If You Deceive

MacCarrick Brothers 3

Kresley Cole

Acknowledgments

Thank you to the wonderful staffs of the University of Florida research libraries. These guys knoweverything and helped me navigate all their many resources: obscure texts—filled with fascinating details to enrich fiction, Victorian diaries—with first person accounts of my era of interest, and mapping and imaging—for authentic historical settings. I greatly appreciate all your help.

The love of a good woman?

To save a wicked man like me?

Never…because there's no woman born

who's as good as I am bad.

—ETHAN ROSS MACCARRICK,

LAIRD OF CLAN MACCARRICK,

EIGHTH EARL OF KAVANAGH

I didn't steal it—I swear!

Oh, as if things never fall into your pocket!

—MADELEINE ISOBEL VAN ROWEN,

SNEAK THIEF, OPPORTUNIST

Prologue

Iveley Hall, Buxton, England

Spring 1846

Ethan MacCarrick thought the bored wife he was about to tup might be a bonny wench.

However, this was a best guess. At present, his vision was compromised by whisky, the great equalizer of women's charms. Even after the wind-whipped half-hour ride to her home, he was drunk; in fact, he seemed to be getting worse.

But the womanbehaved as if she was pretty, he assured himself as he removed his jacket, tossing it toward a divan in her opulent bedroom and missing it. Even in his muddled state, he detected a superficial silliness about her that men would tolerate only if she was fair. Plus, she'd been confident when she'd propositioned him in the shadowy hall of the Buxton tavern, having had no doubt whatsoever that he would meet her tonight.

She had a French accent and was tall, he thought, though she was now reclined, and he'd only briefly stood next to her when they'd met. They'd been together just long enough for her to pass him an expensively perfumed note with directions to her home, to ask if he could be circumspect, and to murmur what she planned to do to him.

Ethan was a red-blooded male of twenty-three—her wicked plans for him had seemed just the thing.

As he crossed the spacious room to the whisky service, she rose to her knees on the bed. "Did you wait to leave fifteen minutes after my maid and I left?" She feared her husband might hear of this indiscretion when he returned from his trip.

Ethan served himself a drink. "Aye, I waited." He wouldn't have traveled with her, anyway. A rake's first rule of thumb? Always ride your own horse to a meeting with a woman you're about to bed, so you can leave when you like. Else they'll want to cling for the night.

Ethan loathed clinging women.

"Did anyone see you riding here?" she asked.

"No, no' a soul."

"Because I can't have my husband hearing about—"

"Enough!" She was already grating on his nerves, and he hadn't even used her yet. "You're no' the first married woman I've had," he answered honestly. "I've done this many a time before."

"Of course, I'm sure you have," she said hastily. When he finally made his way toward her, she murmured, "You're such a handsome young devil, Ethan. So tall. So strapping."

He drank, frowning into his glass at her use of his given name. He hadn't quite caught hers back at the tavern, when she'd been whispering in his ear, describing herself on her knees, sucking him deep. "Youngdevil? I dinna get the impression you were that much older than I am," he said as he reached the bed.

She laughed. "Just a bit." Her features were clearer now. She was pleasing enough. Maybe early thirties. "I'm old enough to know what I want, and when I saw you, I knew I had to have you." She took his drink from him and set it on the bedside table. "But I bet women throw themselves at you, don't they?"

"Everywhere I go," he said, not bothering to hide his arrogance. It was true. He was a young, rich laird, and women liked his looks. And it seemed the more drunken and cruel he became, the more they wanted him.

"So if it hadn't been me tonight, it could easily have been another woman from the tavern?"

"Easily," he replied. When he'd left, the raven-haired barmaid he'd been contemplating had cast him a hurt expression. So had her sister. He'd shrugged at them as if he hadn't cared. Because he hadn't. "One woman or two."

"Then why me?" the wife asked breathlessly, angling for a compliment he wouldn't give.

"I like married women better, find them more convenient." He never heard from them again. A married woman readily faded into the past, one among many in his memory—as she should. And if her husband was weak enough and stupid enough to get cuckolded, then he deserved it, and Ethan would oblige.

"So all I am is a convenience?" She gave a mock pout as she began unbuttoning his shirt with deft fingers.

"Aye, precisely."

His callous treatment seemed to be exciting her. "Say my name with your accent," she whispered.

"Doona know it."

She smiled. "It's Sylvie—"

"Doona need to," he interrupted sharply, making her gasp with desire.

He was used to women who liked a cold, domineering male in their beds, but he sensed she might want him to be worse than that. On his solitary ride over here, he'd had time to think about the situation, and his drunken mind said something wasn't right about her.

Her perfume cloyed, but not more than that of the woman he'd had last night. She was tall, voluptuous, and dark-haired—the type that normally attracted him. Yet as she licked his chest, brushing his shirt away from his body, he again found that something about her was off-putting.

People had long said that Ethan had no more feelings than an animal. Well, right now pure instinct was telling him not to take her. He frowned as her mouth eased down his chest to his navel, her destination unmistakable.

But could the message possibly be louder than the Scotch and the promise of a below job?

Aye, it is. He plucked her fingers from his trousers and stumbled back.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm leaving." Bending for his shirt, he lost his balance, but he swiftly righted himself. He knew he'd been drinking too much lately. He was the oldest brother and head of a family that suffered, and the responsibility of it, and the inability to change it, weighed more heavily on him than anyone would dare suppose.

But his drinking was helping nothing.

"Leaving?" she cried. "You can't be serious."

He gave her one curt nod.

"Then why did you come here? What did I do?"

"No' a thing." Where the hell had he dropped his jacket? "Just doona care to any longer."

"Tell me what you want, and I'll do it.Anything, " she added plaintively, making him shudder in disgust.

A clinger.

Turning from her, he said, "Doona wantanything from you. No' anymore."

"You cannot do this!" She shot to her feet and stormed over to him. "Just pass me over like a woman you've bought." Her anger transformed the refined French inflection of her voice to a sharper, more common accent. Ethan had heard similar before—it was a lower-class accent. "Like some stray whore!"

"If the shoe fits…"

"No one treats me this way, not now.No one! " She darted in front of him. He turned from her once more, and she did it again, antagonizing him. Already his decision to leave was justified. "I'll have you horsewhipped for this!"

Finally he spotted his jacket. "Get the hell out of my way."

"I'll whip you myself!"

"Temper, temper, wench." He faced her with a sardonic expression. "Now I'mreally no' going to fuck you."