Free The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy) by Geralyn Dawson Page A

sensation that had saved his life on a number of occasions over the years. Glencoltran Castle's blue drawing room suddenly had become a dangerous place.
    He was a target.
    Silently, Nick cursed his lack of a weapon even as a dozen different thoughts shot like bullets through his brain. Pinpoint the girls' locations in the room. Their safety is the first priority. Draw any fire away from them. Who is it? Which of his enemies would brave an attack here in his home?
    "Madam, you dinna want to go in there," came a footman's voice.
    Time slowed to a crawl as Nick turned toward the drawing room doorway. He spied the bedraggled figure coming toward him and his heart stopped. The world narrowed to the two of them, sound was reduced to the rush of blood in his ears. Nick stood frozen, a target without defense.
    And the villain took the advantage.
    Crack. The blow was no mere slap, but a true right hook to the jaw. Nick's head snapped back. His sisters gasped.
    Her hair a mess, her hem mud-stained and torn, her feet bare as the day she was born, Sarah, Lady Weston, glared up at him and said, "For three months now I've traveled through dust storms, rainstorms, hailstorms, sleet storms, and snowstorms. I've ridden trains, ships, boats, coaches, wagons, horses, two mules, and even a sled pulled by a two-legged dog. Damn you, Nick, you didn't even bother to stay put. You make me mad enough to chew barbed wire. This is a helluva way to run a reunion."
    * * *
    Knuckles throbbing, Sarah stared up at her husband, truly seeing him for the first time as the red haze of rage dissipated.
    Oh my. He's such a... man.
    A decade's worth of hardships and adventures had hardened her husband's features. Angles appeared sharper, the height and breadth of him seemed bigger, larger. The thin lines reaching outward from the corners of his icy blue eyes were new; the air of confidence and danger slightly familiar, but greatly intensified.
    She licked her lips, swallowed hard. His nostrils flared, and Sarah felt like dinner. His dinner.
    She never should have hit him.
    If not for the ache in her hand, she might not believe she'd actually done it. Sarah had imagined her reunion with Nick a thousand different times and never— never! —had it happened like this. She rarely lost her temper. It was a trait that served her well in her professional life.
    It was a good thing she was on a holiday.
    Long, silent seconds marched inexorably by. She vaguely considered moving her feet, but they seemed to be frozen in place. Slowly, Sarah grew aware of the finely dressed crowd occupying the drawing room.
    Ladies and gentlemen. Lords and ladies. Sarah felt a blush steal up her cheeks. She looked like a ragamuffin, had cursed like a fishwife, and had kissed his eye-teeth with her knuckles.
    Oh my stars. She was horrified. Mortified. Humiliated.
    But hanged if she'd let anybody see it.
    She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and spoke in a regal tone. "Perhaps a servant could show me to my room?"
    A strange light lit her husband's eyes, a combined twinkle of amusement and promise of retribution. Sarah wished the floor would open right up and swallow her.
    Nick—Lord Weston—looked past her and nodded.
    Finally released from the prison of his gaze, Sarah turned around and spied the wide-eyed footman shifting uneasily in the doorway. She swept from the room, infinitely aware that stunned silence reigned in her wake.
    From the hallway she heard the never-forgotten rumble of Nick Ross's laughter. "The woman always did know how to stage an entrance."
    Right now what she'd love to do was practice an exit. From the castle.
    Led through a maze of richly appointed hallways, Sarah dazedly followed the servant. Finally alone in a beautiful bedchamber decorated in tones of blue, gold, and white, she asked herself, "What just happened? Why did it happen? Why in the world did you hit him?"
    She spied her bags and realized they'd been emptied, her things put away. Her brush and comb