Olivia Gates has a new book out with Silhouette Desire. It’s called “To Tempt A Sheikh” and it’s the second in her trilogy The Pride of Zohayd.

Olivia is presently a bit busy. She’s a doctor in Cairo. All our thought are with her and we hope to hear from her soon. I met Olivia at Romantic Times a couple of years ago and we had dinner together. A delightful, lively and stunningly beautiful woman, she is probably, of all Harlequin authors, most qualified to write shiekh books.

So because she can’t do her own promotion right now, here’s the details.

He rescued hostage Talia Burke from his royal family’s rival tribe and swept her into his strong embrace. But Prince Harres Aal Shalaan soon discovered there was more to the brave beauty than he knew. Talia held information vital to protecting his beloved kingdom…and she had every reason not to trust him.

Marooned together at a desert oasis, Talia couldn’t resist Harres. Yet even as his sizzling seduction entranced her, his loyalty to his family and country would always make them enemies. Falling for the sheikh would be her heart’s greatest mistake…but she feared it was already too late….

And just look at that cover!

Here’s the webpage at eharlequin:

http://www.eharlequin.com/storeitem.html?iid=23098&cid=230

I can’t find a lot about this book, but this author is one of only a very few authors that it doesn’t matter if I know anything about the book or get to read an excerpt because I’m going to pick up this book anyway. I picked up Murder in the Hamptons at a used bookstore for a dollar and it was a dollar well spent.

Mrs. Garvey has never failed me in her stories to make me laugh with a well written cast of quirky, but fun characters (even the “villians”).  I can easily get loose track of time while reading one of her books and can’t wait to get my hands on this one.

Deck the haunted halls for a romantic holiday starring one shy writer and a cynical journalist…and oh yes, a ghost….

Snow on the roofs and wreaths on the doors and chains on the tires…isn’t Christmas in New England wonderful? But Charlotte Prescott is too busy taking in super-sexy reporter Sam Landry to notice the nip in the air. Make that the nip in the air alternating with the scorching heat that rises whenever she and Sam are alone together. Charlotte would be happy to forget the supernatural third wheel who seems to be staying for the season in the quaint old house she inherited. It is real. Someone’s slurping down all the good eggnog. And something is drawing Charlie and Sam together under the mistletoe—not to mention everywhere else. Happy holidays!

Directions for mixing Fabulous Christmas Cocktails included!

You can read an excerpt here…

Audrey And The Maverick is Elaine Levine follow up her debut novel Rachel and the Hired Gun.

I enjoyed the first book, which I wasn’t too sure I would because ‘ranch wars’ are often not a good read for me.

But I found this one surprisingly entertaining. I loved the heroine. Rachel is fab and unlike Kristie J, (read her review here) I didn’t have issue with not getting a description of what the hero/heroine looked like. In fact I didn’t notice. You can read an excerpt for Rachel and the Hired Gun here.

Audrey and The Maverick

comes out February 2010

In Elaine Levine’s stunning novel of the American West, a proud rancher and a determined young woman are drawn together in the lawless town of Defiance.

.

Virginia financier Julian McCaid has put his troubled past behind him. His plans for the future don’t include Audrey Sheridan, the extraordinary frontier woman he met just once. But it’s because of her that he’s come to the Dakota Territory to investigate problems at his ranch. And it’s all the more surprising when he discovers she isn’t the innocent he believed. Now nothing but her complete surrender will purge her from his soul.

.

If it weren’t for the children she cares for in her makeshift orphanage, Audrey would have left Defiance long ago. Now the sheriff is blackmailing her to distract the man who might derail his corrupt schemes—a man who can offer Audrey not just protection, but a passion bold enough to make them claim their place in this harsh and beautiful land…

I can’t find an excerpt. And this is shallow but I ADORE the cover.

Really don’t you agree?

The trilogy ends with Leah and the Avenger

A vigilante hired to clean up the corrupt and rapidly dying town of Defiance, Jace Gage never expected to fall for a violence-hating, violet-eyed tomboy, Leah Morgan.

Besides being the resident Harlequin Historical hos here at The Pond, Sybil and I are massive, colossal, hardcore western romance junkies.  So when Sybil first blogged about Jo Goodman‘s upcoming book, Never Love A Lawman, back in January we both immediately thought, “Wow, that sounds like a western.”  We didn’t really have much to go on at the time though.  Well guess what duckies?

We Have A Western!!!!!!!!

Bask in the glory.  Revel in the cowboy goodness.  And someone scrape me off the ceiling.  I know Sybil will be overjoyed….just as soon as she overcomes her Internet connectivity issues from Hell.

Description: 

“Rachel Bailey may seem like just a beautiful newcomer to most of Reidsville, Colorado, but Sheriff Wyatt Cooper knows she’s much more. Through a twist of fate, Rachel is the inheritor of a very valuable commodity: control of the railway that keeps the isolated mining town connected to the world. That is, she will be, if she agrees to the surprising stipulation in her benefactor’s will-that she marry Wyatt.

Rachel has no choice: refusing the marriage could put all of Reidsville in the hands of an outsider, and not just any outsider but the cruel tyrant she has come here to escape. Yet living with Wyatt will be her greatest challenge. For he has a tempting way about him that makes Rachel forget theirs is a marriage in name only- until her frightening past shows up to remind them exactly how much they have at stake…”

Oh. My. God.

Could my life get any better?

Laydown date is September 1 kiddies.  Seriously.  Start counting down the days now.

 You’re So Vein (The Others, Book 7) by Christine Warren

release March 31, 2009

Prolly just me but I find this title totally amusing. Read more about the book below and the last book in the series is reviewed here.

Ava Markham is beautiful, savvy, chic, and more at home with Kate Spade than with the idea of fangs and fur. She can’t get quite used to the fact that some of closest friends have crossed over to the Other side. Then one night she is attacked by a rogue vampire, and her deepest fears are realized when her body begins a dangerous transformation from human to immortal—a change she cannot survive without the help of an alluring stranger who comes to her rescue…

Vladimir Rurikovich, an elite member of the European Council of Vampires, is on the prowl for a murderous vampire fugitive on the night he saves Ava from the clutches of death. It takes just one look for Dima to know he cannot live another eight centuries without the stunning and seductive Ava—until he discovers a secret about her bloodline that could change everything…

can’t find an excerpt on her site or at Macmillan yet…

You can catch up on The Other Series info here

What a Pirate Desires by Michelle Beattie comes out this December.

Piratey goodness… although I admit I am not much on the whole man who is secretly a woman thang…

A LADY IN DISGUISE

When her family was murdered by the brigand named Dervish, all that Samantha Fine cherished was swept away in the churning waters of the Caribbean. Driven by revenge, she masquerades as Sam Steele, the most cunning pirate of the seas, striking terror in the hearts of every merchant who dares to cross her path. If only they knew the legendary buccaneer’s extraordinary secret…

A MAN IN NEED

One man has discovered that a fiery female spirit wrestles beneath Sam’s fearsome exterior: the pirate, Luke Bradley. He once sailed with the vile Dervish, and now has a score of his own to settle. But as he joins Sam on her journey across the unpredictable Caribbean Sea, Luke is drawn to her loyal heart and courageous strength. Now, making Dervish pay for his sins is second to the quest to win Sam’s heart…

That noise you just heard… was me squeeing *g*.  Dude I almost hate me right now.  But I don’t

Flat-Out Sexy by Erin McCarthy coming November 2008!  COVER DEBUT!

This is her FIRST CONTEMPORARY since You Don’t Know Jack, which was released in Oct 2006.  YES! 2006… two. years. ago. Good thing for us her Paranormals have been so flat-out fab but when I heard she was finally going back to contemps… oh yes… I sqqquuueeee and THIS cover is flat-out sexy *g*.

