Hawke rode hard and fast.
His blood pounded a chilling staccato in his head.
Forgiving himself for
harboring his enemy impossible, he urged his horse to run faster, ever harder.
Brambles and briars tore at his clothes as he raced onward toward the small
parish nestled between two craggy hills.
She'd used him too. He knew
that for a fact, even though he couldn't explain what she'd done. He could feel
the betrayal in the deepest part of his soul.
Archibald Covington III was
a rogue, a womanizer and a scoundrel of the worst sort. Was she anything like
her stepbrother? Or her father? He pondered the thought while he raced the
wind.
No, she couldn't be. From
the first moment he'd seen her, she'd appeared to him innocence and light. She
was a sweetness that coursed through his veins when he let his guard down.
Desire and passion had driven him. Pure honey to the soul, that was Callie
Whitcomb. He'd pushed those thoughts of Callie Whitcomb aside. They were
enemies.
She was the heir to her
father's estate.
With marriage, he could
claim all she owned. What sweet revenge.
Claiming the land, the
power, and the wealth of his enemy and knowing David Whitcomb could do nothing
to stop him gave his injured soul some satisfaction. Archibald was the
stepbrother and the only way the man could inherit would be by manipulating
Callie's marriage or by treachery.
What did he owe himself?
Integrity. Honesty. The need to right the horrible wrong done to his family.
He would find satisfaction.
He would gain the land and turn the holdings over to his brother Ian. A gift to
his brother and the land would now be controlled by his clan.
By The MacPhersons.
She should have fled to a
nunnery.
Her property as well as her
body would have been safe there.
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