"Karen Hawkins shows us how it all started with the MacLean curse in this delightful prequel."
Reviewed by Rosie B
Posted September 10, 2010
Romance Historical
Fia MacLean is a playwright who knows her destiny lies in
London, not Scotland, presenting her plays to the Queen of
England. That is precisely where she is sneaking off to in
the middle of the night when she meets Thomas Wentworth. She
accidentally pushed him out the window he was trying
to sneak into. When Fia discovers Thomas is returning to
London that very night, she persuades Thomas to take her
with him. Afraid that her cousin and guardian, Laird Duncan
MacLean, may marry her off soon, Fia is desperate to get
away and claim her destiny. Luck isn't with her though, and
both she and Thomas are captured while in a compromising
position. Thomas Wentworth, the Earl of Rotherwood, is a spy known for
his luck, which seems to have failed him in his latest
mission. Not only has he saddled himself with an unwanted
travel companion, no matter how comely, but by coming to her
rescue, he has signed his fate. Discovered in a compromising
position, Thomas not only loses the missive he was supposed
to obtain for his mission but he's also forced to do the
gentlemanly thing. Once married, Thomas vows to get an
annulment when they reach London, but the more time he
spends with his beautiful wife, the harder he's finding it
to fight the attraction. Will he give into his wife, or hold
steadfast until he gets the annulment he thinks he desires? Fia is the kind of heroine you can't help but like. She's a
quick-witted, saucy Scottish lass with a flair for getting
into trouble. The connection between her and Thomas is
instantaneous. Thomas is a cautious person with trust
issues. You feel him wanting to give into his desire for Fia
but then holding back because he's afraid of the eventual
betrayal he is sure will follow. Their constant banter keeps
you flipping the pages. If that weren't
enough, the secondary characters in this book steal the
story. Thomas's best friend Robert and Fia's cousin Duncan
are intriguing men who will captivate you. Though neither
has a story out yet, I'm hoping that Ms. Hawkins will go
back at some point and write about them. They are just so
fascinating and I want to know more about them. Also in the
mix is the espionage subplot which brings with it a hint of
danger. Previously published as One Lucky Lord under the
pseudonym Kim Bennett, Karen Hawkins has re-written this
book and renamed it MUCH ADO ABOUT MARRIAGE. Though the
story is a prequel to the MacLean saga and the soon to be
published Hearst series, I found that, aside from a few
mentions of the amulet and how Duncan came into possession
of it, the story doesn't focus on the MacLean curse. We're
not given any clear indication as to why Duncan stole the
amulet or what happens to him and the woman he took it from
after he takes it. In some ways, the story leaves a lot of
loose threads. Having only read one book from the MacLean
saga so far (I will rectify that soon), I don't know whether
those threads are tied up in that series or if we'll learn
more as the Hearst series starts up. Even without the strong
connection though, this story was delightful. Once I
started, I didn't want to put the book down. If you're not
already a fan of
Karen Hawkins, you will be after reading this book.
SUMMARY
Meeting the lovely Fia MacLean is all it takes to turn
English Earl Thomas Wentworth's espionage mission in
Scotland upside down. Caught flirting in the woods with the
seductive and infuriating lass, Thomas is held captive in
the MacLean castle. His escape attempt only makes things
worse, and having been found in a compromising position with
the lady, Thomas is left with no choice but to marry Fia. Thomas is having a hard time concentrating on his mission
when just one glance from Fia makes him burn with desier.
But Fia's sharp tongue and biting wit aren't her only
advantages--she is in possession of an ancient amulet. Fia's
cousin, Douglas MacLean, stole it from the White Witch and
gave it to Fia for safekeeping. When she sets off for
London, the amulet falls into the hands of Queen
Elizabeth--leaving Fia to focus on her new husband, and the
MacLean curse to develop.
