His Bid For A Bride

CAROLE MORTIMER is one of Mills & Boon’s most popular and prolific authors. Since her first novel was published in 1979, this British writer has shown no signs of slowing her pace. In fact, she has now published more than 145 novels!

Her strong, traditional romances, with their distinct style, brilliantly developed characters and romantic plot twists, have earned her an enthusiastic audience worldwide.

Carole was born in a village in England that she claims was so small that “if you blinked as you drove through it you could miss seeing it completely!” She adds that her parents still live in the house where she first came into the world, and her two brothers live very close by.

Carole’s early ambition to become a nurse came to an abrupt end after only one year of training due to a weakness in her back suffered in the aftermath of a fall. Instead she went on to work in the computer department of a well-known stationery company.

During her time there, Carole made her first attempt at writing a novel for Mills & Boon. “The manuscript was far too short and the plotline not up to standard, so I naturally received a rejection slip,” she says. “Not taking rejection well, I went off in a sulk for two years before deciding to have another go.” Her second manuscript was accepted, beginning a long and fruitful career. She says she has “enjoyed every moment of it!”

Carole lives “in a most beautiful part of Britain” with her husband and children.

“I really do enjoy my writing, and have every intention of continuing to do so for another twenty years!”

His Bid for a Bride

Carole Mortimer

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

PROLOGUE

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

EPILOGUE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

IT WAS sexual attraction.

Pure and simple.

Except there was nothing pure or simple about the way Skye felt right now.

She was hot and feverish, knew her eyes must be overbright, her cheeks flushed, each breath she took painful with the effort it took to complete even such an instinctive function. Her breasts were pert, nipples hard with arousal beneath the fitted pink sweater she wore, and as for the heated desire between her thighs—!

She could feel all that—and yet she wasn’t sure she even liked the man responsible for all these totally new, confusing feelings.

‘Connor, I have no intention of selling Storm to you just so that he can break your beautiful daughter’s neck for her the first time she tries to show off riding him in front of her friends,’ Falkner Harrington now told Skye’s father scathingly.

Falkner Harrington.

Arrogant. Condescending. Mocking. Handsome as the Vikings represented by that unusual first name!

Overlong blond hair, which should have looked ridiculous in this age of much shorter styles, merely added to this man’s already overt masculinity, the sharpness of his features; straight brows over hard blue eyes, his nose an arrogant slash, sensual mouth twisted with derision now, his chin square and determined—all these things merely emphasized the man’s untameable appearance.

Her more conservative father, in his business suit, shirt and tie, Skye acknowledged ruefully, looked more like a domesticated cat facing the fierceness of a jungle feline.

Her father shook his head smilingly. ‘Skye could ride before she could walk,’ he told the other man with dismissive affection. ‘Falkner, I promised to buy Skye an Arabian as an eighteenth birthday present,’ he added before the younger man could voice any more of the derision he made no effort to hide in that arrogantly handsome face. ‘More to the point, Falkner,’ her father added ruefully as he could obviously see the younger man’s disinterest in such a promise, ‘you and I both know that Storm’s unpredictable temperament just isn’t suited to the showjumping circuit.’

Falkner Harrington, at thirty-two years of age, was one of the top riders of the world showjumping circuit, and had been so for the last ten years.

But, as Skye also knew from numerous newspapers articles about the man, he was as much known for his prowess off the showjumping circuit as he was on it!

But, nevertheless, he had some nerve talking to her father in that condescending manner—because her father’s whiskey company had been this man’s sponsor for the last seven years.

She also didn’t like the fact that Falkner Harrington seemed to see her as some little rich girl who didn’t know one end of a horse from the other, merely wanted his precious Arabian as a fashion accessory to show off to her friends.

‘Skye?’ the younger man echoed mockingly, icy blue gaze flickering over her with scathing dismissal. ‘With a surname like O’Hara, wouldn’t Scarlett have been a more apt preface?’ he added derisively.