Keep reading for the blurb…

She met him at the racetrack…

..which was the last place Tamara Briggs wanted to find a man. Even a deeply intriguing, seductively sexy man like Elec Monroe. Tamara’s a single mother now after losing her daredevil husband in an accident—and she’s not about to get involved with another driver and put her kids, or herself, through that again. Besides, Elec’s young enough to be her…younger brother.

Now things are moving a little too fast…

But he sure does get her heart racing. And after she’s tricked into a blind date with him, Tamara gives in to her passion. Things screech to a halt, though, when he asks to meet her children. Whatever happened to wham-bam-thank you ma’am? Suddenly Tamara has to decide how much risk she’s willing to take to experience the thrilling, terrifying power of true love…

And now for an even “bigger” image – intriguing bulges, no? 

I had a post on 24 Hours as a Sex Vixen in draft forever. I couldn’t find a summary for the life of me. And finally in a fit of ‘omg there is too much crap in draft’ I deleted it. And then heard she was having a case of writers block.

Or at least I think it was her. Anyway… looks like we ‘should’ get a new Lisa Cach novel in December – really Jan 09 since it releases Dec 30th. What do you think of the summary?

From national bestselling author Lisa Cach, a contemporary erotic romance featuring a female graduate student who becomes inspired by her research on female sexual power and puts her newly acquired skills to the test—with steamy results.

When a shy, mousy Ph.D. candidate does her dissertation on sexual power, she’s inspired to change her life. Reveling in the thrill of her newfound sexual liberation, she goes from sheltered to self-assured in no time—and then decides to put her skills to the test on a hot, unattainable man. Can this drop-dead gorgeous hunk resist her new feminine wiles
and seductive charm?

I subscribe to the school of thought that all readers have their own personal crack addictions.

Mine?

Mail order bride stories where the bride finds herself getting more than she expected. Oh, like a groom who wasn’t expecting her, or a groom who has the nerve to die before her stagecoach/train arrive. What’s a poor girl to do? Well find herself a more fetching man, of course! Preferably one who is still breathing

The long journey across the West ended in sorrow for one hopeful mail-order bride. Dani Baxter stepped off the train in Colorado, only to learn that her intended had died suddenly, leaving three young daughters behind. And suddenly she knew why God had sent her here-to make this family whole again.

But her late fiancé’s brother, Beau Morgan, a bounty hunter obsessed with vengeance, believed that was his duty. He proposed they marry-in name only- for the children’s sake. But as she came to know him, she realized she wanted more, much more. And she wondered if even this lost man could somehow find peace in a woman’s loving arms.

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Home.

The word caught in his mind like barbed wire. He didn’t have a home and he didn’t want one. The giggles coming from the bed of the wagon gave him a headache. So did the sun setting over the blue cut of the mountains and the streak of pink in the sky. Dusk usually calmed him. It meant the end of a day, solitude and the peace of sleep. Today the fading sun pressed him to hurry. The cows needed milking. The girls needed their beds.

“Beau?”

Dani’s voice matched the dusk. He hadn’t invited her to use his given name, but it sounded natural.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Supper was nice. I didn’t know you were a lawman.”

He grunted. “Josh talks too much.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dani lace her fingers in her lap. “They respect you.”

Beau said nothing. The man they’d known in Denver had died with Lucy.

“I don’t mean to pry.” Her voice dipped low. “But you were good at your work. Do you miss it?”

“I never gave it up.”

“You mean Clay Johnson.”

“And others.” Beau shifted his weight. “Johnson rides in and out of my life. Sometimes I get close and he runs. Sometimes he comes after me, makes a threat and runs again. It can take months to pick up his trail.”

“What do you do in between?”

“I check Wanted posters.”

“How do you choose?” Dani asked.

Mostly Beau got a feeling. “I pick the man with the deadest eyes.”

He heard the soft rush of her breath. “You’re a bounty hunter.”

Beau frowned. “I don’t do it for the money. I do it for–”

“Lucy.”

He doubted his wife would approve. “I was going to say justice.”

Dani stared straight ahead. “The Blues respect you. I want you to know. I do, too.”

A woman’s praise shouldn’t have made Beau square his shoulders, but it did. Aside from earning a living, he found satisfaction in his work. He brought peace to widows and orphans. He helped people who couldn’t help themselves. Most of the time, he felt content with his cause, but tonight he missed the things he’d given up.

With dusk settling, he wished he’d never set eyes on Daniela Baxter and her pink dress, his nieces with their blond hair, even the kitten. Parted from its mother and brothers, the poor thing was meowing its heart out. Beau knew how it felt. If the girls weren’t careful, it would bite and scratch out of frustration.

Emma’s voice carried over the rattle of the wagon. “We have to decide on a name.”

“I like Fluffy,” said Esther.

Beau winced. No male deserved a handle like Fluffy. He felt offended on the cat’s behalf but didn’t say anything.

“He’s a boy,” Ellie said, sounding superior. “Let’s call him Prince.”

Beau clenched his teeth. Prince beat out Fluffy, but not by much. The kitten was destined to lose all dignity.

Dani turned to the girls. “How about Boots?”

It fit, but Beau didn’t like it.

“It’s kind of plain,” Emma said.

The females batted around names, each one as unmanly as the last. After a mile, Beau had heard enough. “Name him Fred.”

“Fred?” The females cried out in a horrified chorus.

“Or Hank or Sam,” he said. “Anything but Fluffy.”

He’d stunned the girls into silence. Beau reveled in the quiet until Esther spoke up. “Uncle Beau?”

Until now, no one had called him by that name. His belly flipped. “What is it?”

“What name do you like?” asked the child.

He thought for a minute. “I’d call him T.C. for Tom Cat.”

“I like it,” Emma said.

“Me, too,” Ellie added.

Dani hummed her approval. “T.C.’s an excellent name.”

Beau turned in her direction and saw a shine in her eyes, a longing that matched the pull in his gut. Children . . . laughter . . . hope. When she turned to the kitten and smiled, he saw it as an act of defiance. Dani Baxter would grab the rope of happiness, no matter how frayed, and hold on. His belly burned. If Harriet Lange took his offer, that rope would be yanked from her hands. Beau knew how that felt. Her flesh would tear and bleed. He wanted to tell her to let go now, to forget the kitten and the little girls, but he knew she wouldn’t do it.

She must have sensed his gaze, because she turned to him. When her lips tipped into a smile, a sad one but honest, Beau felt it like his own. He jerked his eyes back to the road. T.C. meowed hungrily. Dani stared straight ahead. “We’ll give him milk as soon as we get home.”

Fool that he was, Beau felt happy for the cat.

This just makes me sqqquueee so much because I don’t think I have ever seen a Texas Revolution setting in anything other than James Michener’s Texas and those wonderful books I had to read for Texas History in college. Yes, I had to take Texas History in college, to be a history teacher in Texas, you have to take Texas History. Anyway, one of the few interesting parts of Texas history is the revolution. And isn’t that cover beautiful?

Two weeks before the eventful day at the Alamo in San Antonio de Béxar, Victoria’s land on the Rio Grande is overrun by the Mexican army. She heads north to warn the Texians unaware that the very person who has helped her escape is now using her to spy on the Alamo’s defenses.

Jake Dumont is good with a gun, but he doesn’t care one whit about the fight for freedom happening in the Texas territory. He just wants to find his foolish brother and haul him back home. Yet when he meets the stunning señorita, Victoria Ruiz, and steals a kiss, he realizes she has bewitched him. Is she a traitor and with the Santanistas or does she mean what she says about helping the Texians? How can he leave when protecting her suddenly means more to him than protecting his heart?

