AUTHOR’S NOTE

On historical (in)accuracy

The 1880s were a fraught and perilous time when it came to that most pertinent and important part of this story: Cookie cutters.

That's right, my friends. Cookie cutters did exist, and our heroes and heroines weren't left to hand-cut their hearts and birds and gingerbread men all by their lonesomes. In fact, cookie cutters have been around for a long while; in the 1500s, bakers in Germany were commissioning carved wooden figures and designs to use with their dough. There's even speculation that the ancient Egyptians used similar molds to shape their sweet cakes.

So why in the fook is poor Cam stuck carving a dick out of sugar cookie dough with a knife? Because I couldn't find a single record of naughty cookie cutters that far back in history. I'm sorry.

So Cam and Jade are forced to draw and cut out their own boobs and buttocks and whatever else your imagination involved. But! Never say I don't love you. Because we live in the modern world, here's my favorite set of dick cookie cutters. Bonus: fornicating couple cookie cutters.

You're welcome.

Now, on to more historical inaccuracies.

I know this is going to just gut you to learn, but (lowers voice) Scrabble and Twister weren't around in the Victorian era. Scrabble was invented, to no one's surprise, during the Great Depression in the US, and officially marketed in the 1930s. Doesn't that just sound like something people did in the Great Depression? Twister, on the other hand, was developed smack in the middle of the 1960s. And I don't think I could name another game which screams "1960s!" more than this one, am I right?

But kudos to you, if you were able to identify the games as Cam and Jade are reading the instructions. Actually, that entire scene took place because I took a dare that I couldn't stick the word "twister" into the book…and it kinda grew from there.

Look, by this time, I'm pretty certain you don't read Caroline Lee RomComs because you're a stickler for historical accuracy.

Okay, moving on: For those who recognized the London Fencing Club, or the Viscount Shelbourne and the Duke of Northwich (oh, and also Master Beltrande)…well, a gold star to you! They're characters from Scarlett Scott's Lady Wicked and Lady Brazen. We chat daily, and love finding ways to make our worlds overlap. (I assume you've read her books, because she's a far better writer than I am. If you haven't…well, go start with those two, and prepare to fall in love!)

As far as the fencing scenes in this book, it might surprise you to learn I do have some experience stabbing pointy bits of metal into other people (in sport! I'm not a violent person!)…so they're as accurate as I could make them, without being—you know—completely boring. I did have to add in a description of Cam's fencing outfit, because OMG can't you just see him in scarlet leather?

As Cam points out to Jade, there were really active women's fencing associations in the 1880s, and some famous female fencers. Their outfits tended to be outrageous, but it was a valid form of Sport, so the more outrageous ladies did it.

However, I really like the idea of Jade, with her unusual upbringing, preferring to spar against men. Also, I'm a complete sucker for a cross-dressing plot (check out my The Sutherland Devil).

Speaking of her unusual upbringing, I'll say what I say in each of my books which feature a character who doesn't identify as solely Caucasian: Britain in the 1800s was a colorful, beautiful, and diverse place. People from all over the world resided and visited there, and it's silly to believe our stories feature only one race.

I'm sure you know a bit about the history of the East India Trading Company, which was founded in 1600 to basically monopolize trade to India, Southeast Asia, and China. It worked, huzzah, making a lot of English dudes very wealthy. They also, understandably, caused a lot of trouble in lands where—let's be frank—people weren't too keen on the English strolling in and taking resources.

By my reckoning, Jade was born in the middle of the Second Opium War.

As you can probably guess by the name, this was the second time British troops were sent to China to force the legalization of the opium trade and open access to the country for their merchants. Yep, traders like Jade's dad weren't permitted to trade with Chinese merchants all willy-nilly, and Britain didn't like that.

I won't go into the history of China in the Victorian period, but just note that relations between Jade's father and her maternal grandfather would've been tense…which is what makes the eventual marriage of John and Meilin Thacker so special.

Speaking of marriage, we absolutely have to chat about Lord Brougham's "Cooling Off Act". Isn't that just the best name ever for a new law? Lord Henry Brougham was a reform-minded Lord High Chancellor (who was instrumental in abolishing slavery in the Empire) who went on to reform the marriage laws.

Look, I seriously doubt this is the first romance you've read set in nineteenth-century Britain, right? Good, that means I don't have to go over the whole concept behind Gretna Green marriages (like I had to do with my husband when I pitched this story to him and he told me I was nuts). You know that the idea of eloping to Scotland to be married "over the anvil" by basically any guy wandering past (officially called "irregular marriages" and performed in front of two witnesses) is basically the biggest trope of Regency romance.

And by the 1850s, it had become a real nuisance.

Essentially, thanks to a law passed in 1754, anyone in England or Wales under the age of twenty-one couldn't be married without parental consent. Bummer, huh? Well, in the 1770s, the toll road tootled (it's a technical term) on up across the border with Scotland, where the law didn't exist, and now we've got a way for all these young lovers to be married. Yay!

