Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed


By Anna Campbell

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“A lush, sensuous treat” (Laura Lee Guhrke, New York Times bestselling author) perfect for fans of Eloisa James and Tessa Dare.

Desperate to save her sister’s life, Sidonie Forsythe has agreed to submit herself to a terrible fate: Beyond the foreboding walls of Castle Craven, a notorious, hideously scarred scoundrel will take her virtue over the course of seven sinful nights. Yet instead of a monster, she encounters a man like no other. And during this week, she comes to care for Jonas Merrick in ways that defy all logic-even as a dark secret she carries threatens them both.


Ruthless loner Jonas knows exactly who he is. Should he forget, even for a moment, the curse he bears, a mere glance in the mirror serves as an agonizing reminder. So when the lovely Sidonie turns up on his doorstep, her seduction is an even more delicious prospect than he originally planned. But the hardened outcast is soon moved by her innocent beauty, sharp wit, and surprising courage. Now as dangerous enemies gather at the gate to destroy them, can their new, fragile love survive?


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Chapter One

South Devon Coast, November 1826

Storms split the heavens on the night Sidonie Forsythe went to her ruin.

The horses neighed wildly as the shabby hired carriage lurched to a shuddering stop. The wind was so powerful the vehicle rocked even when stationary. Sidonie had seconds to catch her breath before the driver, a shadow in streaming oilskins, loomed out of the darkness to wrench the door open.

"Here be Castle Craven, miss," he shouted through the sheeting rain.

For a second, terror at what awaited inside the castle held her paralyzed. Castle Craven indeed.

"I can't leave the nags standing. Be 'ee staying, miss?"

The cowardly urge rose to beg the driver to carry her back to Sidmouth and safety. She could leave now with no damage done. Nobody would even know she'd been here.

Then what would happen to Roberta and her sons?

The remorseless reminder of her sister's danger prodded Sidonie into frantic motion. Grabbing her valise, she stumbled from the carriage. When the wind caught her, she staggered. She fought to keep her footing on the slippery cobbles as she looked up, up, up at the towering black edifice before her.

She thought she'd been cold in the carriage. In the open, the chill was arctic. She cringed as the wind sliced through her woolen cloak like a knife through butter. As if to confirm she'd entered a realm of gothic horrors, lightning flashed. The ensuing crack of thunder made the horses shift nervously in their harness.

For all his understandable wish to return to civilization, the driver didn't immediately leave. "Sartain 'ee be expected, miss?"

Even through the howling wind, she heard his misgivings. Misgivings echoing her own. Sidonie straightened as well as she could against the gale. "Yes. Thank you, Mr. Wallis."

"I wish 'ee well, then." He heaved himself onto the driver's box and whipped the horses into an unsteady gallop.

Sidonie hoisted her bag and dashed up the shallow flight of steps to the heavy doors. The pointed arch above the entrance offered paltry protection. Another flash of lightning helped her locate the iron knocker shaped like a lion's head. She seized it in one gloved hand and let it crash. The bang hardly registered against the roaring wind.

Her imperious summons gained no quick response. The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees while she huddled against the lashing rain.

What on earth would she do if the house was uninhabited?

By the time the door creaked open to reveal an aged woman, Sidonie's teeth were chattering and she shook as though she had the ague. A gust caught the servant's single candle, making the frail light flicker.

"I'm—" she shouted over the storm but the woman merely turned away. At a loss, Sidonie trailed after her.

Sidonie entered a cavernous hall crowded with shadows. Muddy brown tapestries drooped from the lofty stone walls. Ahead, the fire in the massive hearth was unlit, adding to the lack of welcome. Sidonie shivered as cold seeped up from the flagstones beneath her half-boots. Behind her, the heavy door slammed shut with a thud like the strike of doom. Startled, Sidonie turned to discover another equally geriatric retainer, male this time, turning a heavy key in the lock.

What in heaven's name have I done, coming to this godforsaken place?

With the door shut, the silence within was more ominous than the shrieking tempest without. The only sound was the sullen drip, drip, drip of water from her sodden cloak. Fear, her faithful companion since Roberta had confided her plight, settled like lead in Sidonie's belly. When she'd agreed to help her sister, she'd assumed the torment, however horrid, would be over quickly. Inside this dismal fortress, the horrible premonition gripped her that she'd never again see the outside world.

