My Lady's Choosing: An Interactive Romance Novel(95)

Still, reason must prevail, if only for now, for you have an unconscious fake heir to deal with. Benedict, as if reading your thoughts, pulls away and looks coldly at his brother lying on the ground.

“We should go.”





Benedict is right. Get out of there and go to this page.





You down your tea, square your shoulders, and decide that this will not do. Whoever sent this letter clearly meant to scare you, and you will be damned if you let them succeed.

You head to the great hall, where Mrs. Ferguson is attempting to teach the children sword dancing with distinctly mixed results. You ask the kindly housekeeper where you might buy the many supplies that you can’t really afford but desperately need.

“Och, the only shop in town is Buchanan’s,” she says. “They’re good folk and will give you a fair price.”

And so you find yourself rambling across the rolling green Highlands to find Buchanan’s shop. The dramatic scudding clouds and craggy outposts soothe your soul…and you begin to wonder what it would be like to live here.

Spotting the village in the distance, you quicken your pace. As desperate as you are for bread and bandages, you are even more eager for answers to the questions that have been plaguing you since the fire.

Buchanan’s is surprisingly well stocked for a store in a tiny village. But it is the vision standing behind the counter that truly astounds you. With darkest auburn hair and eyes the color of wild heather, the shopkeeper is so exquisitely lovely that, were the members of the Royal Academy to see her, they would come to serious blows for the priviledge of painting her portrait.

The vision, utterly unselfconscious of her pulchritude, smiles at you with a welcoming visage.

“How can I help ye, hen?” she asks warmly. Finding yourself lost for words, you hand over your list. She gives it a once-over with her magnificent eyes and then calls to the back room, “Gerald! Can I get some help wi’ the top shelves?”

As a brawny man with jet-black hair and a heavy beard emerges from the back room, she turns to you.

“I dinnae mean to pry, hen,” she says, “but would ye be one o’ the Sassenachs that wee Angus has brought up with him from London?”

“I-I am,” you say.

“Och, are ye asking after yer old sweetheart, Fiona?” teases the man. He winks at the flame-haired beauty. She laughs and pushes him.

Your heart sinks. “You—you know Captain MacTaggart?”

“Ye could put it that way!” chuckles the man. Fiona laughs and pushes him again.

“What my husband is trying to say is Angus MacTaggart and I were sweethearts when we were wee bairns.”

Your heart has now utterly plunged. Yet you must be doing a good job of hiding it, for the gorgeous woman continues unabashed.

“Och, I fancied myself in love with him, I did. But then Mac got into a spot of hot water after he burned down Abercrombie’s barn.”

“A fire?” you say. Another fire!

“Aye. You wouldn’t think it now, but he was a wee tearaway when he was young. He would have got in serious trouble with the law, but then Old Abercrombie offered to waive the charges if he joined the army. So off he went, and I was heartbroken.”

“Aye. For about two weeks, until I came along.” Her husband winks at you.

“Beast! It was at least six!”

“And what about Mac—I mean, Captain MacTaggart? Did he find love again?” You force yourself to ask the most difficult question of all: “Perhaps with a lady named Constantina?”

Fiona frowns. “I have heard of no one by that name,” she says. “But I do know that the rapscallion that left Glenblair was not the somber man who returned. He puts on a brave face, but he has been changed by something that happened out there at war. Something he never talks about. Anyway, that’ll be three shillings and sixpence.”

You pay the Buchanans, thank them for their time, and leave with the supplies. You have much to ponder on.





Do you head straight home and get to fixing the house, and maybe finding some answers? Turn to this page.

Or do you take the scenic route, so that you may gather your thoughts about what to do next? Turn to this page.





You drink deeply his scent and run your tongue over the plush protrusion of his bottom lip. In response, the reverend slips his own tongue into your mouth, the serpent seeking the forbidden apple.

Now, truly, you swoon. He gasps with pleasure and stares intensely into your eyes. When he speaks, he is breathless and raw with power and pleasure. “You have played into my plan beautifully…but I didn’t want to feel for you the way I do!”

You stare at him in shock. “What…plan?” you ask between shivers of pleasure. You grip his fine, white-blond hair in your fingers and twist. He emits a pleased, pained little cry and you guide him down your neck to your breasts. He playfully bites your taut nipples through your gown.

“My real name,” he says, between mouthfuls of you, “is Simon Loveday Craven.”

“What?!” you yelp—in part because what?!, and in part because he has slid two holy fingers into your mouth to wet them before dipping them in your holy water again and again and again.

“I am next in line to inherit Hopesend,” he reveals as he works you into a fine frenzy. Sweat shimmers on his fair brow, and you pause between his admission and your desire to free his straining member from his all-white ensemble and sink him like a treasure into the sea of your mouth.