The taunt, Skye was sure, had more to do with her almost waist-length copper-red hair, confined in a ponytail at the moment, than it did with her surname!

Heated colour warmed her cheeks at this man’s deliberate rudeness; as if his own first name were so ordinary. Although, Skye had to admit, there was no denying how perfectly it suited his look of Viking fierceness…

‘My eyes are a sky-blue.’ She spoke for the first time, defensively, her voice husky, the slight Irish lilt making it more so.

Eyes of the same clear blue met her gaze with bold amusement. ‘So they are,’ Falkner Harrington acknowledged mockingly, that gaze raking over her with merciless assessment now, taking in the rounded beauty of her youthful face, the pink sweater over pert breasts, denims fitting tightly over the long length of her legs. ‘And you’re almost eighteen,’ he echoed sceptically, obviously finding that very hard to believe.

She was five feet six inches tall, not that short for a woman, her hair, when it wasn’t confined, a mixture of blonde, cinnamon and copper, her skin, now that she had at last passed through puberty, pale and flawless, her figure perhaps a little on the slender side rather than voluptuous, but there was time for that.

There was certainly nothing about her, Skye decided indignantly, that warranted this man looking at her as if she were no more than a precocious child!

‘Come on, Falkner,’ her father cajoled. ‘Just letting Skye take a look at the stallion isn’t going to do any harm, surely?’

‘No harm, no…’ the younger man agreed slowly, still looking assessingly at Skye.

A look she deeply resented. If he would just once let her near the stallion then she would show him—

She drew in a deeply controlling breath, forcing herself to smile naturally—which wasn’t easy when she considered this man had insulted both her father and herself in the last few minutes! ‘I really would like to see Storm, Mr Harrington; my father has done nothing but sing his praises since he saw him last week,’ she added encouragingly.

That deep blue gaze flickered briefly in the older man’s direction. ‘I wasn’t aware you had been to see Storm, Connor,’ he murmured softly—dangerously so.

Skye glanced at her father too, knowing by the slightly reproachful look he shot at her that she had just said something indiscreet.

‘I happened to be in this area on business last week,’ her father told the younger man with a dismissive shrug. ‘You were away at a competition at the time, but your groom kindly let me take a look at the stallion you’ve told me so much about.’

‘Really?’ The younger man’s relaxed demeanour hadn’t changed by so much as a flicker of the eyelids, and yet his displeasure at this revelation was nonetheless tangible.

Skye didn’t hold out much hope of the groom escaping verbally unscathed from this disclosure. ‘Surely it’s only reasonable for my father to want to take a look at something he intends offering to buy?’ she dismissed lightly.

Falkner Harrington looked at her coldly. ‘Reasonable, yes—if I had had any idea your father intended offering to buy one of my horses at all,’ he rasped. ‘Least of all Storm.’

‘But why would you want to keep him if he’s unsuitable for jumping?’ Skye continued recklessly; goodness knew her father, as this man’s sponsor, knew what it cost to stable, train, and compete horses who were suitable for the circuit, let alone ones that weren’t in that class.

Falkner Harrington looked down his arrogant nose at her impertinence. ‘Could it just be that perhaps it’s because he’s unsuitable for that purpose that I have my doubts about selling him to a young girl barely out of braces?’ he rasped harshly.

The twin spots of angry colour in her cheeks clashed wildly with the redness of her hair; how could this man possibly know that until a few months ago she had worn braces on her teeth?

Skye could see from the corner of her eye as her father shifted in his chair at this visible display of her rising temper, but she was too indignantly furious now to heed that subtle warning.

‘So you’re unwilling to even let me see Storm?’ she snapped between clenched teeth.

Falkner Harrington shrugged broad shoulders. ‘I have no problem at all with your seeing him.’

‘Then—’

‘Merely with your ever owning him,’ he concluded scathingly.

