Lawless: Noah Kincaid: The Kincaids Book 3 Read online

  Lawless: Noah Kincaid

  The Kincaids Book 3

  Stacy Reid

  LAWLESS: Noah Kincaid is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  First Edition November 2019

  Edited by AuthorsDesigns

  Copy edited by Gina Fiserova

  Proofread by Monique Daoust

  Cover design by AuthorsDesigns

  Copyright © 2019 by Stacy Reid

  Dusean, always and forever.

  Contents

  Praise for novels of Stacy Reid

  Other books by Stacy

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Join My Newsletter

  My Darling Duke

  Chapter 5

  Acknowledgments

  About Stacy

  Praise for novels of Stacy Reid

  “Duchess by Day, Mistress by Night is a sensual romance with explosive chemistry between this hero and heroine!"—Fresh Fiction Review

  "From the first page, Stacy Reid will captivate you! Smart, sensual, and stunning, you will not want to miss Duchess by Day, Mistress by Night!"—USA Today bestselling author Christi Caldwell

  "I would recommend The Duke's Shotgun Wedding to anyone who enjoys passionate, fast-paced historical romance."—Night Owl Reviews

  “Accidentally Compromising the Duke—Ms. Reid's story of loss, love, laughter and healing is all that I look for when reading romance and deserving of a 5-star review."—Isha C., Hopeless Romantic

  "Wicked in His Arms—Once again Stacy Reid has left me spellbound by her beautifully spun story of romance between two wildly different people."—Meghan L., LadywithaQuill.com

  "Wicked in His Arms—I truly adored this story and while it's very hard to quantify, this book has the hallmarks of the great historical romance novels I have read!"—KiltsandSwords.com

  “One for the ladies...Sins of a Duke is nothing short of a romance lover's blessing!”—WTF Are You Reading

  "THE ROYAL CONQUEST is raw, gritty and powerful, and yet, quite unexpectedly, it is also charming and endearing."—The Romance Reviews

  Other books by Stacy

  Forever Yours series

  The Marquess and I

  The Duke and I

  The Viscount and I

  Misadventures with the Duke

  When the Earl was Wicked

  A Prince of my Own

  Sophia and the Duke

  The Sins of Viscount Worsley

  An Unconventional Affair

  The Kincaids

  Taming Elijah

  Tempting Bethany

  Lawless: Noah Kincaid

  Rebellious Desires series

  Duchess by Day, Mistress by Night

  The Earl in my Bed

  Wedded by Scandal Series

  Accidentally Compromising the Duke

  Wicked in His Arms

  How to Marry a Marquess

  Scandalous House of Calydon Series

  The Duke’s Shotgun Wedding

  The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell

  Sins of a Duke

  The Royal Conquest

  Sinful Wallflowers

  My Darling Duke

  The Amagarians

  Eternal Darkness

  Eternal Flames

  Eternal Damnation

  Eternal Phoenyx

  Eternal Promise

  Single Titles

  The Scandalous Diary of Lily Layton

  Letters to Emily

  Chapter 1

  June 1870

  Wyoming Territory

  The man sitting opposite to Miss Ada Heide Bancroft in the plush private car of the train was everything she thought an outlaw should be—handsome and dashing, with a rakish air of danger and menace. Exactly how she had been painting such roguish men in her novels for the last several months as she pursued a wild dream of being a writer.

  Peeking at the man discreetly, Ada scratched charcoal quickly and efficiently on the blank page of her pad and tried to sketch the man’s posture. That area could use more shadow, she tentatively crosshatched in the lines, then blurred them into shadow with one pink fingertip. She sucked her finger to remove the charcoal dust and then sat back to look at the effect. That was almost right, she added slightly more definition to his clothes, most of them dark, shading the folds to form the contours. She would need this image later as a guide as she crafted the hero in her romantic novel, The Outlaw and the Lady. It might never be published as her stepmother warned her daily, but Ada was determined to pursue her heart’s desires. One day at a time, one word at a time had been her mantra for the last few months, and she hadn’t let the doubt from one of her parents suppress her passion.

  Ada slowed the stroke of the charcoal over the page as she tried to capture the strong slant of his jaw and the lush firmness of the man’s lips.

  Are you handsome? She silently wondered. Do you have blue eyes, or are they brown? Do you have a kind smile, or is it a cruel one?

  The man had a black, flat-crowned hat pulled low over his head, and a blue handkerchief knotted at his throat, hiding most of his features. A pity that, for she did not think she would get the opportunity to view his face before her family disembarked at the next stop, which would be the town of Blue Lagoon. They were aboard the Hannibal and St Joseph’s Railway heading westward across the wilds of Wyoming territories. And it was by chance they shared the same private carriage with this stranger. There had been some mix-up with the ticketing to her stepmother’s great displeasure, but she had relented for the sake of expediency. And he was a most silent passenger, not paying them any attention whatsoever.