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Victoria walked down the street carrying a kettle of chicken soup and grumbling to herself. She had been to the edge of town that morning and still there were no soldiers posted as lookouts. Didn’t the officers understand how close Santa Anna’s army was? Why did they not prepare? It had been four days since she’d arrived in town. She’d expected to help Juan secure his house here and move into the fort–and perhaps prepare the women. No one took her warnings seriously except Diego and Juan.

She glanced down at the heavy iron pot she held. All she’d done so far was take food to the hospital in Maria’s stead—not nearly the action she’d desired. Juan had dismissed his cook after hearing the news Victoria brought and smartly the woman had packed her things and headed back to her home west of town to warn her husband. The soldiers might enjoy this soup after the rations of corn tortillas they’d endured but what would happen to the injured and ailing men once Santa Anna invaded the streets?

Again she worried about the lack of readiness. Shouldn’t people be doing something? Preparing? It seemed a few Tejanos were, but not the stubborn and blind Americanos.

She strode past the barracks, making a bee-line for the stairs to the hospital floor. Just as she mounted the first step, a dark blur of motion dashed out from under the stairway. The large mud-colored mongrel bounded toward her with its teeth bared, a rumbling growl in its throat.

“No!” she cried out, teetering on the brink of losing her balance as the dog dove into her skirt and between her legs.

“No! Eyiee!” Hot soup sloshed out from under the kettle’s lid and over the edge to burn her fingers. She would lose it all if she dropped it!

Suddenly a strong hand gripped the kettle and then grasped her elbow, steadying her. She looked up into a face that hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a razor in weeks. His beard was the color of rich coffee but it couldn’t hide the handsome contours beneath. Anglo, she reasoned. Easy to spot with the dark hair, streaked blond by the sun, and cobalt blue eyes. His body tensed as he held tight to a ruff of fur at the dog’s neck and pulled it away from her skirt.

“Guess the smell of that soup was more than the poor mutt could take. You got that now?”

“Gracias,” she said, gripping the kettle to her like a shield.

Juan had warned her against being too familiar with the soldiers, saying they saw few women and were as uncouth a lot as he’d ever known. She sniffed. This man reeked of horse and sweat and days on the trail—not exactly a heady combination.

He tipped his hat. “Name’s Jake. Jake Dumont.”

“Gracias,” she said again.

He was blocking her path. She started to side-step to go around him but then he side-stepped and was in front of her again.

His eyes narrowed under his dark brows. “You don’t speak English? A shame.” His gaze slid over her, moving from the heavy blue cloak that covered her head all the way down to the base of her gray skirt where the tips of her boots peeked out. Angry heat flushed through her. He had nerve, this Anglo!

She raised her chin and gave him the haughtiest look she could muster under the circumstances. Repositioning her grip on the kettle, she started up the stairs, surprised when the man shoved the dog purposely to the side and followed her. She stopped and turned, putting the hot soup between them. If he thought to annoy her, she had plenty of protection.
He glanced at the soup and then back up at her. A devilish look came into his eyes. “You think that would stop me?”

She tipped the kettle in warning. A drop of hot liquid splashed onto his pants.

Faster than lightening, he grasped her wrist. “Careful woman. There may come a day you won’t want that part of me scalded.”

Oh! He was a wicked man!

“Look. Let’s not start a battle where there doesn’t need to be one. I’m just going in the same direction as you–to see the doctor.”

“You are sick?” He seemed like the last man on earth who’d be ill. His firm grip revealed only quick reflexes and crushing strength. Too late, she realized her ruse was up. She’d spoken her thoughts out loud—in English.
He smiled slowly, his gaze knowing. “No. But my horse is.”

Captured momentarily by the deep blue of his eyes, her heart thudded in her chest. He was different than anyone she’d known before and so sure of himself. Was this an American trait? She wasn’t sure she liked it. It bordered on rudeness. They had not been properly introduced and here he was still touching her wrist.

As if he read her thoughts, he released her arm and took the kettle from her hands. “Relax, miss. Although you are the prettiest señorita I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, I’ve got other things on my mind at the moment.” Then he passed by and continued up the stairs giving her a disconcerting view of his worn buckskin backside.

She frowned. She hadn’t expected him to suddenly turn charming. Drawing up the hem of her skirt, she followed.

The Magic of Christmas (Anthology) by Carolyn Davidson, Victoria Bylin, and Cheryl St.John, coming October 2008.

It is shaping up to be a not fun day… I know excuses excuses… here is something to read while you wait *g*
The excerpt was first posted May 10, 2008. And most likely the guest post will go up about noon. Sorry! I promise a much more detailed post singing the praise of Cheryl St.John in a bit *g*. Or really just search her name here… there has to be 1, 2 or 100 posts already doing so

 E-X-C-E-R-P-T

THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS HH Anthology
Excerpt from A Baby Blue Christmas

October 2008

Chapter One

November, Ruby Creek, Colorado

There was always at least one rude traveler for the duration of a stage ride, and this time it was an overweight and cloyingly perfumed woman in a bright green traveling suit. She’d slept nearly the entire trip since Salt Lake City, snoring in snorts and whistles that punctuated every tedious, bone-jolting inch of the way.

Gabrielle couldn’t complain. She was exceedingly grateful it was Snore Lady beside her and not Whiskey Breath. From his seat directly across from her, the man with the bristly brown-stained beard gave her sidelong looks that made her skin crawl. The one time she’d erroneously met his gaze, he’d smiled. His teeth were brown and decayed. One of the rules of etiquette required that he offer to share the bottle, and he’d done so begrudgingly. Only one passenger had accepted his invitation. Gabby wouldn’t have touched her lips to that bottle if she’d been dying of thirst.

Gabby had taken only short trips with the Wells Fargo Overland in the past. Heat and dust were definitely worse during summer months, so late November was marginally better for a hasty and ill-planned trip. Being packed in like sardines was an advantage this time of year and in this unfamiliar part of the country.

The coach hit another rut and her teeth jarred yet again. Snore Lady gasped in her sleep and then lapsed back into vigorous and prolonged inhaling and exhaling.

The driver struck the side of the coach to gain their attention, and a gentleman in a gray wool suit opened the flap to listen to his message. A flurry of snow filtered in and dusted the buffalo robes.

Gabby stared at the flakes glistening on the dark fur. She was from the Steptoe Valley in eastern Nevada and had only seen snow in stereoscope slides. Having been forewarned about winter, she’d bought a warmer coat at a layover in Utah.

“Last bend before Ruby Creek,” the gentleman traveler conveyed.

Having been delayed most of the afternoon for wheel repair, they were finally reaching her destination in darkness. Gabby prayed the hotel would check her in at this late hour. To hurry her travel, she’d brought only one small satchel. All she needed was a place to lay her head for the night.

She’d been following her cousin for weeks, traveling by any means available and inquiring from town to town. She had learned that Willow had come to Ruby Creek only a day or two ago. This was the closest Gabby had come to finding her since starting out a month ago. She didn’t let herself think about what could happen if she was too late. Willow always landed on her feet, but the baby she was about to give birth to was defenseless.

With a final lurch, the stagecoach slowed, turned a new direction and came to a halt with a screech of springs. Snore Lady roused. “Where are we?”

“Ruby Creek,” Whiskey Breath replied.

The obese woman raised the flap and peered out into darkness. “It’s late! Nearly bedtime.”

Gabby exchanged a glance with the man in the gray suit.

The coach rocked as the driver and a passenger climbed down from the top seat. The door opened outward, a bitter cold draft and more fascinating white flakes swept inside.

“Ruby Creek!” the driver called. “Those goin’ on will have to find a room for the night on Well’s Fargo’s tab. We’re half a day behind, but we cain’t go no farther in the dark. Too dangerous for the horses.”