Skye opened her mouth, closing it again with a snap as her father sat forward slightly and lightly touched her arm. She glanced up at him, knowing her frustration must be evident from her expression.

He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head before turning back to the younger man. ‘As you know, Falkner, I have a pretty impressive stable myself in Ireland. I taught Skye to ride there,’ he added lightly. ‘She really is a very capable horsewoman,’ he assured the other man. ‘Professional standard, in fact,’ he added firmly.

That cold blue gaze flickered over her briefly before Falkner gave another shake of his head. ‘We’ve already agreed Storm’s temperament isn’t suited to that way of life.’

‘We’ll settle for just seeing him,’ Connor cajoled.

‘If you insist!’ Falkner Harrington accepted impatiently after a brief glance at his wrist-watch, obviously aware that he owed at least this much politeness to the man whose company was his professional sponsor. ‘Storm should be back from his gallop by now.’ He rose abruptly to his feet, at once revealing why he had looked down his arrogant nose at Skye’s own height minutes ago; at least six feet four inches tall himself, he must tower over almost everyone he met!

Her father, a man Skye had looked up to and admired her whole life, looked positively short beside the younger man, even the breadth and power of the older man’s shoulders doing nothing to allay that impression; Falkner Harrington had wide, powerful shoulders himself beneath the black jumper he wore, his waist and thighs muscular in cream riding trousers and boots.

The Falkner stable, as Skye had discovered for herself when she and her father had driven into the yard in their hire car a few minutes ago, was a large concern, and although the house itself was slightly run-down, both inside and out, the stables and training grounds were of the very highest standard.

Well, they would be, Skye thought disgruntledly; O’Hara Whiskey, her father’s company, paid for most of that!

But as Skye accompanied the two men outside, for all the resentment she now felt towards Falkner Harrington, both on her own and her father’s behalf, she realized that the sexual attraction she felt towards him was increasing to an almost overpowering degree.

The man was obviously lean and fit, his arrogant good looks beyond question, but it was the animal magnetism he exuded that made her tremble with longing, that made her aware of every aching inch of her own body in a way she never had been before.

But even those feelings faded to insignificance as they entered the cobbled stableyard and Skye fell in love for the first time in her life…

He was wonderful. Tall, dark, and so handsome he took her breath away, his face aristocratically beautiful as he looked down his long nose at her in arrogant query.

Storm.

Her father had told her the stallion was magnificent, pure black, with the fine delicacy Arabians were so known for, but he hadn’t told her how absolutely breathtakingly beautiful Storm was.

‘Thanks, Jim.’ Falkner Harrington took the reins from the groom who had just returned from exercising the magnificent stallion, patting the horse’s neck even as he spoke gently into one of the sensitively flicking ears.

‘What did I tell you, Skye?’ her father enthused happily beside her. ‘Isn’t he the most darlin’—?’

‘Sorry to interrupt.’ A softly spoken middle-aged woman crossed the yard towards them. ‘There’s a telephone call for you at the house, Mr O’Hara,’ she informed him lightly.

‘Ah.’ He nodded knowingly. ‘Can I leave Skye with you for a few minutes, Falkner? I really need to take this call.’

‘Go ahead.’ The younger man gave an abrupt inclination of his head. ‘Skye will be perfectly safe with me,’ he added tauntingly.

She gave him a sharp look before turning to give her father a reassuring smile, knowing he had been expecting this call from his older brother, Skye’s uncle Seamus, in Ireland.

‘You see what I mean.’ Falkner Harrington barely waited long enough for her father to follow the other woman out of the yard before turning scathingly to Skye, Storm moving skittishly on the reins, the beautiful brown eyes glaring his displeasure at this change in his morning routine. ‘Storm just isn’t suitable for a lightweight amateur,’ he added disgustedly.

‘Lightweight—!’