  Her oldest stepsister, Lady Sarah Whitcombe, who sat closest to her, sniffed her disapproval when she noted Ada’s actions.

  “Papa would be very displeased to know those years of polish were wasted on you, Ada!” Sarah scolded softly, even as her light blue eyes laughed.

  Their father had always thought Ada impractical, a dreamer with a restless heart, and it had been one of the many reasons he had used to ship her abroad to England for the last four years to stay with her stepmother—Mrs. Sally Bancroft accompanied by her two stepsisters—Sarah and Mary. There was a widely held belief that the men of the British peerage were in desperate need of American heiresses. Or at least they desired their money and would accept the girls with it. With that in mind, her father had sent them away with the order that they gained social polish and to land themselves husbands with wealth, titles, and prestige.

  Ada had failed abysmally at that. While Sarah…she had been lucky in love but had painfully lost her husband, Viscount Whitcombe, in a carriage accident two years ago. Mary had simply been too young to follow Papa’s ridiculous command.

  “I’m quite sure Papa will be pleased with the improvements to my appearance,”
Ada said with a wink, pointing at her beautifully coiffed hair and very proper mode of dress.

  “Pfft,” Sarah said. “It will take little time for Papa to notice that only your wild manner of dressing has had some slight adjustment, but your lack of sense of propriety is very much the same. When he realizes it, I am certain the shock and disappointment will kill him,” she said with a pointed glare at the unstrung bow and quiver of arrows Ada had beside her. “Papa thought you had buried them. Yet you return home with your weapons.”

  Ada sent her sister a fierce scowl before lifting her chin. “They were a gift from a dear friend, and I’ve no intention of ever throwing them away.” Grey Horse, he had been her friend. Her weapons were discreetly snuggled into a specially made leather and fur quiver and case. They had traveled with her to England and now back home.

  Her throat tightened. It had been years since she’d seen her friend, an Indian boy she’d only known as Grey Horse. Her father had traded with his father years ago, and as improbable as it seemed given the prejudice of her land against the Indians, she and Grey Horse had formed an unlikely but wonderful friendship during those years, since she had been a child of ten years. They had been the same age, but he had seemed far braver and more adventurous. He had taught her to ride astride, and without a saddle, had taught her how to hunt, how to shoot a bow and arrow, and had gifted her an exquisitely designed bow with two dozen arrows on her sixteenth birthday. Father had indulged their friendship, but her stepmother had thought it unacceptable.

  But it was the war between her people and his people that had ripped them apart, and she had not seen him for five years, which was since her seventeenth birthday. Her father had told her his people—the Sioux—had retreated toward the Mississippi River, and a rumor had lingered that Grey Horse had joined a band of Cheyenne and Sioux renegades. Ada had grieved for the loss of their friendship over the years and had refused to relinquish the gift of his bow and arrows to her family’s distress.

  Though she had spent several summers and springs amongst the most select of Boston’s elite before being shipped abroad, Ada had always preferred riding her horse and the outdoors to attending society balls and events. Her hair had always been wild and free, tumbling to her hips in loose waves, her manners were a touch unrefined, and her stepmother had blamed everything on her father’s indulgence and had bitterly complained of Ada’s lack of decorum.

  Her father might just be pleased to know the last few years in London had almost stifled the joy of living out of her heart, for the daughter returning home was not the carefree girl who had tearily bid him farewell with choked promises that she would write to him every day.

  “I’m certain Papa will be quite happy to see me,” she said, annoyed with herself for feeling a niggle of doubt in her heart.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “It is not just the bow that you refuse to give up, you are hell-bent on writing a story, Ada!”

  Ada’s mamma, Judith, had been a lover of the written word. Penning several poems and short stories when she’d been alive, even though they remained unpublished. And the first time Ada had discovered her love of writing was when she’d attempted to finish one of her mother’s earlier short stories. To know that she had such a similar interest to her mother had been a delight which had soothed so many sorrows and the longings she had for her long-dead mother. Ada had refused to contemplate abstaining from penning her stories, and she would do her very best to make Papa understand when she saw him.

  As if miffed by her lack of response, Sarah leaned forward, lowering her voice to a hush. “And Mamma will surely lambast his ears with all your antics in London. I fear Papa will be so furious, he’ll have you married off in no time, just to get it over with and hand off your stubbornness to someone else.”