Except…there were plenty of not-so-great uses, too. I mean, romance is well and good, but there's a reason parental consent is required if there's a bunch of teenaged hormones and stacks of money involved. The most famous case of an unscrupulous man coercing an under-aged heiress into marriage is the Shrigley abduction, and OMG it's just a flaming shit-show of a story we don't have time for here. (But if we meet at a convention, I will absolutely order a whisky and give you all the juicy details.)

So in December of 1856, stuffy old Lord Brougham manages to pass what comes to be called "the cooling off act", which essentially requires anyone who wants to get married in Scotland to have been residing there for twenty-one days prior to the marriage. This is similar to the idea of the banns being read in the couple's home parish, right?

Except.

(And I love this.)

After almost a century of being the marriage destination for young English lovers ("the Las Vegas of Britain" as my husband declared, in the midst of my attempted explanation), the people of Gretna Green were having None Of That. There's tales of locals offering their home to young lovers, or farmers allowing couples to live in their barns/fields, for the requisite three weeks…and then vouching that the couple was now able to marry in Scotland.

How cute is that?

Thank fook Lord Buthert didn't know about that, huh?

Okay, this Author's Note has gone on for far too long (#SorryNotSorry), but I hoped you learned a bit. As always, it should be clear that my books aren't here to give you a history lesson…you have to stick around 'til the end to get the good stuff!

I mean history, not the sex, you degenerate.

And really, anyone who names the villain of the book "Buthert" can't be trusted to take things seriously.

But as far as serious goes…

Please tell me you're ready for Crowe's story? Let's be honest, I'm desperate for Crowe's story. I love Keith, Malcolm, and Cam, but Crowe just burrowed into my heart and now I need to know what his secret is. Why did he kill James? How'd he get out of prison?

If you're a sucker for tatted-up bad boys hiding emotional scars, then hang on to your reading glasses, my friends…The Sinner's Tempting Captor is waiting for you! Keep reading for an excerpt!

As always, I want to invite you to join my reader group, where you'll get to help name characters, check out covers, and watch all the random videos I think are funny. Or, if that's not your pace, sign up for my newsletter and get some free books from me. Feel free to do both!

Oh, and if you enjoy reading spicy historical romance and hanging out with others who do as well, come check out the Historical Harlots Facebook group!

And now…what's going on with Crowe?

SNEAK PEEK

From The Sinner's Tempting Captor

The door slowly creaked open, and Honoria realized she'd forgotten how to breathe.

As soon as there was enough space, a man stepped through—or rather, was pushed, judging from the way he turned to glare at the two men who followed him, each armed with clubs, and one carelessly dangling a set of shackles from grimy fingers.

The man in the middle rubbed at his wrist, as he slowly straightened and faced the courtyard, blinking in the same dim afternoon sun which had caused her to squint after the inner darkness. How often was he allowed outside, to see the sun? Judging from the way he tilted his face back, as if welcoming the weak glow, not often.

It was that motion which allowed her to really see him for the first time, and Honoria sucked in a breath so quickly she went dizzy.

Crowe.

It was him. But…it wasn't.

The man she'd once thought herself in love with had been lanky, certainly, with high cheekbones and dark brows, which she'd always thought looked a bit like wings.

This man… This man was nothing like the well-kempt, quiet boy she'd once known.

The prisoner she was about to take custody of was still tall, still dark-haired…but his hair was well past his shoulders, knotted in locks which fell around his temples and full beard. His shoulders were wider, his wrists…

She swallowed. Beneath the ragged cuffs of the too-small prison uniform, Crowe's wrists were scarred and muscular. His knuckles showed too much abuse, and she wondered, if she opened his fist and turned his hand over, what calluses she'd find on his palms.

And how they would feel.

It was right about then she realized she was ogling the hands of a murderer, in public, and dragged her gaze back up to his face. Only to find his eyes open, and staring back at her.

His bright-blue gaze was as shocked as she expected.

Beneath the bush of his beard, she saw his lips form a word which might've been "Honoria." It might've also been "Good God" or "I have an itch" or "I miss chocolate." But she suspected "Honoria" was most likely, considering the misguided reason he'd killed her brother.

He didn't speak, and she couldn't think of anything to say except, "Hello, Crowe," which she absolutely could not say in front of the warden. So she inclined her head in greeting.

At that moment, one of the guards prodded him with a club, and he must've been taken by surprise, judging from the way he stumbled forward, then turned to growl wordlessly at the man.

The other guard lifted a heavily booted foot and casually slammed his heel into the back of Crowe's unprotected knee.

Honoria gasped at the violence and was already moving as Crowe grunted and dropped to the ground, catching himself on one knee and both palms. When he lifted his head, staring right at her with impassive eyes, she jerked to a halt and forced herself to take a deep breath.

Nothing will be served by allowing these men to believe he means anything to you.

