Hello!
I am very happy to announce that Lion Heart (Wild Scots, #3) is live!
As you'll remember, at the end of Perfect Storm, Sebastian was bruised by rejection then wrongly jailed after defending a girl from attack.
Lion Heart starts on his day of release, and there's one heck of a surprise waiting for him at the probation office.
Advanced copy readers have said this is the most romantic story and their favourite of my novels yet.
I am honoured to have such kind words. Read on for the whole of the first chapter then grab your copy now!
“Chapter One – Go
Sebastian
Across the desk, the probation officer heaved a sigh and I wanted to strangle him. At 10:15AM on a Monday, I’d been out of prison for an hour and twenty minutes. My blood rushed through my veins, the lure of freedom loud in my head.
Sitting through this interview in a room with a closed door was killing me.
“We don’t get many men like you here.” The officer sat back in his chair. “With most offenders, I’d be sorting out housing or looking at addiction programmes, then pointing them to a job centre. But something tells me you won’t need help with any of that. Still, I need to fill out the papers.”
He was right. I didn’t need his help. I wasn’t an addict, and money had never been a problem. I came from one of the wealthiest families in England and had privilege coming out of my ears. Before the incident that led to my incarceration, I’d used my connections, and my title, whenever it pleased me to do so. Arrogance might as well have been my middle name.
But that was then.
Who the **** knew what I was now.
I planted an elbow on the table and fixed the man with a look. “I get it. You need to write your report and have something to check off each time I come in. How about on our next appointment, I give you details of my job? As for my address, I’ll be returning to my family home. That do for now?”
Relief peppered the officer’s brow. “I think so. There’s just a couple of things I need to explain to you. As you’re aware, you’ve been released on probation which will last for two years from this point, mirroring the remainder of your sentence. You are free to work and live a full life, but you must obey specific rules. The most important of which relates to the nature of your crime.” He raised his gaze to mine. “You cannot seek out or have any contact with the individual you were found guilty of harming.”
Revenge, he meant. I couldn’t hunt down the f***er whose lies had put me behind bars. I already knew this. It had been drilled into me in the fortnightly therapy I’d endured.
Didn’t mean I’d listen.
“Got it.” I forced my mouth into a smile.
“If you take a seat in the waiting area, I’ll complete the paperwork for you to sign and make your appointment for next month.”
I lifted my chin in scant acknowledgement, rose to my six-three height, then got the f*** out of the tiny interview room. Just one final step, and I could go.
Real freedom awaited.
Outside the dirty windows, the sun shone on Glasgow’s city streets. I had a car waiting in a nearby hotel car park, left by my family so I could make the long drive south.
To home. If I could bring myself to go there.
I’d dreamed about this day for so long, imagining the sheer headiness of being able to do whatever I wanted. But right now, I couldn’t centre myself. Prison life had messed with my mind. I’d asked my family to give me space in the first day or so but I wished I hadn’t.
I needed a purpose. Someone to tell me what to do because I couldn’t work it out myself.
“You don’t understand,” a woman said as I passed the counter in the main office. Her soft Scottish voice hitched on a sob, and her knuckles whitened where she clutched the clear plastic divider. “I have to go today. I have no choice.”
I took a seat, still glancing her way, as were the half dozen other ex-cons around me, waiting for their marching orders in the rows of seats.
Nobody could avoid her.
She was entirely out of place in her rainbow skirt, where bright reds mingled with oranges, yellows, and rich blues. A burst of colour in a mire of grey.
My attention caught on the sliver of skin visible at her waist, where the skirt ended and left a gap before her white bodice started.
She was familiar. Maybe from her Scottish tones, though we were in Glasgow, so that was hardly unusual.
The person behind the desk raised their hands in a no-can-do gesture, and the woman made a sound of frustration, dropping her voice to continue making the case for whatever it was she wanted.
I rolled my shoulders and switched my view to the street. Any minute, and I’d have my parole sentence plan—joke that it was—and I could leave. The longer I sat still, the more time I had to dwell on the reason I’d been arrested and imprisoned in the first place.
Three years ago, I’d attended a legal fighting ring. I’d made money—not so legal—from my fights, and left the venue. Outside, I’d intervened in a beating a man was giving to a girl.
A single unlucky punch saw him in the hospital and me in a jail cell.
The man claimed I’d attacked him first, and the girl had run, leaving no witnesses. It had been easy for the judge to see me as a troublemaker and convict me of grievous bodily harm.
Years of my life had gone by the wayside for that defensive act.
A final word of annoyance from the woman at the counter brought my focus back to her. She turned, facing into the room.
Shock slammed into me.
Her features, pale and tear-streaked, were ones that had been etched into my mind. Agonised over to the point where I wasn’t sure if I’d imagined her in that dark, rainy car park.
It was her. The girl I’d protected. Given up part of my life for.
The only person who could’ve stood up at my court case and saved me, but who had vanished without trace.
A soft whimper came from near her feet, and I dropped my gaze to the toddler clutching her leg, half hidden in her skirts.
“Come on, Lacey,” my mystery woman murmured to the child. She pushed her wavy blonde hair behind her ear and summoned a tight smile. At most, she was twenty, maybe younger. “We need to get you to Manchester.”
In a practiced move, she swooped and collected the little girl in her arms and popped her onto her hip, then twisted back to retrieve her bag.
“Mr Fitzroy.” My probation officer bustled into the reception. “I’ve prepared your papers. You need to sign—”
“Hand it over.” Bursting from my seat, I grabbed the paper and pen then scrawled my signature near the box by the man’s finger.
Old-me would’ve enjoyed telling him how Fitzroy wasn’t a surname, and I wasn’t ‘Mr’. I was Viscount Ashlaine, and Fitzroy was the name of the earldom my father held, the one I was heir to. But I had another objective.
The woman was out the door. I needed to stop her. Talk to her. Work out who she was and…
There was no more thinking. I just had to go.
“One month. I’ll be back. Are we good?” I barked at the probation officer.
“Yes. The details are on the letter,” he started.
I was already running.
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