You're letting your imagination run away with you. Stop it.

The bracing words did nothing to calm spiraling panic. Bile rose in her throat as she followed the still-silent housekeeper across acres of floor. She felt like a thousand malevolent ghosts leered from the corners. Sidonie tightened numb fingers around her bag's handle and reminded herself what agony Roberta would endure if she failed.

I can do this.

The stark fact remained that she'd come so far and still might fail. The plan had always been risky. Arriving here alone and vulnerable, Sidonie couldn't help considering the scheme devised at Barstowe Hall feeble to the point of idiocy. If only her clamoring doubts conjured some alternative way to save her sister.

The woman still shuffled ahead. Sidonie was so rigid with cold that it was an effort forcing her legs to move. The man had offered to take neither her cloak nor bag. When she glanced back, he'd disappeared as efficiently as if he numbered among the castle's ghosts.

Sidonie and her taciturn escort approached a door in the opposite wall, as imposing as the door outside. When the woman pushed it open, it shifted smoothly on well-oiled hinges. Steeling herself, Sidonie stepped into a blaze of light and warmth.

Trembling, she stopped at one end of a refectory table extending down the room. Heavy oak chairs, dark with age, lined the table on either side. It was a room designed for an uproarious crowd, but as her gaze slowly traveled up the length of board, she realized, apart from her decrepit guide, only one other person was present.

Jonas Merrick.

Bastard offspring of scandal. Rich as Croesus. Power broker to the mighty. And the reprobate who tonight would use her body.

"Maister, the lady be here."

Without straightening from his careless slouch in the throne-like chair at the room's far end, the man raised his head.

At this, her first sight of him, the breath jammed painfully in Sidonie's throat. From nerveless fingers, her bag slid to the floor. Swiftly she looked down, hiding her shock under her hood.

Roberta had warned her. William, her brother-in-law, had been merciless in his excoriations on Merrick's character and appearance. And of course, like everyone else, Sidonie had heard the gossip.

But nothing had prepared her for that ruined face.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood and fought the urge to turn and flee into the night. She couldn't run. Too much depended upon staying. In childhood Roberta had been Sidonie's only protector. Now Sidonie had to save her sister, no matter the cost.

Hesitantly she lifted her gaze to her notorious host. Merrick wore boots, breeches, and a white shirt, open at the neck. Sidonie tore her gaze from the shadowy hint of a muscled chest and made herself look at his face. Perhaps she'd detect a chink in his determination, some trace of pity to deter him from this appalling act.

Closer inspection confirmed that hope was futile. A man ruthless enough to instigate this devil's bargain wouldn't relent now that his prize was within his grasp.

Abundant coal black hair, longer than fashion decreed, tumbled across his high forehead. Prominent cheekbones. A square jaw indicating haughty self-confidence. Deep-set eyes focused on her with a bored expression that frightened her more than eagerness would have.

He'd never have been handsome, even before some assailant in his mysterious past had sliced his commanding blade of a nose and his lean cheek. A scar as wide as her thumb ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Another thinner scar bisected one arrogant black eyebrow.

A gesture of the graceful white hand curled around a heavy crystal goblet. In the candlelight, the ruby signet ring glittered malevolently. The claret and the ruby were the color of blood, Sidonie noticed, then wished to heaven she hadn't.

"You're late." His voice was deep and as replete with ennui as his manner.

Sidonie had expected to be frightened. She hadn't expected to be angry as well. This man's palpable lack of interest in his victim stirred outrage, powerful as a cleansing tide. "The journey took longer than expected." She was so furious, her hands were steady when they slid her hood back. "The weather disapproves of your nefarious schemes, Mr. Merrick."

As she uncovered her features, she had the grim satisfaction of watching the boredom leach from his expression, replaced by astonished curiosity. He straightened and glared down the table at her.

"Just who in hell are you?"

The girl, whoever the devil she was, didn't flinch at Jonas's irascible question. Under disheveled coffee-colored hair, her face was pale and beautiful in the heavy-lidded, voluptuous manner.

