liam stepped aside, letting her look as he held the needle in the flame. ‘I don’t think anything vital was hit, but he’s lost a lot of blood.’ He nodded his head towards the whisky bottle. ‘Give him some to drink now, he’ll need it once this needle goes in him.’ With luck, Preston would pass out after the first couple of stitches. But first, he had to bathe the wound. He wanted a clean working surface. The fresh hot water was ready now and he dipped a cloth in it. Washing away the blood made it look better, better being a relative term. The bleeding had stopped, he could see that now, and he could put aside his worry that the knife had punctured a lung. But the gash was long and it was ugly, made by a jagged blade. Preston wasn’t going to get out of this without a scar.

The farmer took up a position at Preston’s head with one of his sons. ‘You’ll probably need two of us. Your friend looks like quite the fighter.’ The woman and the other son each grabbed a leg. Liam drew a deep breath, prayed for steady hands, crossed himself and began to sew.

* * *

It was over in a matter of minutes although it felt like hours. Liam was exhausted. He looked at his handiwork. Would it be enough? Had his precautions been enough to ward off inflammation? He’d been in enough battles to know it wasn’t the wound that killed a soldier. More often than not, it was the swelling that followed, or the poor medical work, lace-curtained training or not. He couldn’t bring himself to think of being the agent of Preston’s demise instead of his salvation. If it hadn’t been for Preston, he would still be scrambling for work and living hand to mouth in the streets.

The farmer slipped an arm about his shoulders, drawing him back from the table. ‘My boys will watch him while the wife cleans up. Let’s go and have something to drink. You’ve had a hell of a night.’

And it wasn’t even over. The farmer pressed a glass of whisky into his hand. ‘We’ll make up a pallet for you in front of the fire. You can be near your friend.’

‘No, I have to push on.’ Liam swallowed the whisky, letting the gulp burn down his throat and warm his belly. The illusion of warmth gave him the strength he needed to resist the offer. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and stay near, but he had promised Preston. He had miles to go before he could rest. The more distance between him and Cabot Roan, the better. ‘You’ve already done so much, but I have one more favour to ask.’

‘Consider it done,’ the farmer interrupted. ‘We’ll watch over your friend as best we can and hope no fever sets in.’ Preston was stitched, but that wasn’t a miracle cure-all.

‘I can pay you. He’ll need food, meat to build back the blood he’s lost.’ Liam reached in his pocket for a bag of coins and pressed it into the farmer’s hand.

‘It’s not necessary.’ The farmer tried to give back the bag.

‘It is, I assure you. You have done a greater good tonight than you realise.’ Liam furrowed his brow. ‘You’ve done so much and I don’t know your name.’

‘It’s Taylor. Tom Taylor. And yours?’

Liam grinned. ‘My friends call me Case.’ The farmer nodded sagely, understanding the protection Liam had offered him. Sometimes names could be dangerous. Better that this good family not know too much. Liam did not want them harmed in return for their generosity.

The farmer jerked his head towards the inside. ‘Do you think anyone will come looking for him?’ He’d want to know, would want to protect his family.

‘Maybe.’ Liam wouldn’t lie to them. He hoped not. Preston would need a couple of weeks to recover, a month even to be back to full strength. He glanced inside at Preston’s prone figure. He didn’t want to leave, but he couldn’t wait. Edinburgh was a long way from where he was. He’d need a head start if he was going to reach May in time, assuming Cabot Roan even knew to look there. Liam hoped he didn’t. He wanted to gamble that May’s remote and unexpected location would protect her. Then he could stay until Preston was in the clear.

The farmer looked to the sky. ‘There will be rain tonight. A lot of it. Are you sure you want to go?’

He wasn’t sure at all. He didn’t want to go, but he’d given Preston his word. He had to go to May whether she needed protection or not, never mind she’d be about as pleased to see him as he was pleased to be there.

Liam didn’t bother to go back inside. His resolve was weak enough. The offer of a fire and a hot meal would do him in. He shook the farmer’s hand, thanked him once more and mounted up with a wary eye skyward. Maybe the rain would hold off, he was due some luck. Two miles down the road the clouds broke in a soaking deluge. Whoever said the Irish were lucky definitely hadn’t met Liam Casek.

Chapter Two

Village on the Firth of Forth, Scotland—November 1821

‘A penny and nothing more,’ May Worth argued, facing down Farmer Sinclair and his carrots in the market. Farmer Sinclair didn’t want to sell her carrots any more than she wanted to buy them from him, not at that price. ‘Three pennies for a bundle of carrots is highway robbery.’

‘A man’s got to feed his family.’ Sinclair rubbed his stubbly chin with a weathered hand. He gave her a steady look. ‘What do you care if they’re one penny or three, you can afford it either way.’

‘Being of means, as modest as they are,’ May emphasised, ‘doesn’t mean I squander them unnecessarily.’ In the four months she and Bea had been in residence, they’d tried to live frugally in an attempt to call the least amount of attention to themselves as possible. Still, despite their best efforts, there were some like Farmer Sinclair who’d concluded they were ladies of independent means.