The reflection of the moon and stars on the snow lit the night with an odd silent brightness. Gabby stepped down into the freezing inch-thick blanket of white. Her thin-soled shoes made a squeaking sound with each step. Drat. She’d bought the coat, but hadn’t thought of warmer footwear.

Eager to be on the road, Gabby had been the first passenger aboard the coach that morning; her bag was buried between crates and trunks. Waiting impatiently as the driver and a man from the freight line unloaded, she turned to cast a look at the town.

Four gas lamps burning at uneven intervals lit Ruby Creek’s Main Street. She made out hanging signs for the hotel, a livery, mercantile and pawnshop. Other signs painted on windows were indistinguishable in the dark. Dissipating smoke curled from half a dozen chimneys.

Within minutes, the cold seeped through her shoes and chilled her toes. Beneath her coat and dress, frigid air encased her legs. Within seconds numbness set into her thighs.

By the time the men uncovered her satchel, she was the only one left standing at the station. She took her bag with a weary thank you and pointed herself toward the sign that read Friberger Hotel. The frosty layer that had settled on the boardwalk made her final steps treacherous. She slipped and slid and finally grabbed the doorknob as a lifeline. The door opened and she slid into a chilly lobby, relived to at last be indoors.

“Full up!” A wiry man with hair standing in pewter-colored tufts around his ears called to her as soon as she closed the door behind her.

Now what would she do? Her whole body ached, and she was so tired, she could have fallen asleep standing there.

Carrying a no vacancy sign, the proprietor limped toward the front door. The crown of his head was bald and pink. “Just let the very last room.”

He hung the sign in the front window.

Gabby set down her bag. “I need a place to stay.” Refusing to give in to desperation, she thought quickly. “I’ll share a room with someone and pay the entire cost.”

The man obviously wanted to get back to his bed, but he sighed and obliged her by plodding up the stairs. He was gone a long time, so Gabby looked around for a chair. There was only a long narrow bench beside the door. She remained standing.

At last he returned. “Won’t nobody share. The new arrivals ain’t payin’ their own way, so they don’t care.”

With her hopes in shreds, she closed her eyes against the discouragement crushing in. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Sometimes Miz Sims takes a border overnight. How long ya stayin’?”

She only wished she knew when she’d find Willow and be able to head home. When she’d made up her mind to do whatever she could to get to her in time, Gabby’d had no choice but to come on this trip alone. There was no other family besides her parents. Besides the fact that they’d given up on Willow, they had a business to run. “I’m not sure.”

“Other’n that, maybe the reverend. No, come t’ think of it, he’s a widow man and don’t take in no females on account of propriety. Sometimes Turner over t’ the livery lets a fella stay the night with his horse. ‘Specially in poor weather. Ya might ask ‘im.”

Tired, hungry, supremely frustrated, Gabby picked up her bag and tugged her collar around her neck. She forced herself to thank the man politely. In the morning half the travelers would move on and, if she hadn’t found Willow, she’d still be in need of a room by tomorrow night.

Long about three o’clock, Ruby Creek and the day closed in on Turner Price. He tended the horses as usual, did chores and ate simple meals, but come nightfall and the locked silence of the businesses along Main Street, he saddled his gelding and rode out, staying away from the hills and the creeks and finding clear moonlit trails.

Often, no matter the weather, he dismounted and walked, his Mexican spurs jangling and silencing night creatures as he passed.

This snowy November night made for a bitter cold ride and a colder walk, but he was accustomed to the elements and had dressed warm. With the stars spread overhead and the frigid air biting his lungs, it was easier to keep his thinking focused on the present.

Snow glistened in the moonlight and brightened the landscape. His horse didn’t care what Turner said or didn’t say, didn’t have an opinion or feel pity. Comanche just plodded along at his side with an occasional snort or soft whinny for companionship. Comanche didn’t demand Turner talk or feel or change, and Turner liked their relationship just fine.

Judging by the stars, it was time to head home. He mounted and urged the Appaloosa toward the livery. He reached the door, dismounted, and rolled the wood sideways to lead the gelding inside.

One of the other horses nickered from its stall and Comanche responded with a soft snort and a shake of his head.

Turner hung his coat and hat, unsaddled Comanche and picked up a blanket to dry him. “Hold on, I’ll get you dry and warm and you can settle in for the night.”

He was brushing the animal’s withers when a sound arrested his attention. His hand fell still. A cat? A pair of cats? Not impossible that felines had sought lodging in the warmth and safety of the building for the night. But why in tarnation were they making so much racket?

The sound registering more clearly, Turner rolled around additional possibilities. He was either losing his mind or….

Lying down the brush, he gave his horse a pat on the shoulder and grabbed a lantern that hung from a nail on a beam. His spurs jangled a beat as he strode down the long row of stalls.

The horses were agitated, stamping and moving restlessly. A bay he was boarding for a traveler pinned his ears back and rolled his eyes, a distinct reaction to a disturbing smell. More than Turner’s late return was exciting these horses. Something–or someone–had disturbed them.

The high-pitched sound had grown louder and was definitely coming from the back of the barn. These end stalls were always the last rented.

Turner’s gut clenched at the sound he now recognized as a baby’s cry. And not just one slender reedy trill–two.

The stall gate was unlatched, and he swung it outward to enter. Two impossibly tiny infants wrapped in bright-colored cloth lay on a mound of hay, their tiny fists flailing in the chill air.

For a full minute, he couldn’t make sense of what his eyes told him. He stopped breathing to simply stare and absorb.

Just looking at them hurt.

He’d been gone only a couple of hours at the longest. How could this be? Hesitant, but unerringly drawn, he stepped forward and knelt. Their eyes were squinched shut, their faces red with agitation. Turner touched one finger to the nearest infant’s matted damp scalp. Like newborn colts, these babies still bore evidence of their recent birth. They were mere minutes old, barely over an hour at the most.

An unsettling sense of trouble clawed at his nerves. Where was their mother? Unwilling to leave them alone, he glanced around as if their parent would appear or he’d find the answer in the wooden enclosure.

Both infants’ stiffly held arms trembled as they screamed. They kicked at the cloth covering their legs until the material pushed aside. Boys, both of them. Hungry, frightened, tiny boys.

Stricken by the unexpected sight and the tormenting effect on his mind and heart, Turner acted instinctively.

Shrugging out of his heavy flannel shirt, he knelt and–one at a time–gingerly placed the babies against the warm fabric and tucked the bulky garment around them. He folded back the excess, careful not to bury their faces.

He lifted the bundle gently and held it against his chest, his mind racing. Turning on his heel, he inspected the stall, the space leading to it, and each of the surrounding pens. Twelve contained restless horses. Eight were empty.

None hid a woman.

He checked the tack room and even walked back to his quarters. The room held everything he needed for his sparse existence: A bed, a small coal burner, a table and one chair.

Warmth and motion soothed the babies. Nestled against each other in the soft bundle of his shirt and against his heart, they grew silent.

He studied their miniature features, and a torturous ache weighted his chest. He didn’t want to look at them, didn’t want to add to his misery, but he couldn’t keep his gaze away. The child with the most hair had a hand splayed against his cheek, and his fingers were unbelievably tiny with perfect little nails. The other opened his heart-shaped mouth and turned his seeking face against the flannel. Turner couldn’t catch his breath for seconds. His head swam.

Tiny and helpless and alone. The fact that someone had abandoned them chafed Turner’s temper. The act was inconceivable.

And now what in blazes was he to do with them? They wouldn’t survive a day without milk and proper care. He stirred the ashes in the coal burner and added fuel to get the room warm.

The bell outside the entrance clanged once, then silenced abruptly as though someone had placed a hand on it. It was rare that anyone came for his mount or to leave a horse this late. He’d heard the stage earlier, though, and occasionally, if the small stable behind the freight station was full, the drivers boarded animals here overnight.