He had to give her credit. She must be scared out of her wits, not to mention as cold as a cat locked out in a snowstorm, yet she stood calm as a marble monument.

Not quite. If he looked closely, faint color marked her cheeks. She was far from the indomitable creature she struggled to appear.

And she was young. Too young to tangle with a cynical, self-serving scoundrel like Jonas Merrick.

At the bella incognita's side, Mrs. Bevan wrung her wrinkled hands. "Maister, 'ee said to expect a lady. When she knocked—"

"It's all right, Mrs. Bevan." Without shifting his gaze from his visitor, he waved dismissal. He should be piqued that his original prey evaded his snare, but curiosity swamped anger. Just who was this incomparable? "Leave us."

"But do 'ee expect another lady tonight?"

A wry smile twisted his lips. "I think not." He cast an assessing glance over the silent girl. "I'll ring when I require you, Mrs. Bevan."

Muttering displeasure under her breath, the housekeeper stumped away, leaving him alone with his guest. "I take it the delightful Roberta is otherwise occupied," he said in a silky tone.

The girl's full lips flattened. She must be repulsed by his scars—everyone was—but apart from a slight stiffening of her posture when she'd entered, her composure was remarkable. The delightful Roberta had known him for years and still reacted with trembling horror at every encounter.

Thwarted malice darkened his mood. He'd rather looked forward to teaching his cousin's wife to endure his presence without suffering the megrims. This impetuous beauty's arrival dashed those hopes. He wondered idly whether she'd offer adequate compensation for his disappointment. Hard to tell. So little of her was visible under the worn cape dripping puddles onto his floor.

"My name is Sidonie Forsythe." The girl spat out the introduction and her chin tilted insolently. He was too far away to see the color of her eyes but he knew they sparked resentment. Under delicate brows, they were large and slanted, lending her an exotic appearance. "I'm Lady Hillbrook's younger sister."

"My condolences," he said drily. Ah, he knew who she was now. He'd heard an unmarried Forsythe sister lived at Barstowe Hall, his cousin's family seat, although he'd never encountered her in person.

He sought and failed to find any resemblance to her sister. Roberta, Viscountess Hillbrook, was a celebrated beauty, but in the conventional English style. This girl with her dusky hair and air of untapped sensuality was in a different class altogether. His interest sharpened, although he made sure he sounded as if her arrival were the dullest event imaginable. "Where is Roberta on this fine night? If I haven't mistaken the date, we'd arranged to enjoy a week of each other's company."

A hint of triumph lit the girl's face, made her dark beauty blaze like a torch. "My sister is beyond your reach, Mr. Merrick."

"You're not." He flavored his smile with menace.

Her brief smugness evaporated. "No."

"I imagine you offer yourself in her place. Gallant, if a tad presumptuous to assume any random woman meets my requirements." He sipped his wine with an insouciance designed to irk this chit who'd upset his wicked plans. "I'm afraid the obligation isn't yours. Your sister incurred the gaming debt, not you. Charming as I'm sure you are."

Her slender throat moved as she swallowed. Yes, definitely jittery underneath the bravado. He wasn't a good enough man to pity this valiant girl. But for a discomfiting instant, something within him winced with fellow feeling. He'd been young and afraid in his time. He remembered how it felt to pretend courage while dread crippled the heart.

Relentlessly he mashed the unwelcome empathy down into the dank hollow where he caged all his old, evil memories.

"I'm your payment, Mr. Merrick." Her voice emerged with impressive coolness. Brava, incognita. "If you don't collect your winnings from me, the debt becomes moot."

"Says Roberta."

"Honor forbids—"

He released a harsh crack of laughter and saw the girl quail at last, from his mockery, not his horror of a face. "Honor holds no sway in this house, Miss Forsythe. If your sister cannot pay with her body, she must pay in the more usual way."

Her tone hardened. "You are well aware my sister cannot cover her losses."

"Your sister's dilemma."

"I suspect you knew that when you lured her into such deep play. You're using Roberta to trump Lord Hillbrook."

"Oh, cruel accusation," he said with theatrical dismay, however accurate her suspicions. He hadn't set out that night to entrap Roberta into adultery, but the occasion would have tempted a much better man than Jonas Merrick. Especially as he'd always known that Roberta's disdain for him included an unhealthy dollop of fascination. "Offering yourself as substitute is a devilish strong demonstration of sisterly devotion."