ExcerptChapter OneDuart Castle Isle of Mull, Scotland May 2, 1567 It was one thing to fall—it was quite another to be shoved
from the ledge of a second-story window. Thomas Wentworth landed flat on his back with an ominous
thud, his head saved from the rocky ground by a thick patch
of herbs. Light exploded before his eyes as the breath left
his body in a whoosh, and blessed blackness beckoned. For several long moments, he fought for breath. Just as
sweet air swept in to reassure him that he wasn't dead, a
lilting voice exclaimed softly, "Och, I've killed him!" Low and husky, the voice flowed over him as rich as sweet
cream. The grass rustled as someone knelt beside him. "I'm
cursed for certain," she murmured. "'Tis an ill omen to kill
the finest man you've ever seen." The luscious voice demanded his attention. Wincing, Thomas
forced his eyes open and focused on the figure kneeling
above him. "Blessed Mother Mary, you're alive!" She smoothed the hair
from his forehead with a feather-soft touch. The moon made a nimbus around the thickest cloud of hair he
had ever seen. Luminous in the moonlight, her hair streamed
in waves and curls, frothing in abandon across her shoulders. The end of one persistent curl brushed his ear and he weakly
swatted it. "Aye, I live," he muttered, struggling to rise. Before he could do more than lift his shoulders, the wench
pressed him back to the ground. "Don't get up 'til we've
certain you've no injuries." Warm hands slid lightly over
his arms and legs. He caught her wrists and pushed her away, the rough wool of
her sleeves telling him her position within the castle was
menial. He forced his aching body upright. "Leave me be," he
growled unsteadily. "I am well." There was a long pause and then she said, "You're a
Sassenach." A faint note of accusation hung in the air. Thomas silently cursed. His throbbing head had made him
forget to disguise his voice with a Scottish accent. "You, sirrah, are no simple thief." She brushed a hand over
his shirt. "Your clothing is too fine." A flicker of annoyance increased his headache. He had chosen
his dark garments with the utmost care to blend with the
shadows should anything go awry. The thought brought a twisted smile. In truth, little had
gone right with this venture. From the second he'd crossed
into Scottish waters, the famous Wentworth luck had been
tested to the breaking point. First his ship had run into a gale off the rocky coast and
had barely managed to get to safety. Once in port, Thomas
had discovered that his horse had been severely bruised by
the rough crossing and it had taken several days to find a
suitable replacement. And now this: shoved from a window and accosted by a saucy
wench. 'Twas yet another delay in his carefully laid plans. Delays caused risks, and risks were something he rarely took
without exquisite preparation and consummate attention to
detail. Hurried plans inevitably ended in failure. Thomas
Wentworth never hurried, and he never failed. The woman rested back on her heels, her head cocked to one
side. "What are you doing so far from your home, Sassenach?" "'Tis no concern of yours," he returned curtly. "I cannot agree. 'Twas me who opened the shutters and bumped
you from the ledge. I have a responsibility for you now." He frowned. "Who are you? A housemaid?" "I belong here, but the same can't be said of you, Mr.
Thieving Knave—or whatever you are." Her lilting voice tantalized even as her words challenged.
Thomas leaned forward and sank his hand in the silken
softness of her hair. Ignoring her surprised gasp, he tilted
her face until the moon slanted cold rays across the
smoothness of her cheek. He glimpsed a small, straight nose and a pair of very
kissable lips before she shoved his hand away, her voice
full of breathless outrage. "Stop that! What were you doing,
perched on the window ledge like a big chicken?" Despite his aches and irritations, he couldn't help but
grin. "I prefer to think of myself as a more noble bird,
like a hawk." "I'm sure you do. But you flew more like a chicken than like
any hawk I've seen." He chuckled. "Point taken." "You still haven't answered my question, Sassenach. Why were
you on the ledge?" "I don't remember." For emphasis he rubbed his head, which
still ached a bit. She stood, her skirts rustling. "Aye, 'tis known that
Englishmen have delicate heads made of eggshells." "No doubt you heard that from some heathen Scotsman wielding
a claymore the size of a tree." "Testy, are you?" She patted his shoulder in a kindly way
that was more insulting than spitting at him would have
been. "I daresay that's because your soft English head is
aching." It was tempting to challenge her, but he couldn't allow
himself to get distracted from his real purpose. He put a
hand on his pocket, the reassuring crackle of paper calming him. She eyed him and said in a voice tinged with disapproval,
"You were a fool to try to enter the castle through the
upper window. 'Twould have been easier to climb in through a
lower one." Though she didn't know it, he had been climbing out not in,
when she'd knocked him from the window. "I suppose a
Scottish thief would have walked in the front door and not
taken a craven entry like a window?" She chuckled, the sound husky and warm like good Scots
whiskey. "I've known one or two as would. There's more gold
and silver to be had in the lower floors, too." "You seem to know a lot about the castle." "I should. I'm the laird's—" The silence was as complete as
it was abrupt. "That's not important. What is
important is that you need to improve your thieving ways
before you attempt such a fortified castle." "I appreciate your assistance, Mistress Saucy Wench. I
suppose you are a master thief, to offer such advice?" She shook her head, moonlight flowing across her hair like
firelight on a rippled pond. "Not a master. Tonight was my
first effort at reiving, and 'twas not near as exciting as
I'd hoped," she said wistfully. She was a thief? Had he heard her right? "'Twas dull work indeed 'til I knocked you from the ledge.
'Tis amazing, but you didn't make a sound on the way down.