Her father really wasn’t exaggerating when he said she had been riding horses before she could walk. Her mother had died when Skye was less than a year old, and immediately after the funeral in England her father had sold up there and returned to his native Ireland to take over the running of the family business from his father, Old Seamus, taking baby Skye with him.

Instead of engaging a nanny to look after her, as most men would have done in the same circumstances, her father had simply taken her with him, either when working in his office, or in the stables that were really his first love.

Skye had been crawling under horses’ legs, and put up on their backs before she could even stand on her own two legs, leading the huge animals about by their reins by the time she was two years old, riding out with the grooms on their daily exercise by the time she was eight.

How dared this man call her an amateur?

She could never afterwards have even begun to explain what prompted her into her next action, even to herself; she seemed to see her own actions as if in slow motion.

She grabbed the reins from Falkner Harrington’s unsuspecting grasp, foot in the stirrup as she swung herself agilely up into the saddle, before galloping out of the stableyard up onto the downs she could see behind the house.

It was exhilarating, Storm responding to the lightest touch as he was allowed to do what he obviously loved best: running like the wind, his black mane flowing free, body stretched fully as hooves pounded easily across the grassy ground, almost seeming to fly as he jumped a hedge with effortless ease.

Riding Storm was the most thrilling experience of Skye’s young life, and she knew herself completely lost in the sheer ecstasy of the moment.

So much so that she had no idea she was no longer alone until a hand reached out to tightly clasp the reins, pulling sharply back on them, Skye almost tumbling over Storm’s head as he came to a shuddering, quivering stop.

‘Are you insane?’ Skye turned angrily on Falkner Harrington as he sat astride the showjumping horse Skye easily recognized as O’Hara’s Lad. ‘You could have knocked me off,’ she accused indignantly.

He was breathing deeply between pinched nostrils, his face white with anger as he swung down out of his saddle, his fingers tightly gripping Skye’s arm as he pulled her roughly from Storm’s back.

‘You little idiot!’ He shook her roughly, glaring down at her furiously. ‘You could have been killed!’

Skye smiled confidently. ‘No, I—’

‘Yes!’ Falkner ground out harshly. ‘Or Storm could!’ he added furiously.

Which was probably more to the point as far as he was concerned!

But before Skye could make any further protest Falkner’s mouth came roughly down on hers, the kiss he subjected her to owing nothing to gentleness and more to the anger that so obviously consumed him.

Nothing in Skye’s previously youthful experiences with the couple of boys she had so far dated had prepared her for this thoroughly adult kiss, Falkner giving no quarter as his mouth ruthlessly savaged hers, his arms like steel bands as he moulded her body so close to his she could hardly breathe.

Just when Skye thought she couldn’t stand it any more, that she was going to faint from sheer lack of breath in her lungs, Falkner thrust her roughly away from him, glaring down at her with eyes so pale a blue they were almost silver, breathing hard in his anger, every muscle and sinew of his body tensed with the fury that emanated from him.

‘You’re everything I thought you were earlier—and more!’ he told her coldly. ‘You’re also completely irresponsible. Spoilt. Reckless. But most of all—stupid!’ With one last disgusted look in her direction he swung himself up onto the stallion’s back, grabbed O’Hara’s Lad’s reins, and rode off.

Leaving Skye high and dry, in the middle of the Berkshire Downs, with only her legs to carry her back to the stable.

Where she knew, not only would Falkner Harrington’s anger be waiting there for her, but her father’s as well…

But worse than any of that, she knew that Falkner would never let her father buy Storm for her now.

CHAPTER ONE

‘JUST how much longer do you intend lying in this hospital bed feeling sorry for yourself?’

Skye stiffened at the first sound of that arrogant voice, quickly closing her eyes as if to shut out the man himself. It was over six years since she had last heard or seen Falkner Harrington, but she would nevertheless know that drawlingly confident voice anywhere!

