Page 5 of His Disobedient Bride

“Don’t worry about me,” I say, but I see her mouth set in a line and her dark eyes narrow on me.

I know Cerise and I shift uneasily in my chair. I know this isn’t over, not by a long shot. She won’t stop until she realizes the truth. The problem is that I don’t think I’m fit to be anyone’s husband.

4

MARY

I sat at my usual table in the coffee shop, wondering what phrase I should use. Maybe “gleaming pearl o’ the ocean”? Or maybe that metaphor was a little too soppy. Maybe “glistening pearlescent gem”? I had already used clit way too many times in this chapter, and the readers of my lusty historical Scottish romance would expect something a little more descriptive anyway.

I sighed and pushed away the laptop, reaching for my tea. I really loved the strong, smoky flavor of Russian tea, even though by now it was only lukewarm. It was so hot outside in the middle of summer that I didn’t care. I looked unhappily out of the window. I still felt depressed and gloomy. I had been so hopeful when I arranged for a month-long stay in Krasnaya Polyana, Russia. And it was gorgeous and green here, with amazing views of the mountains from my hotel room. I had hoped traveling to Russia, somewhere I had always dreamed of visiting, would help me break out of my awful writer’s block.

But no matter how many mountain hikes I took or cups of tea I drank, my be-penised Scottish lord and his be-bosomed governess remained as obstinate in their refusal to come together as they had when I was writing in the US. Their chemistry was like an oil soup, and they slipped apart like a pair of oysters.

I guess it wasn’t too surprising. Although I had been moderately successful with my series of Scottish lords and the enormous weapons they were packing underneath their kilts, my pen name of Cordelia Wychwood was a lie. There was nothing remotely romantic or exciting about me. I had always been plain Mary MacDonald, bouncing around foster homes until I aged out of the system. I never had enough money for college, so I worked at a series of odd and ill-fitting jobs until I had a little success with my book The Scottish Lord’s Monstrous Secret.

Now, at 27 years old, I was tall and red-headed and plain, with pale freckled skin and no curves. Even worse, I was shy and awkward, with a bit of a stutter that I had worked hard on. Worst of all, I was still a virgin. I had never had much male attention. Not like the characters in my books. I let them get all kinds of action. Not just from one Scottish lord, either. Action from the lord, the lord’s manservants, the lord’s brothers, the lord’s sisters, the Loch Ness Monster. I envied them.

Every day I came to this coffee shop to write and nobody paid me any attention.

But I was beginning to worry that I was too despondent, too depressed, that my ability to write would never come back because I had given up on romance myself.

I slid my eyes sideways to a man who was seated at the coffee shop table beside me. He looked to be in his 20s, reading a newspaper as he sipped his tea. He had thick dark hair and was dressed in a neat blue suit. His face wasn’t exactly handsome, but he looked nice.

I had to do something to break out of my rut. I never talked to men. Especially not ones I didn’t know. And especially not ones who were kind of cute.

But I cleared my throat before my nerves could get the better of me, reached out, and tapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir,” I asked. “I’m a visitor here. Do you know of any good restaurants?”

“Huh?” he asked sharply, and I realized in horror that he’d had ear buds on the whole time.

I repeated my question, feeling very foolish.

“I have no idea,” he said, giving me a sideways look. “Try Google.”

He gave me a strange look, as if I had committed some unspeakable social faux pas. Then, as he packed up his briefcase and left, I realized that it might have accidentally sounded like I was asking him out on a date.

I turned back to my tea, my cheeks flaring with embarrassment.

Yep. I was officially giving up on romance.

5

CERISE

My husband was leaving me this morning, only planning to be gone for the day with his father and about half of the men of the Bratva. But, like the psychotic tyrant he is, he doesn’t like his control of me to slip for even one second. It tears and eats at him having to be away from me. But sometimes he has to do it anyway.

“Be good,” he said, capturing my face with his big hand and giving me a hard kiss.

“Aren’t I always?” I retorted, my lips stinging.

“Hardly,” he said, looking back at me with a dark blue glance. “I’m too soft with you.”

“Why, you—“I began, reaching forward to rip at his perfect blonde hair, but he captured my hand easily, trapping it against the wall and laughing.

“Claws in,” he said, and then he turned around and left, and I could hear his laughter all down the hallway.

Asshole, I thought, but my heart was beating faster as I watched those long legs go down the hall.

---