The girl didn't answer. He rose and prowled down the room. "If I'm to accept this exchange, I should see what I'm getting. Roberta may be a henwit, but she's a deuced decorative henwit."

"She's not a henwit." Miss Forsythe edged away, then stopped to ask suspiciously, "What are you doing, Mr. Merrick?"

His advance didn't falter. "Unwrapping my gift, Miss Forsythe."

"Unwr…?" This time she didn't bother hiding her retreat. "No."

His lips curled in sardonic amusement. "You mean to wear your wet cloak all night?"

The color in her cheeks intensified. She really was pretty with her creamy skin and full-lipped mouth. Now that he was close enough to look into her eyes, he saw they were a deep, velvety brown, like pansies. Sexual interest stirred. Nothing quite so strong as arousal, but curiosity that could soon become hunger.

"Yes. I mean, no." She raised a shaking hand in its black leather glove. "You're trying to intimidate me."

He still smiled. "If I am, I'd say I'm succeeding."

She drew herself up to her full height. She was tall for a woman, but didn't come near to matching his more than six feet. "I told you why I'm here. I won't fight you. There's no need to play the villain from an opera."

"You'll endure my distasteful caresses but won't let me take your cloak? Seems a little silly."

She stopped backing away, purely because she bumped into the stone wall behind her. Her eyes flared gold with anger. "Don't mock me."

"Why not?" he asked lazily. He reached to release the ties at her throat.

She pressed into the wall in a futile attempt to escape. "I don't like it."

"You'll get used to it." His hands brushed along her shoulders, feeling trembling tension beneath the saturated wool. "Before we're done, you'll get used to a great deal."

Bleak self-awareness hardened her expression. "I imagine you're right."

The amusement left his voice. "Roberta isn't worth this, you know."

The girl—Miss Forsythe, Sidonie—stared back without shying away. "Yes, she is. You don't understand."

"I daresay I don't." If the wench was determined to rush to perdition, who was he to argue? Especially as she smelled agreeably of rain and a faint evocative hint of woman. When he slid the cape from her shoulders and let it fall in a sodden heap, he revealed a body pleasingly curved to fit his hands.

She gasped as the garment slipped, then stood quivering. Her jaw set with truculent determination. "I'm ready."

"I doubt you are, bella." He paid closer attention to her clothing and spoke with genuine horror. "What on earth have you got on?"

The look she shot him indicated virulent dislike. "What's wrong with it?"

He cast a disapproving glance over the ruffled white muslin, too young for her, too light for the wretched night, too unfashionable, too… everything. "Nothing, if you're dressing to play the virgin sacrifice."

"Why not?" she said with a revival of spirit. "I am a virgin."

He rolled his eyes. "Of course you are. Which begs the question why you're presenting me with your maidenhead instead of letting your fool sister clean up her own mess."

"You're offensive, sir."

He muffled a laugh. She proved more amusing than Roberta. At the very least, Roberta would have treated him to a display of hysterics by now. He couldn't picture this grave goddess resorting to such dramatics. Perhaps this was his lucky night after all. His lurking frustration at Roberta's maneuvers, fading under the influence of this lovely girl's defiance, vanished. Trapping Roberta had been no great challenge, however satisfying the prospect of swiving his loathed cousin's wife. Seducing Sidonie Forsythe promised fine sport indeed.

"It's my best dress," Miss Forsythe said huffily.

He subjected the limp frill at her décolletage to a derisive flick. "Perhaps when you were fifteen." His gaze sharpened. "Just how old are you?"

"Twenty-four," she muttered. "How old are you?"

"Too old for you." At thirty-two, perhaps he wasn't too old in years but he was a million years too old in experience. And he hadn't spent those million years wisely.

Sudden hope lit her expression. "Does that mean you'll let me go?"

This time he laughed openly. "Not on your life."

Her spiking fear might send her scarpering. He curled one hand around her shoulder, bare under her flimsy bodice. At the contact, something inexplicable arced between them. When startled pansy eyes shot up to meet his, he tumbled headlong into soft brown. She trembled as his hold gentled to shape the graceful curve of bone and sinew.