You fell like a great rock, with nary a cry 'til you landed
in the garden. Then you went 'oof' like a—" "For the love of Saint Peter, cease your prattle," Thomas
hissed, casting an uneasy glance at the looming castle. "Pssht. Don't fash yourself about being heard. There's no
one home but the servants; Laird MacLean's gone." "Aye, he's been traveling these last two months." "Nay, he returned last week." "What?" Damn it, my sources were wrong. According to
the information Thomas had been given, the laird wasn't to
return for another fortnight. "Aye, but then that witch sent him a letter that crossed
him. He stormed out immediately to enact vengeance." Thomas frowned. "MacLean left again because of . . . did you
say 'witch'?" "Aye. The White Witch Hurst. I've never met her, but she's
cast her spell over MacLean until he doesn't know if he's
coming or going. She gave the local magistrate some ancient
documents that lay claim to half of the MacLean lands." "Good God. No man would stand for such." "Especially not the MacLean." She shook her head, her mane
of hair fluttering about her. "But I think 'tis lust as
draws him to her. I hope he has a care. She's a powerful
witch, though Duncan claims that she's but knee high to a goat." "I don't believe in witches or curses." "I do," she said simply. "I believe in all sorts of magic." "I'm quite aware of the Scots' love of all things mystical." "And I know of the English love of coin." She shrugged, an
elegant motion that dismissed him. "We both have our
weaknesses." He clambered gingerly upright, his head swimming as he
spaced his feet far apart to balance the swaying earth.
Bloody hell, he felt as though he were on the deck of the
Glorianna in a full gale. A warm hand tucked into the
crook of his arm. "Are you well enough to be walking?"
Concern filled her voice. "I'm fine," he said curtly, shaking off her hand. "Very well." Thomas wished he could see her expressions. Since the moon
was behind her, her face was in shadow. On impulse, he
grasped her arm and turned her so the moonlight spilled
across her. For a moment he could only stare. His earlier glimpse had
suggested she was comely, but he had never seen such beauty
as he now faced. Her dark eyes sparkled, surrounded by a
thick tangle of lashes, and her full lips begged to be tasted. Perhaps I believe in magic after all, he thought numbly. She yanked her arm free and hefted up a large bag that
clunked and clanked. "I've wasted too much time here. If
you're of a mind to get caught, Sassenach, then stay where
you are. The laird could return any time and I, for one,
will not be here to greet him." Some foolish part of him wanted to feel her honey-smooth
voice a little longer. "You surprised me when you thrust
open the shutters at this time of the night." She'd already turned away but now paused. "I was trying to
decide if I should climb out the window like a proper thief
or take the stairs. After watching you fall, I thought 'twas
very possible I could have dropped my bag during the climb
down and broken and dented my reivings, and then all of my
efforts would have been for naught." Her casual attitude toward her less-than-honorable
profession made him smile. "You are a saucy wench," he said
with grudging admiration. She laughed softly, the sound curling inside him and heating
him in unexpected ways. "That's exactly what Duncan says." For a second, Thomas envied the unknown Duncan. "What's your
name, little thief?" "Fia." She shifted the bag to her other shoulder. "I just
took the best candlesticks. I think they'll be easier to
sell than heavy plate, don't you?" She turned and made her way down a faint path that led
toward the black forest, saying over her shoulder, "We
should hurry, for Duncan returns this morn." Thomas accepted the unspoken invitation and fell into step
beside her. "Who is this Duncan?" "Why, Duncan MacLean, the Earl of Duart and laird of his
clan." She quirked a disbelieving brow his way. "Surely you
knew whose castle you were stealing into?" "Of course I knew. I just didn't think of him as 'Duncan.'"
This woman knew MacLean well enough to use his given name.
Who was she, then? She'd said she was "the laird's"—and then
hadn't finished the sentence. She must be the laird's
mistress, then. Refusing to examine the irritation that swelled at the
thought of such beauty being sullied by a possible traitor,
Thomas tried to focus on the return of his good fortune.
Since Fia was within MacLean's inner circle, she would be
privy to valuable information. He stepped into the shadows of the forest, pulling her into
his arms. "Stop!" Though she struggled, he held her easily. "I've a wish to
know more about you . . . and this Duncan." "Why should I tell you anything?" She twisted, attempting to
stomp his feet with her muddied boots, her bag clanging noisily. Thomas pushed aside the wild abandon of her hair, his
fingers encircling her neck. "Hold still, comfit," he
whispered. "I want to know everything about Duncan MacLean.