‘I said—’

‘I heard what you said!’ Skye turned on him glaringly, recoiling slightly as she realized he had moved from the doorway to stand beside her bed, having to arch her neck in order to be able to look up at him, so tall and confident in casual denims and a black tee shirt.

Sexual attraction.

In spite of everything she had gone through—was still going through—the frisson of awareness that coursed through her body just from looking at Falkner told her that nothing had changed as regards her total physical awareness of him.

Although the man himself had subtly changed, she noted distractedly. Gone was the long hair, flecks of grey visible in the much shorter style, his face still as aristocratically handsome, those blue eyes coldly assessing as his gaze raked over her own changed appearance. But there were lines now beside his eyes and sculptured mouth that hadn’t been there six years ago, lines of pain as well as determination.

A week ago Skye would have known exactly what he would see as he looked at her, her hair cropped short now, the roundness of her face having thinned to leave hollow cheeks beneath blue eyes, her chin pointedly determined, and as for those voluptuous curves she had once coveted—if anything she was thinner now than she had been at eighteen, long hours of work having honed her body to perfect fitness.

Yes, a week ago she would have known exactly what Falkner would see as he looked at her, but she hadn’t looked in a mirror for a week, hadn’t brushed her hair or applied make-up during that time, either, even the gown she wore of the practical hospital variety.

‘Well?’ Falkner barked impatiently at her continued silence.

She gave a weary sigh, resenting him for making her exert herself enough even to answer him. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone? Why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone?

‘What are you doing here?’ she prompted heavily.

His mouth twisted derisively. ‘Visiting you.’ As if to prove the point he pulled back the chair beside her bed and eased himself down onto it, the stiffness of his right leg obvious as he did so.

Three years ago, Skye knew from reading the newspapers, this man had sustained dreadful injuries when his horse had gone down over one of the jumps, crushing Falkner beneath it, breaking both his legs, one of them so badly he had remained in hospital for almost six months. It was obvious from the pained way he still moved that the right leg, although healed, was no longer as straight as the other one.

Skye frowned her irritation at his familiarity. ‘I don’t remember asking you to sit down,’ she snapped. ‘In fact, I don’t remember inviting you here at all,’ she added rudely.

Falkner looked completely unperturbed by this rudeness, blond brows rising over mocking blue eyes. ‘You have such a surfeit of visitors already, is that it?’ he drawled mockingly.

She could feel the angry colour in her cheeks now. Damn him. How dared he come here and mock her?

‘I’m sorry, Skye.’ Falkner gave a self-disgusted sigh. ‘That was unforgivable.’ He grimaced.

She blinked back her sudden tears, angry with herself for showing even this much of an emotional weakness. ‘A reporter, claiming to be my brother, got in here the day after—a few days ago,’ she amended. ‘He even got a photograph of me before they realized their mistake and managed to throw him out—’

‘Skye, I know all about that. And the photograph appeared in the newspapers several days ago,’ Falkner acknowledged heavily.

She shrugged dismissively. She hadn’t seen the photograph herself, hadn’t looked at a newspaper in days, but she knew it couldn’t have been in the least flattering. She also knew she didn’t care.

‘Since then I’ve refused all visitors,’ she told him woodenly. ‘Which begs the question—’ she suddenly realized sharply ‘—how did you manage to get in?’ She frowned suspiciously.

Falkner grinned. ‘By using my natural charm and diplomacy?’

Skye gave a disbelieving snort; she wasn’t aware this man had any natural charm, let alone diplomacy.

‘I asked you a question when I arrived, Skye,’ Falkner reminded briskly. ‘You’re over the concussion, and your broken ribs are mending nicely, so isn’t it time you checked out of here?’

She glared at him resentfully. ‘I wasn’t aware a medical degree was one of your many accomplishments!’

Skye was totally aware that since the accident that had excluded him from the showjumping circuit three years ago this man had turned his hand to playing the stock market, that everything he touched seemed to turn to gold. Maybe he should have been named Midas rather than the unusual Falkner!