"What are you waiting for?" she forced through stiff lips.

He should be horsewhipped for tormenting her, but still curiosity was paramount. He raised his other hand to her jaw, angling her face. This close, he could make out each individual eyelash and the gold striations in her rich irises. Her nostrils flared as though she took in his scent just as he took in hers.

Or perhaps she was so frightened, she struggled to breathe.

"The question is whether debauching my enemy's sister-in-law has quite the same cachet as debauching my enemy's wife," he murmured.

"You bastard," she hissed, her breath warm across his face.

He smiled as dread lit her eyes. "Precisely, belladonna."

Slowly he bent to place his mouth on hers. Her rain-fresh scent flooded his senses, made him giddy with anticipation. She didn't move away and her lips remained sealed, but the satiny warmth intoxicated him.

He slid his lips against hers in what was more the hint of a kiss than an actual kiss. Even as arousal pounded through him, insisting that he take her, that she was here to be taken, he kept the contact light, teasing. Nor did he tighten his grip on her shoulder to keep her under his mouth. The agony of suspense bordered on the delicious as he waited for her to wrench free, to curse him for a scoundrel. But she remained still as a china figurine. Except the subtle heat under his lips belonged to a woman, not unresponsive porcelain.

Before more than a second passed, he raised his head. Astounding how reluctant he was to end the unsatisfying kiss. He dragged in an unsteady breath and struggled against the powerful urge to kiss her properly. There mightn't be much cachet in fucking Lord Hillbrook's sister-in-law, but he had a grim feeling that wouldn't stop him.

Her eyes were wide and dark with shock. Because he'd kissed her? Or because for a fleeting instant, she might have enjoyed it?

"Why the hesitation?" Her tone was raw. "Get it over with."

He tapped her cheek with a chiding index finger. "I haven't had my dinner yet," he said mildly and released her.

She staggered but found her balance with impressive speed. Breath escaped her parted lips in unsteady gasps. He preferred her outrage to her vulnerability. Against his will, her vulnerability ate at his ruthlessness like rust on iron. "Won't you join me?"

She regarded him with well-deserved hatred. "I'm not hungry."

"Pity. You'll need your strength later."

He let that sink in while he sat and rang the bell. Mrs. Bevan appeared with astonishing speed. She'd probably been listening at the door. Entertainment at Castle Craven was so lacking, he hardly blamed her.

"You may serve dinner, Mrs. Bevan," he said with a cheerfulness that earned him a puzzled glance from his housekeeper.

"Aye, maister. And for yon lady?"

Miss Forsythe remained standing where she had when he'd kissed her. She was back to looking like a marble statue, but now that he'd touched her, he knew she was flesh and blood, all right.


The girl didn't react. Good Lord, had that kiss silenced her clever tongue? He hoped to coax her into using it again. Not for idle conversation.

He addressed Mrs. Bevan. "No, for one. Please show the lady to her room. Mr. Bevan can serve my meal."

"Aye, maister." The woman shuffled out and after a brief hesitation, the girl collected her meager luggage and followed.

Jonas wished he could be there when Miss Forsythe discovered that in this ramshackle pile, her room also served as his.

Chapter Two

In the elaborate four-poster bed, Sidonie huddled under the covers. Outside, the gale tore at the castle walls. Its roar made her feel even more defenseless. Fear had hounded her since Roberta had come to her at Barstowe Hall two days ago and begged for help. Fear cramped her stomach and lodged like a boulder in her throat. Fear tasted foul in her mouth.

Second thoughts came too late. Whatever Merrick did to Sidonie couldn't compare to the consequences if William discovered his wife had shared his enemy's bed. Roberta's recklessness had placed them all in jeopardy. Sidonie. Roberta. Roberta's two children, Nicholas and Thomas. But how could Sidonie maintain her anger? Roberta had been more mother than sister when the two Forsythe girls had lived under their parents' negligent regime. Then Roberta had exchanged her father's cold, sarcastic tyranny for her husband's cruelty. Over eight years of marriage, Roberta had changed from a vivacious, affectionate girl into a nervy shadow. The only time Sidonie glimpsed a trace of Roberta's former gaiety was if she won at the gaming tables.