He placed the babies on his bed, making sure they were bundled snugly before he strode through the building. He hadn’t tethered Comanche. His horse had wandered to the other side of the open area and stood with his head lowered. “I’ll get you bedded down in a shake, boy.”

Two lanterns still burned on either side of the entrance. Turner opened the door and peered out.

A feminine form in a dark coat and fur-lined hat moved into the glow of the lantern. “Pardon me for disturbing you so late.”

So here she was. He looked her over, suspicion sending a warning signal to his senses. Her hat was pulled low so that it almost hid her eyes, and her nose was red. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Gabrielle Rawlins. I need a place to stay. The hotel’s full, you see. The man there told me–.”

“What were you tryin’ to pull?”

“Pardon me?”

“Takin’ off like that?”

She glanced over her shoulder and repeated, “Pardon me?”

“Looks like a mighty warm coat you’re wearin’ there.”

“It’s sufficient. What I need is–.”

At that moment, a thin wail rose from the back of the building and echoed through to the front. It was immediately joined by a second.

The young woman’s eyes widened and she stared at Turner.

“Had somewhere important to go?” he asked, narrowing his gaze.

“I told you, I–.”

“Tell me anything you like, but what kind of woman leaves two spankin’ new babies alone in a horse stall?”

The squall was unmistakable. Her shocked gaze traveled past his shoulder. Eyes a rich tawny color like dark honey widened.

“Yeah, I found ‘em. What did you think would happen?”

So quickly that he didn’t have time to stop her, she slipped past him and ran toward the source of the pathetic cries.

Taking note of her bag sitting in the snow, he moved it inside before he bolted the door and followed.

© Cheryl St.John. All rights reserved

I you missed Wendy’s review of Outlaw Bride by Jenna Kernan yesterday… quick go read it.

And then come back and learn about what Jenna is up to now…

Jenna Kernan’s next Harlequin Historical is in such an early stage it doesn’t have a title or a release date yet. But she did share that this info about it

Kate Wells sold herself in marriage once and will be damned if she’ll do it again, but when her family’s home is threatened she is left with a choice between betray the man she’s come to love or enduring the shame of becoming his mistress.

As well as she shared that she is currently working on a…. Nocturne that sound very interesting!

DREAM STALKER
Silhouette Nocturne
Release date TBA

A Native American healer thinks her escalating nightmares signal madness but the truth is far worse. Her dreams are real. She is being stalked by the ruler of the ghosts and the only thing standing between her and destruction is a savagely beautiful shape-shifter who can change from a grizzly to man. But is he willing to defend a wounded human from death, himself?

Just in case you are worried like I was, Jenna has no plans to leave HH, or was just afraid to admit that too me.

Our guest today is Julia Justiss and she has a very interesting post that will go up at 11am you should make sure you come check out.

She has one book and one novella coming out, A Most Unconventional Match is her full length July Harlequin Historical and is a sequel to The Wedding Gamble. If I remember the notes correctly.

As well as she will have a Christmas novella, Christmas Wedding Wish, in the November Harlequin Historical One Candlelit Christmas. I don’t have any info on this yet but read on for the summary and an excerpt from her July HH.

A Most Unconventional Match by Julia Justiss

Hal Waterman’s calling on the newly widowed Elizabeth Lowery is the caring act of a gentleman. And with her household in turmoil and a young son to support, she is certainly grateful for his help. Hal finds Elizabeth even more lovely than when they first met, but
knows that she will only ever see him as a kind and often taciturn friend.

Elizabeth finds comfort and companionship in Hal’s caring of her. But then a tantalizing desire starts to simmer. His reassuring strength and presence have become so very attractive…so alluring….

Leaning one broad shoulder against the wall, Hal Waterman exchanged an amused glance with Sir Edward Austen Greeves as they watched the bridegroom pacing in front of the hearth. “Wearing out the carpet, Nicky,” Hal pointed out. “Give the bride’s family a distaste of you. Best get the ring on her finger first.”

Nicholas Stanhope, Marquess of Englemere and Hal’s best friend since their Eton days, sent him an irritated look. “I can’t imagine what’s taking so long. The priest arrived half an hour ago.” Halting before a side mirror, he straightened the white rose in his buttonhole and tugged on his cravat.

“Adjust that once more and you’re going to ruin it,” Ned said. “I expect the ladies will be here shortly. Patience, my man! Every bride wants to look beautiful on her wedding day, even if she’s being married by special license in a parlor instead of in church after a calling of the banns.”

Nicholas swung his gaze around to glare at Ned. “Don’t you dare imply there’s anything havey-cavey about this! You both know—“

“We do,” Hal interrupted. “Mortgage foreclosure and all that. Had to rescue her. Great lady, Sarah. Good choice.” He nodded approvingly.

“Must be eagerness for the wedding night that makes you so testy,” Ned said. “You know we fully support your marrying Sarah and understand the necessity to do so immediately. And her family’s parlor might not be a church, but it’s just as handsomely appointed.”

Ned gestured around the room, indicating the side tables covered with lace cloths surmounted by silver candelabra, the large vases filled with greenery and white roses set beside the rows of chairs facing the fireplace, the mantel where a cross flanked by candles and more rose sprays created an improvised altar. “The ladies have outdone themselves.”

Though he’d resumed his nervous pacing, the tightness in Nicholas’s face loosened. “I want this day to be beautiful—for Sarah.”

“Great lady,” Hal repeated. “Wouldn’t mind marrying her m’self. If I wanted to marry. Don’t,” he added.

“Your mama still after you with her latest heiress in tow?” Ned asked. “As much as she disparages you, you’d think she wouldn’t be so eager to try to drag you into the parson’s mousetrap.”

“Wants to ‘improve’ me,” Hal said glumly. “Escaped her house, live in rooms, can’t work on me. Thinks a wife could.”

Nicholas halted long enough to thump Hal on the shoulder. “As if you needed improvement! You’re already the most stalwart companion a man could want.”

“Hear, hear,” Ned seconded and then shook his head. “Women.”

Giving his loyal friends a grateful smile, Hal gazed up at the altar. If he were forced to marry, Nicky’s soon-to-be bride would be almost his ideal choice, he thought. Lovely but not terrifyingly beautiful, competent, accomplished—and kind, Sarah Wellingford never made him feel clumsy, tongue-tied and thick-witted like the sharp-eyed, disdainful Diamonds of the ton his mother kept trying to foist on him.

Like his beautiful, self-absorbed, Society leader of a mother still did.

Since he had no intention, if and when he ever married, of wedding the sort of woman his mother preferred, he supposed he was fated to remain a disappointment to her. He shrugged off the dull ache produced by that old hurt.

“Ah, here they come at last!” Ned exclaimed as the parlor door opened.

The three men turned to watch as, led by the priest, the bridal party entered. First came the bride’s sisters, all adorned in white gowns trimmed with gold ribbon and cream rosebuds.

Meredyth, Cecily, Emma, Faith, Hal silently counted them off as they entered, trying to match faces to the names Nicky had given him. He’d just caught a glimpse of Nicky’s Sarah, resplendid in a gown of shimmering gold that made her silver-blond hair glow, when the last sister in line turned toward him after easing the bride’s long skirt through the door.

Elizabeth, Hal thought, before his breath whooshed out and his brain stuttered to a halt.

She was an angel come to earth. Nothing else could explain such perfection, the beauty radiating from her so intensely, as if she were lit from within, that Hal could feel the warmth of it all the way across the room.

His stunned senses took in the pure spun gold of her hair, the pale coral of her cheeks, the rose-petal-soft look of her skin, the pink bow of a mouth with its full lower lip. A slightly pointed chin imbued her face with character, saved it from a mere oval’s bland symmetry.

And her eyes—blue as the summer waves of the lake on his country estate, they impelled him to approach, as if he might discover the purpose of his life mirrored in the depths of those indigo pools.