  A pounding pain went through her heart at the notion, and seeing her stricken look, Sarah’s face softened. “Pray, do not take my scolding to heart. I...” she pushed a wisp of her blonde hair behind her ear and seemed to gather her thoughts. “I only want what is best for you. We all do.”

  “I believe I am at a point in my life, Sarah, where I should be able to determine my own wants and desires,” Ada murmured.

  Her stepmother stirred, lowering the fashion magazine she’d been reading. “You should mind your sister’s advice, Ada. You are two and twenty, and it is long gone time you settled down with a husband of your own.”

  Ada rolled her eyes. “I have little to no romantic tendencies, Mamma, you know this. Why must you persist in telling me that the only thing in life necessary to complete me is a man?”

  “Ada!” her stepmother gasped in evident outrage. “Such frankness of speech is unbecoming. And you know the hopes your father has for you concerning Mr. Josiah Parker. After all the shenanigans you caused in England, I dare say you would try not to disappoint your father regarding this alliance.”

  Ada bit her tongue and buried her nose in her sketchpad. No doubt her mother would see it as another point against Ada and consider it rude, but it was far better than engaging in another discussion on the matter of her marriage. It wasn’t that Ada had no interest in the opposite sex, or marriage, or children of her own someday. It was only that she’d had yet to find a gentleman who captured her regard and held it, or a man more interesting than the ones she wrote about in her books. She had seen in England the people in the ton married for every reason but love. Her mother had loved Papa deeply and endlessly before she had died when Ada had only been nine years of age. She had been a child, but she recalled vividly the tender kisses they shared each morning, the way her father would just stare at her mother and sigh, the way her mother’s face had lit up with joy whenever she spied Papa.

  “The drawing is lovely and very lifelike,” Sarah said softly, nudging the tip of her boot against Ada’s. “Though I am not certain he would appreciate your audacity in capturing his likeness, your talent is undeniable and quite wonderful.”

  That last bit was an olive branch, and Ada accepted it with a slight nod. Throat still aching at the thought of her father forcing her to marry, she peered down at the sketch. The charcoal drawing did capture the aura that seemed to envelop him. The only oddness about the picture of this man with his lean yet powerful frame clothed in dark trousers and jacket was the very large dog sprawled into his lap and snuggled into his throat. With a smile, she peeked at the man again, admiring the bond between him and his dog. At times the man stroked the beast, crooned to him, and the dog, in turn, thumped his tail and even licked at the man’s chin, which always made the man smile. And his smile was not a cruel one, nor could it be described as kind.

  In her research, outlaws did not smile or have pets. A pang of disappointment went through her. Perhaps this man was just an ordinary businessman, and the air of danger that surrounded him was all in her imagination. Yet he had a quality of stillness that was unnerving, but most certainly required introspection. Since the time they left the train depot in Missouri, she had been working up the courage to start a conversation, maybe pick some details up from his knowledge of the West. If he was not an outlaw, perhaps he knew of one or two and would be able to inform her about their way of life when they rode the outlaw trails committing their wicked misdeeds.

  “Ada, you are improper, surely you know this?” Sarah whispered fiercely.

  Ada couldn’t help staring, and she suspected the gaze beneath the hat pulled over his eyes stared back at her. Perhaps it was a fancy, but she felt the heat of his gaze as it skipped over her face, and the collar of her buttoned-up dark blue dress.

  Unexpectedly his head lifted and rested against the squabs. The bold angles of his features became evident, and Ada was startled by how particularly handsome he really was. He had high-sculpted cheekbones, a strong patrician nose, and a full, sensual mouth. His face hinted at restrained power, the slashing angles of his jaw indicating a stubbornness reminiscent of her papa.

  As if he felt her regard, the man’s eyes snapped open, and her breath left her in an
embarrassing whoosh. His eyes were dark and dangerous and so very magnificent. Her chest suddenly felt tight, her skin sensitized. She could feel way down inside every nuance of his stare. Ada’s heart fluttered, and a peculiar heat darted low in her belly and stayed there. She returned his regard helplessly, quite aware of how rude she was being and how terribly attractive the man was.

  “They’re green,” she murmured inanely, then to her distress, blushed. Ada was quite irritated with herself. This stranger was certainly not the first handsome man she’d ever seen. London’s high society had been peppered with dashing and appealing beaux. Unfortunately, none had inspired her to gawk shamelessly.

  “That is a beautiful dog,” she said after a painful silence of staring at each other. Though his stare was one of curiosity and a bit of bemusement.

  “And very large, why I believe he could be mistaken for a pony!”

  He lowered his gaze from her face to the beast in his lap, stroked a finger over the forehead of his dog. “His name is Dutch. And he is an Irish wolfhound.”