Will Princess Tatiana Give Up Everything She Knows For Love in This Sexy Novel?

The Princess Wore Plaid is a saucy and entrancing Beauty and the Beast story set in Regency-era Oxenburg, Scotland. Princess Tatiana Romanvin is stranded in the Scottish Highlands where, as no one believes her story of being a princess, she is forced to work as a scullery maid to earn her room and board. While working at an inn, she meets Lord Buchan, an injured war hero who desires nothing more than to be left alone. The two meet, clash, and fight the passion that flares between them as they soon realize it's only a matter of time before Tatiana's royal family come to whisk her back into the gilded world where she belongs . .

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He frowned. "You said you hit your head in the carriage accident. Was it bad, this injury?"

She touched behind her left temple, moving back a thick lock of hair to reveal the edge of a healing gash.

The sight of that red, angry gash on her pale skin tightened his jaw. Buchan placed his finger under her chin, tilting her head to one side. Such delicate skin for such a fierce wound. Princess or no, she was not a brawny strapping sort to weather such abuse without feeling it deeply. He was surprisingly aware of her smallness, of how—if he were to pull her to him and tuck her head under his chin—she'd fit perfectly.

His arms ached at the thought. Perhaps that was why he and the Drummonds felt such a strong urge to protect her. She's a wee thing, she is.

He traced the gash with a gentle brush of his hand, sliding his fingers down her cheek to her chin. Her skin warmed his fingertips, smooth and tantalizing.

She flushed, her eyes lifting to his, green with gold flecks, as beautiful as she was.

His heart thudded and in that second, as he drowned in the sparkling green pools of her eyes, he found himself leaning closer, bending toward her. The air about them thickened, their breathing uncertain and quick. Time seemed to close about them, protecting them from everything else. Slowly, he brushed his lips over her cheek, and then on to the corner of her lush lips.

The second his mouth touched hers, her trembling uncertainty vanished and she tilted her face to his. Like a flower before the sun, she opened to him and welcomed his kiss with her own.

Buchan's passion, held by a tenuous, uncertain thread, flared to life. He dropped his cane and swept her against him, kissing her passionately, his touch demanding and furious, and hers wild and wanton in return.

Her arms slipped around his neck and she opened her lips beneath his, deepening the kiss, her tongue tempting his, teasing, tormenting. He held her tighter, his body ablaze with passion as he slipped his hands down her waist, to cup her against him—

"Miss Tatiana?" Mrs. Drummond's voice came from far down the hallway. "Drummond, she's nae in the kitchen. Is she in the common room?"

Tatiana gasped and pulled free. "Mrs. Drummond! She mustn't see . . . I can't let her know . . . It would be too—" She stepped out of his arms, her trembling fingers brushing her swollen mouth. "I should never have–Bozhy moj, this will not do!"

She ignored the fact that the man before her wasn't an approved suitor, ignored the years of training that had taught her to restrain her wild impulses and always do what was demure and proper and right, ignored the voices that urgently whispered she was heading for pain and regret. Silencing them all, she lifted up on her tiptoes, twined her arms about Lord Buchan's neck, and pressed her lips to his hard mouth.

His cane dropped to the rug, and with a hoarse moan, he swept her against him, kissing her wildly, passionately, his mouth promising and teasing, as if her kiss had broken the dam that had held back his passion.

Tatiana had never been so devoured. Her body ached, her hands trembled as she tugged him closer and pressed her hips against him, rocking unconsciously.

He moaned, and then murmured against her mouth, "The settee, love."

Somehow, between hot kisses, he managed to maneuver them to the settee, lowering her onto it and joining her there, his legs pushing her knees apart as he covered her body with his, dominating and wild.

His kisses consumed and ravaged her, bewildered and thrilled her from head to toe. Her suitors had always been tentative, conscious of her position. But Buchan's passion was as bold as he was, his hands molding her to him, roaming over her hips, her waist, cupping her breasts until she gasped against his mouth, her body afire.

Then he slipped his tongue between her lips and thrust it wantonly inside her mouth over and over, echoing the enticing move of his hips against hers. She clutched him closer, reveling in the feel of him, and the fact that she'd made him moan for her, whisper her name over and over, beg her without words for more. To kiss him more. To touch him more.

She kissed him and then kissed him again, pulling him closer, stroking his arms and chest, restlessly seeking. She'd been so controlled her whole life that allowing her passions and feelings to flow unbound drowned out any common sense or hesitation she might have had. Thus she welcomed Buchan, pulled him onward, touched him demandingly and insistently.

Groaning, he bunched her skirts in one hand and pushed them up past her knee. The cool air contrasted with the heat of his body as he slid his hand up over her stockings, under the bottom of her chemise, and all the way up to—"Ah!" she cried out.

His fingers stroked her, and she arched frantically, grasping his lapels, tugging him closer as she pressed against him. Buchan bent to catch her gasps with his kisses, increasing his efforts, alternating between feathery strokes, and longer, firm ones that drove her mad with lust.

She pressed against him, her legs parting wider, aflame with need. "Please, Buchan," she whispered desperately, writhing against him.

Watching her, tasting her, Buchan clenched his teeth against the heated pressure of his desire. She was so beautiful, so passionate, so alive. Just touching her, breathing the air about her, watching her, made him realize how he'd stopped living—stopped being—after his accident. He'd been dead until he'd met her.

The desire to take her was almost unbearable, and his body ached with the tension. God, he wanted her to the point of madness! Desperate to maintain his control, he gritted his teeth, fixing his gaze on her beautiful, flushed face as he trailed his fingers through her slick and ready folds. It was both agony and sweet triumph to see her so lost in the moment. He curled his fingers and slipped them inside her, her warmth grasping and tight.

"Buchan!" she cried as she arched against him, finally breaking free. Bucking wildly, she clenched her thighs over his hand as wave after wave of passion wracked her body . . .

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