An angel, his numbed wits repeated, or the reincarnation of the Botticelli Venus he’d seen in his well-traveled tutor’s pastel sketches.

Without conscious volition he walked toward her. She turned to him and smiled. A shock raced along his nerves from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

She was the loveliest thing he’d ever beheld. Flawless. More beautiful even than his mother. His senses clamored to touch her, taste her.

The realization halted him in mid-stride.

Beautiful. Like his mother.

Lord in heaven, what was he thinking?

“Hal, you escort Elizabeth,” Ned murmured at his shoulder.

Escort her? Panic filled him and a cold sweat broke out on his brow, dampened his fingers. “Can’t!” he replied in a strangled voice. Turning on his heel, he hurriedly paced to the farthest corner of the room.

CHAPTER 1

Seven Years Later

Elizabeth Wellingford Lowery stood in her studio, brush in hand as she focused on the play of light across the flower in the vase on her worktable.

If she blocked out everything but the change of hues painted across the flower’s surface by the ebb and flow of the clouds in the sky outside her window, she might be able to keep out of consciousness for a bit longer the bitter awareness that her life had crumbled into pieces.

She should be able to concentrate. She always painted this time of the morning, while the northern light remained steady, often becoming so absorbed in her work she forgot to stop for nuncheon.

How often had Everitt had to knock at that door and come in to collect her? Her heart squeezed in another spasm of grief as she recalled how he’d approach her, a teasing smile on his careworn face as he coaxed her to put down her brush and join him and their son David for a light midday meal.

She needed sustenance lest she slip away, as ethereal as the angel she appeared to be, he’d tell her, giving a loving tug to whichever strand of golden hair had escaped from the careless chignon into which she always twisted it.

But he was the one who had slipped away unexpectedly, taking her secure world with him.

She didn’t want to leave her studio, didn’t want to emerge into the tangle of duties beyond that door where she would have to face how much everything had changed. Even after a month, it was still too much to deal with, losing the kindest man who’d ever lived, who’d cared for her as if she were a precious object too fine and delicate for life on earth. Having Amelia Lowery, his elderly cousin who’d run their household with great efficiency, so incapacitated by the shock of Everett’s death that despite her own dismay and grief, Elizabeth had insisted the older woman give up her work and rest. Having been therefore compelled to supervise tasks she’d never before had to oversee, and all of that with her entire family gone on a long-delayed Grand Tour of the continent barely a week before Everitt’s untimely death.

Aside from Amelia, Everitt had no other close relations, so with her own family out of reach, she’d had no one to turn to, no one to help her bear the agony and the crushing responsibility. The only thing that made life endurable was being able to escape for a few hours every morning into this haven where she might blank from her mind all but the task of capturing with her brush the shape and substance and hue of the subject on her worktable.

Leaving David confined upstairs with his Nurse. Her chest tightened again with grief and guilt. He was suffering too, her precious son, missing the Papa who had doted on him as lovingly as he had doted on her. How could she help him when she couldn’t even help herself?

Tears welled in her eyes. Angrily she dashed them. Enough! She must pull herself out of this mire of grief and self-pity.

Someday soon she would do better, she promised herself. She’d wake in the new day without the constant, crushing weight of sadness on her chest. But for now, she would fix her mind only on the pure intensity of the hue in the flower before her.

A soft rap sounded at the door. For an instant, her spirits soared before the realization settled like a rock in her gut. It couldn’t be Everitt. It would never again be Everitt.

She took a deep breath as Sands, her butler, bowed himself in. “Sorry to disturb you, mistress, but…well, ‘tis nearly a month since the beginning of the quarter and none of the staff have yet been paid. I’ve tried to stifle their grumbling, knowing how overset you’ve been, but it would be best if you would take care of compensating them.”

Elizabeth stared at Sands as if he’d been speaking in tongues. “Compensating them?” she echoed blankly.

“Normally the staff are paid at the start of every quarter,” he explained patiently. “From a cache of coins the master kept in the locked chest in the bookroom.”

Naturally the servants would be wanting their money. But she’d had no idea about quarter day, nor had she the faintest notion what amounts were owed to the various members of her household.

Where could she find such information?

“Mistress?” Sands prompted, recalling her attention. “I suppose I could go ask Miss Amelia—“

“No, you were right to come to me,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Miss Lowery must have absolute rest, the physician said, if she is to recover from her attack. Of course everyone must be paid. Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention.”

His task accomplished, the butler turned to leave. “Oh, Sands!” she recalled him. “Are there…any coins in the master’s chest at present?”

“I have no idea, ma’am.”

“Very well. And…do you know where my husband kept the key?”

“I believe it is in the top right drawer of his desk, Mrs. Lowery.”

“The…the amount of each person’s salary,” she continued, painfully embarrassed by her ignorance. “Where might I find that?”

“I expect it would be recorded in one of the ledgers on the master’s desk. Or his man of business might have a list. Would you like nuncheon served in an hour?”

Numbly she nodded. “In an hour. Yes, that would be fine.”

Sympathy in his eyes, the butler bowed again and went out, softly closing the door behind him. Elizabeth put down the brush she was still holding and sank into a chair.

What if she could not find the right ledger? What if there was no more money in the chest? How was she to obtain more? Oh, she did not want to deal with this!

If only, after her marriage to Everitt, she had insisted upon taking over some of the housekeeping duties Miss Lowery performed so well, she wouldn’t be this lost and unprepared. But one look at Amelia’s anxious face as she curtsied to Elizabeth when the newly-wedded couple arrived in London, the elderly spinster’s fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her gown as she assured Elizabeth she quite understood the new bride would want to assume the management of her own household, and Elizabeth knew she could never wrest away from her husband’s poor relation the task which gave her such satisfaction. Especially not after Everitt confided to her that, the Lowery family possessing few close kinsmen, Amelia Lowery really had nowhere else to go.

Which brought her back to her present problem. She drew a shuddering breath.

It was only a list of employees. It was only a supply of coin. She could manage this. She could.

She’d look in the bookroom later. After nuncheon. For now, it was still painting time. She would remain here in this tranquil space for just a little longer. Smoothing her dull black skirts with a trembling hand, she rose and walked to her easel.

Before she could pick her brush back up, there was another knock at the door and Sands peeped in. “Sir Gregory Holburn to see you, mistress. Do you wish to receive him?”

Her immediate response was to refuse, but she bit it back. She’d not met her late husband’s closest friend since the funeral more than a month ago, an event that, transpiring as it had in a blur of shock and misery, she scarcely remembered.

She hadn’t stepped a foot outside the house after returning from the interment. And since Everitt had cared more for collecting his antiquities than for mingling with society and she had cared about mingling in society not at all, with her family out of England, she’d not had any callers.

Sir Gregory had always treated her kindly, almost like an avuncular uncle. He would worry if she refused to meet him.

With a sigh she stripped off the full-length apron she wore to save her gown from the worst of the paint spatters. “Very well. Show him to the blue salon and tell him I’ll join him shortly.”

She walked to the small mirror over her workbench, frowning as she scraped back the loose strands of hair and tucked them into the chignon. Her face was pale, her eyes dull. Everitt would say she looked like she was going into a decline.

And so I am, without you, my dear, she whispered softly. Gritting her teeth against another swell of useless grief, she forced a smile to her lips and headed for the blue salon.

Sir Gregory jumped to his feet as she entered. A tall, well-built man in his fortieth year, his light brown hair as yet showed no trace of gray…unlike the silver-tinted locks of Everitt, who’d been five years his senior. Friends from their youth, the two men had grown up in the same area of Oxfordshire and attended the same college.