When she was on a winning streak, Roberta was blind to all consequences. It wasn't difficult to picture Jonas Merrick luring her into deeper and deeper play. Until finally he held his enemy's wife in his power.

For pride's sake and to avoid damaging scandal, both William and Roberta kept the misery of their union a domestic secret. Jonas Merrick could have no idea of the damage he threatened to the innocent when he accepted Lady Hillbrook's vowels. Or perhaps he guessed and didn't care.

So now Sidonie waited in Jonas Merrick's bed like a sacrificial lamb. She guessed this was Merrick's room, although the only evidence of his occupancy was a set of heavy silver brushes on the dressing table, and some subtle scent lingering on the linen and in the air. When he'd kissed her downstairs, he'd imprinted himself on her senses in a way she couldn't define. And didn't like. His touch had left an invisible mark. That frightened her almost as much as what was to happen in this glittering chamber. When she pictured him crushing her into the mattress with his powerful body, a scream swelled in her constricted throat.

Her surroundings offered no reassurance. Instead, they added to mounting dread, even as they puzzled her. This was the most bizarre room she'd ever seen. Gold proliferated. On the ornate old-fashioned furniture, the sconces along the walls, the glinting metallic thread in curtains and carpets. Everywhere Sidonie saw herself reflected in battalions of mirrors. Instead of paintings, gilt mirrors lined the walls. Cheval mirrors in each corner. A mirror above the dressing table, over the chest of drawers, between the doors of the armoire. Most surprising—and daunting—was the large oval mirror suspended from the tester above her head.

This proof of her mercurial host's vanity baffled her. His careless dress didn't indicate overweening conceit. Surely any normal man would shrink from dwelling so obsessively upon his disfigurement.

Reflected high above, she saw a pale girl lying straight and still as a cadaver under the heavy cover, gold of course. Thick brown hair was severely pulled back from her face and one fat plait snaked its way across her chest. A girl lying alone. Mr. Merrick seemed in no hurry to pursue his conquest.

At first, Sidonie had perched on a chair. When she'd started to shiver in the damp muslin, she'd changed into her night rail. As hours passed, marked by the ormolu clock on the cabinet, she'd shifted to the bed. Why draw out the preliminaries? There was no escape from the endgame.

Sourly she wondered whether Merrick would demonstrate more ardor if instead of an inexperienced stranger, her pretty sister awaited. But of course he hadn't lured Roberta here because he wanted her. He'd concocted this scheme to score points against his cousin, Lord Hillbrook. This was just the latest spiteful gambit between bitter enemies.

Tightening her grip on the covers, Sidonie struggled for fatalistic calm. But courage faltered when she imagined Merrick shoving himself inside her. Would he expect her to undress? Would she have to… touch him? Would he kiss her again? Absurdly, that seemed the greatest threat of all. His kiss left her flummoxed. It had been chaste as a child's buss upon the lips. Although the fact that Merrick was long past childhood robbed the act of genuine innocence.

She'd never been kissed before. Not by a man. Not with desire.

How sad that her first kiss occurred in such sordid circumstances. Sad and insidiously shameful. Because she hadn't hated his kiss, even though she should. Merrick's kiss had left her intrigued rather than outraged. What would it be like when he took liberties beyond mere kissing?

No, she wouldn't think about it. She wouldn't…

Easier said than done when she lay in Merrick's bed.

Although her host had long ago lost any legal right to use the Merrick name. He should by rights employ his mother's surname. Jonas Merrick was son to Anthony, the late Viscount Hillbrook, and the Spanish mistress purporting to be his wife. When the viscount's younger brother successfully challenged the supposed marriage, Jonas was declared bastard. Upon Anthony's death, his nephew William inherited the Hillbrook title and the feud between Jonas and his cousin, stemming from boyhood, had only become more vicious.