Nothing would be served by allowing Crowe to think he meant anything to her.

Nothing would be served by allowing herself to think he meant anything to…

You are particularly bad at lying to yourself.

True.

And that likely would've been it, had the first guard not stepped forward and grabbed Crowe by the locks at the back of his head, yanking him upright.

He stumbled to his feet, and then Honoria was there, in front of him. She wasn't certain exactly how she'd managed that, but as the guard tossed aside his hold on Crowe, she was there to meet him.

Inside she was screaming What are you doing? Stop! Do not touch him! But somehow her right hand rose of its own accord.

And cupped his cheek.

It was a simple gesture. She couldn't even feel his skin, beneath her glove and the thick, coarse beard.

But as her hand touched his face, she saw him shudder, saw him shut his eyes, saw him swallow.

And knew then that she was doing the right thing.

Because she'd seen the same expression on Laird MacLeod's face when she told him of her plan: part dread, part gratitude, part desperate hope.

And although no one in her family would understand her actions—she herself barely did!—she knew she was doing the right thing.

Here was one father and son, at least, whom she could reunite in time.

It wasn't until his eyes opened, carefully neutral, that she realized she was still touching him. She jerked her hand back as if scalded, afraid that movement betrayed her as much as the first one.

Perhaps it did, because as she stepped back, the warden stepped forward. "My lady, it was a pleasure doing business with you."

She forced her shoulders to straighten, forced her chin up, even as she turned to the rotund man. "Mr. Warden, thank you. I shall report your helpfulness to my father." There, one more hint he was doing a duke's bidding. "Are we clear here?"

The man bowed mockingly, one hand gesturing toward the door in the outer wall. From the corner of her eyes, she watched Crowe's gaze follow hungrily.

"As you have taken control of the asset, we no longer need to worry over his well-being."

Well-being, indeed. She managed not to snort derisively, even as she switched more of her attention to Crowe. At the warden's words, his head had jerked around, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he contemplated their meaning. Even now, he had to be wondering why the authorities of Dunworth Penitentiary would be relinquishing their control over him.

And, judging from the way his gaze was flicking silently between the guards and the impressive door to freedom, she knew what his next move would be.

Well, think again, sir!

She didn't go through this much trouble, this much heartache, this much headache, just to have him bolt at the first sign of liberty.

No thank you. You're mine.

Trying to maintain an air of nonchalance, as if bribing murderers to freedom was something she did every day, Honoria shifted to put herself between Crowe and that door, even as she began to nonchalantly loosen the straps of her reticule.

In order to distract from her movements, she cleared her throat, and holding Crowe's gaze, asked the warden, "As I understand the process, you will leave us?"

There was the sound of grumbling, then she saw the man make a gesture to the two guards. Crowe himself turned a sharp glare to watch the pair of thugs roll their shoulders, nod, and step back through their door.

Then the warden bobbed another mocking bow. To Honoria's surprise, he turned to Crowe and winked. "From here on out, you're someone else's problem, you lucky bastard."

Crowe stared back impassively.

The man, who'd clearly been hoping for some kind of reaction, scowled as he hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. "Good luck, my lady," he said, before turning and stomping toward the door to the administration wing.

And then Honoria was left alone in the courtyard with Crowe MacLeod, the man she'd once known. The man who'd killed her brother. For her.

She saw the exact moment he realized it, too. His eyes flicked from the door to one of the windows, to her, and back to the outer door. He'd always been full of coiled energy, prepared to spring in an unexpected direction. Nine years in prison hadn't changed that.

But now he looked more than capable of knocking her over on his way past.

Fumbling slightly, she shoved her hand into her reticule and tried not to breathe too obvious a sigh of relief as her fingers curled around the butt of the revolver.

"Do not do something you will regret, Crowe," she cautioned, and the man jerked as if she'd struck him.

Before her eyes, his expression—which he'd held so impassive, even as he'd growled a warning at his guards, even as they beat him into the dirt—turned to anger.

No, not anger. Downright loathing.

And that loathing, virulent, vengeful gaze switched from her to the door behind her. The door which, to him, must represent freedom.

Well, she couldn't have that.

Reminding herself she was doing this for his own best interest, she pulled the revolver from her bag and aimed it, unshaking, at his chest.

Granted, the only reason her hands weren't shaking were because her knees were doing enough shaking for her entire body, but still. She was proud of the overall effect.

Crowe's gaze dropped to the barrel of the revolver, and he stared at it for a long moment. When he looked back at her, she wondered—hoped?— that was a glint of amusement in his blue eyes.

For the first time in nine long years, she heard him speak. It wasn't the voice she remembered—more like a hoarse rasp—but it was his. "What…" His chest expanded, as if he paused to consider his words. "What in the fook is this?"

"This?" Lady Honoria Lindsay smiled tightly and gestured toward the door with the barrel of her gun. "This is a kidnapping."