His light brown eyes lighting with pleasure, Sir Gregory took the hand she offered and kissed it. “How have you been getting on? I’m sorry not to have come sooner; estate business at Holburn Hall kept me tied up longer than I’d expected.”

“I hope everything is going well there,” Elizabeth said politely. Absently she wondered how Everitt’s neighboring property, Lowery Manor, was faring. Since their marriage, they’d spent little time there, her husband preferring to reside in London where he might more easily acquire items for his collection.

“Some difficulties with the planting, but well enough.” Eyeing her more closely, he shook his head. “You look tired and care-worn. Is Miss Lowery still confined to her bed and unable to assist? My poor Lizbet, I knew I should have come back sooner to check on you!”

“How kind of you,” Elizabeth replied, acknowledging his concern. “I’m afraid Miss Lowery is so far from recovered she must not even think of returning to her duties. I get on well enough, I suppose, though it is…difficult.” She attempted a smile. “So many things to do! Reviewing menus, inspecting linens, checking silver, ordering coal—I had no idea how much was required to run a household. Did you know there are at least seventeen different recipes for preparing chicken?”

“Seventeen?” He chuckled. “Who would have thought?”

“And where does one obtain the coin to pay one’s servants?” She shook her head and sighed. “Miss Lowery and Everitt spoiled me dreadfully, I’m discovering.”

Holburn took her hand and patted it. “Dear lady, you are too young and lovely to trouble yourself with such trivialities! Now that I’ve returned to London, I do hope you’ll allow me to lift some of those burdens from your shoulders.” Letting go her fingers, he extracted a small purse from the pocket of his coat. “How much coin do you need for the servants?”

Tempting as it was to transfer all her tiresome duties into his willing hands, Elizabeth hesitated. Husband’s best friend not withstanding, there was no link of kinship between them whatsoever. She could not but feel it went beyond the limits of what was proper to accept any of his kindly-offered assistance. Without doubt, she knew she must not take money from him, even as a temporary loan.

“That won’t be necessary, Sir Gregory, although I do thank you for offering. You must ignore my hen-hearted complaining! I shall learn to manage soon enough.”

“You are sure?” When she nodded, he continued, “Very well, I shall do nothing—this time. But my offer stands. I should be honored to assist you in any way, at any time.”

As the mantle clock chimed the hour, she rose. David would be waiting for her, anxious for his nuncheon. “Should you like to join us for some light refreshment?”

“You will take it with your son?”

“Yes. By noon he’s grown quick peckish.”

“I fear I must decline. Another time, perhaps?”

“Of course.” She escorted him from the parlor, secretly relieved he’d refused the invitation she’d felt obligated to offer. But Sir Gregory did not enjoy children—and David, perhaps sensing as children often do the attitude of the adults around them, most decidedly did not like Sir Gregory.

Sometime this afternoon, she still must solve the riddle of paying her servants. Turning her visitor over to Sands, with a longing glance in the direction of her studio, Elizabeth walked upstairs to find her son.

In his bachelor quarters on the other side of Mayfair, Hal Waterman frowned at the notice printed in the newspaper. Having returned to London just last evening after spending two months monitoring a new canal project in the north, he was still sorting through the journals and correspondence that had accumulated in his absence.

Carrying the paper with him, Hal dropped into the chair by the fireplace where his valet Jeffers had left him a glass of wine, gratefully settling back against its wide, custom-designed cushions. Taller and more powerfully built than most of his countrymen, after his sojourn in assorted inns over the last weeks, he was thoroughly tired of trying to sleep in beds too short for his long legs and sit in wing chairs too narrow for his broad shoulders.

Scanning the notice again, he sighed. Mr. Everitt Lowery, it read, of Lowery Manor in Oxfordshire and Green Street in London, unexpectedly expired in this city on the seventh inst.–almost six weeks ago now. Surviving him are his widow, Elizabeth nee Wellingford and one son, David.

Elizabeth. Even now, seven years after his first glimpse of her at the wedding of his friend Nicholas to her sister Sarah, the whisper of her name reverberated through his mind, exciting a tingling in his nerves and a stirring in his loins.

Despite knowing Nicky’s wedding service had been about to begin, he’d barely been able to keep himself from bolting from the room that long-ago day. As it was, drenched in panic, he’d had to station himself as far from the enchanting Elizabeth as the confines of the parlor allowed, remaining at the reception afterwards only until he deemed it was politely possible to excuse himself.

Until he encountered Elizabeth Wellingford, armored by a lifetime of scornful treatment at the elegant hands of his beautiful mother, he’d thought himself immune to those pinnacles of perfect female form who so easily enslaved the men around them. Which, for Hal, made Elizabeth Wellingford the most dangerous woman in England. Even knowing what she could and probably would do to him, he’d still been…mesmerized.

The only sensible response was to stay as far away from her as possible. Over the intervening years, keeping that resolve turned out to be easier than he’d first feared, given that her sister had married his best friend. A few months after Nicky’s nuptials, shunning a Season, Elizabeth Wellingford had chosen to wed a family friend she’d known all her life, a gentleman more than twenty years her senior.

So fortunately for his piece of mind, the bewitching Elizabeth had never joined the ranks of the hopefuls on the Marriage Mart, that small section of ton society in which his mother took greatest interest. Each Season Mama inspected the new arrivals, choosing those she deigned to honor with her friendship—and whom she would then parade before her son in the hope, mercifully thus far unrealized, of enticing—or coercing—him into marrying some woman of fashion who might be trusted to try to remake her overly tall, totally unfashionable, monosyllabic only child.

A hopeless task, if Mama would just cease stubbornly refusing to concede the fact. In a society that prized dark, whipcord slender men like that lisping poet Lord Byron, Hal was too big, too fair-haired, and from his years of fencing and riding, too thickly muscled to ever to be considered one of ton’s dashing young blades.

Prizing comfort and utility above all, he had no patience for coats that required a valet to wrestle him in and out of them, shirts with points so high and stiff they scratched his chin or fanciful cravats that threatened to choke him whenever he swallowed.

And though, with Nicky’s help, he’d overcome the stuttering that had made his school years a misery, he would never be capable of uttering long flowing phrases full of the elegant compliments so beloved by ladies.

He sighed. He would always be an embarrassment to Mama and there was nothing to be done about it.

Shifting his gaze to the matter at hand, he looked back at the funeral notice he still held. So Elizabeth was now a widow. Too young and lovely a lady to be wearing black, he thought, a touch of sadness in his chest at the premature loss she had suffered. Then a startling, highly unpleasant realization brought him out of his chair and sent him rushing to his desk.

Impatiently he flipped through the papers until he found Nicky’s note. As he reviewed it, a scowl settled on his face.

Hell and damnation! He had remembered the dates correctly. Nicholas, Sarah, their children and all the rest of the Stanhopes and Wellingfords—all of Elizabeth’s family–had departed for Europe, it appeared, barely a week before Everitt Lowery’s passing. The family party was not due to return to England for another three months at the earliest.

There was no help for it. Despite his vow never to willingly place himself again in the same room with the lady who had so shaken his world, that lady was Nicky’s sister-in-law. With her family out of reach, Nicky would expect Hal to call on the widow, insure that her husband’s lawyer and man of business had her financial affairs well in hand and, in Nicky’s stead, offer to assist her with anything she required.

Going back to his chair, Hal sighed and downed a large swallow of the wine. Please heaven, let Lowery have left a decent will and employed a competent man of business. The Wellingfords had been nearly penniless when Nicky married Sarah, so Hal knew Elizabeth probably hadn’t brought much of a dowry to her marriage. He hoped Lowery’s finances were such that he’d been able to leave his widow a comfortable jointure.