  • "Campbell's enthralling story is complex and passionate and readers will experience a delightful sense of satisfaction from watching Campbell's characters grow in stature and emotional understanding. Quite a book!"—RT Book Reviews on My Reckless Surrender
  • "It isn't just the sensuality she weaves into her story that makes Campbell a fan favorite, it's also her strong, three-dimensional characters, sharp dialogue and deft plotting. Campbell intuitively knows how to balance the key elements of the genre and give readers an irresistible, memorable read."—RT Book Reviews on Midnight's Wild Passion
  • "Anna Campbell is an amazing, daring new voice in romance."—Lorraine Heath, New York Times bestselling author
  • "Ms. Campbell's gorgeous writing a true thing of beauty..."—Joyfully Reviewed
  • "She's the mistress of dark, sexy and brooding and takes us into the dens of iniquity with humor and class."—Bookseller-Publisher Australia
  • "Seven Night in the Rogue's Bed is a lush, sensuous treat. I was enthralled from the first page to the last and still wanted more."—Laura Lee Guhrke, New York Times bestselling author
  • "Anna Campbell is a master at drawing a reader in from the very first page and keeping them captivated the whole book through. Ms. Campbell's books are all on my keeper shelf and Midnight's Wild Passion will join them proudly. Midnight's Wild Passion is a smoothly sensual delight that was a joy to read and I cannot wait to revisit Antonia and Nicholas's romance again."—Joyfully Reviewed
  • "Ms. Campbell gives us...the steamy sex scenes, a heroine whose backbone is pure steel and a stupendous tale of lust and love and you too cannot help but fall in love with this tantalizing novel."—Coffee Time Romance
  • "Anna Campbell offers us again, a lush, intimate, seductive read. I am in awe of they way she keeps the focus tight on the hero and heroine, almost achingly so. Nothing else really exists in this world, but the two main characters. Intimate, sensual story with a hero that will take your breath away."—Historical Romance Books & More
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  • "Campbell holds readers captive with her highly intense, emotional, sizzling and dark romances. She instinctually knows how to play on her readers' fantasies to create a romantic, deep-sigh tale."—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick
  • "Campbell matches up two proud, wary victims of abuse in this smart Regency romance...delightful insight and...luscious love scenes. Readers will cheer for these lovable and well-crafted characters."—Publishers Weekly
  • "Vibrantly refreshing and sizzling with sensuality and a depth of emotions that takes your breath away, Campbell's latest delivers an unforgettable powerhouse romance. The intensity comes from her comprehension of our deepest desires and our need for love and compassion. You won't be immune to this remarkable writer or the unconventional stories she creates."—RT Book Reviews, on Tempt the Devil
  • "Don't miss this novel - it speaks to the wild drama of the heart, creating a love story that really does transcend class."—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author, on Tempt the Devil
  • "Rising star Campbell's second emotionally intense novel is reminiscent of early Laura Kinsale. Her flair for sensuality and darkness, wounded heroes and strong women, appeals to readers yearning for a powerful, sexy and emotionally moving addition to their keeper shelves."—RT Book Reviews, on Untouched
  • "This fresh, vibrant novel launches an exciting new historical voice: a don't-miss author whose talent for bringing back the classic Avon style and melding it with a 21st Century voice ensures her place as a fan favorite."—RT Book Reviews, on Claiming the Courtesan
  • "Regency noir - different and intriguing."—Stephanie Laurens, New York Times bestselling author, Claiming the Courtesan
  • "No one does lovely, dark romance or lovely, dark heroes like Anna Campbell. I love her books."—Sarah MacLean, New York Times bestselling author
  • "Luscious Love Scenes."—Publishers Weekly
  • "Unforgettable powerhouse romance."—RT Book Reviews

On Sale
Sep 25, 2012
Page Count
384 pages

Anna Campbell

About the Author

Always a voracious reader, Anna Campbell decided when she was a child that she wanted to be a writer. Once she discovered the wonderful world of romance novels, she knew exactly what she wanted to write. Anna has won numerous awards for her historical romances, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice, the Booksellers’ Best, the Golden Quill (three times), the Heart of Excellence, the Aspen Gold (twice), and the Australian Romance Readers Association’s most popular historical romance (five times). Her books have twice been nominated for Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA Award and three times for Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year.

When she’s not writing passionate, intense stories featuring gorgeous Regency heroes and the women who are their destiny, Anna loves to travel, especially in the United Kingdom, and listen to all kinds of music. She lives near the sea on the east coast of Australia, where she’s losing her battle with an overgrown subtropical garden.

You can learn more at:
Twitter @AnnaCampbelloz

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