If you tell me, I'll release you." She stopped struggling. "You wish to know of Duncan? Why?" "That's none of your concern." Her mouth thinned into a stubborn line. "Everything about
Duncan is my concern." "I can't imagine that you care too much, to steal from him
the minute he's out of sight." His mouth was but a whisper
from hers, his thumbs resting suggestively at the delicate
hollow of her throat. "Just tell me what you know; I ask for
nothing more harmful than information." She dropped her bag with a noisy clank and, to his surprise,
melted into his arms, her lithe body flush against his.
"You're quite strong for a Sassenach." He tried to ignore the sensations her warm body ignited in
his own. Sweet Jesu, she is a snug armful. "Och, I think . . ." Her breath was ragged, her gaze fixed
on his mouth. "I think you mean to kiss me." Her lips
parted, and the edge of her tongue moved slowly across the
fullness of the lower one. It was almost more than he could stand; the stirring of
excitement grew stronger yet. She should be terrified,
damn it. Instead, she tilted her face to his as if to accept a kiss
he'd not thought to offer. He knew he should try to scare
her more, to frighten her into submission, for there was far
more at stake here than the desires of a Scottish wench. He should have. But he didn't. All he could think about was the promise of Fia's lips, the
warmth of her in his arms, and the delicate fragrance of
heather that drifted from her hair. Thomas kissed her with every bit of passion that welled
inside him, possessing her mouth as he cupped her rounded
bottom through her skirts and molded her to him. She clutched at his loose shirt, her soft, yielding lips
drinking hungrily from his. His body flamed in response and all thought fled. He slipped
an arm about her waist and pulled her firmly to him,
brushing aside her entangling hair to taste the sweetness of
her delicate neck. He traced the contours of her back and
hips, stopping to pull her bodice from the waistband of her
skirt. Sweet Jesu, her skin was so deliciously warm and
inviting. He pulled impatiently at the ties at her waist,
his mouth now ruthlessly possessing hers. Through a haze of raw passion, something hard and cold
intruded harshly into his awareness. Suddenly he realized
that a razor-sharp point, cold and deadly, was pressed
against his side. Thomas opened his eyes. Fia regarded him with a cool smile. "'Tis time you were on
your way, Sassenach." She moved away and he saw that she
held a knife that shone wickedly in the moonlight. And in
her other hand, she held his purse. Damn the wench! He had played right into her hands.
"Why, you little thief!" He ached with frustrated passion
and harsh disappointment. She brightened. "I am a good thief, aren't I?" Cold fury raced through him. Should he lunge for the knife?
No; a bloodcurdling scream would awaken the servants. Thomas swore. "You common, thieving—" "Och, spare me your wild words. 'Tis your own fault, laddie." "Do you know who I am?" "Nay, and it matters not." "I am Thomas Wentworth." He waited. Even here, in the wilds
of Scotland, the Wentworth name had meaning. His family was
the wealthiest and most powerful in all of England. But apparently someone had forgotten to mention that fact to
this particular maid. Fia tucked his bag of coins into her
bodice. "Well, Master Thomas, 'tis nice to meet you, but
'tis your own fault 'tis come to this." "It's my fault that you robbed me?" "I had no notion to take aught from you 'til you tried to
seduce me." He laughed bitterly. "One does not seduce a trollop. One pays." Her hand tightened on the knife; her delicate brows lowered.
"Have a care, Sassenach. You may have a tongue as sharp as a
knife, but I hold a real one." "You wouldn't use it." To his astonishment, she quirked a brow, cool and proud.
"Why should I fear a poor Sassenach who can't even climb
into a window without falling on his head?" He stepped forward and the knife flashed wickedly in the
moonlight. She eyed him warily. "Now, I shall go my way and you will go
yours. If you're as smart as you'd like to think you are,
you'll leave before Duncan arrives." "I will find you, wench," he warned. "That's not likely." Still holding the wicked-looking knife
before her, she grabbed her bag of loot and slowly backed
toward the shelter of the forest, her eyes fixed warily on his. He smiled with cold menace. "Tell me why his lordship
returns in such haste, and perhaps—just perhaps—I'll
allow you to leave in peace." "As though you had the choice of it," she mocked, but her
gaze darted toward the castle, the roof faintly agleam as
dawn crept stealthily into the sky. "Come," he urged, forcing his voice to a calmer level. "A
little information for the gold you've stolen. 'Tis a fair
exchange." Fia regarded him soberly. "You won't chase me into the woods?" "Not if you tell me what I seek." After a moment, she nodded. "Fine, then. 'Tis only fair.
MacLean is returning to marry." Damn it, his sources hadn't mentioned a marriage. "Who is he
marrying?" She smiled, and he knew her answer before she even spoke. "Me, Sassenach." Her lilting voice taunted. "He comes to
marry me." And with a rattle of stolen candelabras and a mischievous
smile, she turned and fled, disappearing into the woods.
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