Of course, that didn’t mean she couldn’t easily run herself into dun territory. As Hal recalled, a woman’s response to both joy and calamity involved the acquiring of a large number of new gowns, bonnets, pelisses, footwear and the nameless other fripperies females seemed so fond of. That had always been his mother’s way and he had no reason to expect that a woman as stupendously beautiful as Elizabeth Lowery would react any differently.

With it having been six weeks since her husband’s demise, he’d best gird himself to call on Mrs. Lowery immediately to make sure she wasn’t already having to outrun the constable. Lowery’s fatherless son didn’t need to have his mama land them in debtor’s prison.

Taking another deep draught of wine, he recalled sardonically the bulging armoires in his mother’s several dressing rooms. Only the gigantic size of his father’s fortune had allowed Hal to achieve his majority—and assume control of his mother’s finances– with that lady still possessing a sizeable portion. Unless Lowery had tied up his funds carefully and appointed a vigilant trustee, if she spent her blunt as freely as Letitia Waterman, Lowery’s lovely widget of a wife could swiftly exhaust a modest competence.

Fulfilling his duty as Nicky’s stand-in shouldn’t be that burdensome, he reassured himself. He’d probably only need to visit the widow once, after which he’d be able to deal directly deal with Lowery’s man of business. Besides, it had been a very long time since he’d seen Elizabeth.

Having weathered seven Seasons’ worth of Beauties posing, posturing and pouting before him, he was doubtless no longer as impressionable as he’d been that long-ago afternoon. Besides, ‘twas likely that over the years, memory had exaggerated the incident. Wary as he was of winsome women, surely when he met Elizabeth now he’d experience only a mild appreciation for her striking loveliness.

After all, a man could appreciate a masterpiece of art without aching to possess it.

Hal took a deep breath. He could do this. And he would…tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would meet Elizabeth Wellingford Lowery again.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

Possessed by the Highlander by Terri Brisbin. This Highlander goodness comes to us from Harlequin Historicals 1 August 2008. Read on for a summary and a peek between the covers…

Marian Robertson rescued a child and destroyed her reputation. Now, to keep her family safe, she must marry the stern, dark-eyed warrior negotiating a truce between their clans – and risk her heart to protect the truth.

Manipulated into marrying the ‘Robertson Harlot’, Duncan, peacemaker of the MacLerie clan, finds his new wife’s courage and spirit make it impossible to resist her. But will he put his honor at stake to free her from her past – and claim her love forever?

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

Marian sat up at the sound. More like an animal bellowing in pain than a man speaking, she drew the blankets up around and over Ciara before climbing from the pallet and going to the door. Checking the bar, she knew the door was secure against most dangers, but what lurked outside this night? Grabbing her cloak from a hook, she wrapped it around her shoulders and peered into the darkness through the small, high window.

The light of the nearly-full moon made much in the area around her cottage visible to her, but she did not need light to recognize his voice when he spoke. The MacLerie’s man.

“Mara!” he called again, leaning over with his hands on his knees.

Sweet Jesus! He would wake not only Ciara but the entire village if continued bellowing like a wounded bear. Deciding to take a chance that she could quiet him better face-to-face, she slid the bar up and set it aside. Lifting the latch, she opened the door a bit so she could speak to him.

“Sir Duncan,” she whispered. “My daughter sleeps within.” Marian stepped out and tugged the door closed behind her. “As does the rest of the village. Can we not speak of what concerns you in the morn?”

He stood up then, rising to his full height that made him tower over her and he strode directly to her. More than anything, she wanted to scamper back in the cottage, close the door, drop the bar and gain any protection that the croft could offer, and she did try. But, he moved too quickly. He blocked the door with his foot, making it impossible for her to close it. His hand slid up the edge of the door, making any thought of keeping him out a hopeless one.

“Please, my daughter. . . ,” she began in a whisper. Glancing at the pallet and seeing no movement there, she stepped forward to block his view into her home.

“I need to see you, Mara,” he said in a low, gruff voice. “Come out, so I can see you.”

He stuttered his words and Marian suspected he was in his cups, but that did not make him less dangerous. But, her choice was clear—her safety or her daughter’s—so she released her hold on the door and stepped away. His gaze was hot as it passed over her, from her head to the toes that peeked out from beneath the bottom of her chemise. She tugged her cloak closer around her and walked outside.

Marian could see him out of the corner of her eye and she watched as his hands curled and relaxed, curled and relaxed and then again. He allowed her to walk past him and then he followed where she led—away from where her daughter could see or hear them. She suspected how this would end and she did not want Ciara to witness it. When she reached a small clearing in the trees next to the path, she stopped and turned to face him.

His eyes were wild, but there was a sadness and longing deep inside them that made her heart hurt. Her chest tightened and she found it difficult to take in a breath as she waited for him to do something. When his touch came, the tenderness of it was the true surprise. With only the tip of his finger, he traced the edge of her chin and then her mouth. His hand shook as he did it and her body began to tremble beneath his touch.

“You did not come,” he said.

“I could not.”

“I wanted you there. I wanted to see you,” he whispered, closer now, close enough for her to feel his breath on her face. Then he kissed her neck and the heat of his mouth sent chills through her. Still, she dared not move. “I wanted to taste you.”

He lifted her face to his and leaned down until his lips met hers. It was only a moment before the kiss changed from tender to possessive and she lost the ability to think or to move. Now, heat raced through her and centered itself in that place deep inside. He guided her face to one side and she felt his tongue pressing against her lips. Opening her mouth to him, Marian discovered that her limbs lost the ability to support her and she leaned towards him.

When he’d called out her name and told her to come out, she’d been completely prepared to fight or reason him away. Now though, she was not so certain. He slid his arms around her, touching her stomach, her thighs and then her breasts as he did. Instead of giving her the strength to resist, the caresses excited her making her mouth water in anticipation and making the place between her legs throb in some unrecognizable way.

Was this passion then? Was this what made men lose their minds and what brought clans to war?

That thought did clear her senses and she dragged her mouth from his, drawing in several ragged breaths.

“We must not do this, Sir Duncan,” she said hoping he could still see reason in the muddle of the desire.

“I willna hurt ye, lass,” he whispered, kissing her softly once more. His arms loosened not their hold on her and his hands never stopped their teasing caresses. “Tell me ye dinna want this and I will walk away.” His mouth took hers again in a kiss that filled her with wicked thoughts of the act to come.

Though she doubted his ability to do that, Marian was more shocked in that moment she did not want him to walk away. She wanted to feel the rest of the passion that a man and woman shared, a passion she knew was not meant to be for her. He wanted her now, the proof of his desires stood hard between them and he rubbed it against her belly even as her own body readied itself for him. Her breasts felt heavy and the tips of them tingled and tightened beneath her chemise. He drew back this time and watched her mouth, waiting for the word she would speak. . . the word she wanted to say.

The Dangerous Mr. Ryder by Louise Allen releases 1 July 2008.  Read on for more on a whole family of notorious goodness…

It is whispered about the ton that one Mr R-, long known for his ability to escape the honest bonds of matrimony in favour of a dishonest day’s work – has finally met his match! Jack Ryder, spy and adventurer knows that escorting the haughty Grand Duchess Eva to England one step ahead of Napoleon’s forces will not be an easy task. But then what started as just another mission becomes something far more personal…

Summary:

He knows that escorting the haughty Grand Duchess of Maubourg to England will not be an easy task. But Jack Ryder, spy and adventurer, believes he is more than capable of managing Her Serene Highness.

He’s not prepared for her beauty, her youth, or the way that her sensual warmth shines through her cold facade.

And what started as just another mission is rapidly becoming something far more personal….

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From Chapter One…

No-one had told him that she was beautiful. Jack Ryder crouched precariously in a stone window embrasure two hundred feet above the ravine river bed and stared into the candlelit room. Inside, the woman he had been sent to find paced to and fro like an angry cat.

It was definitely time to get off this widow ledge. He grasped the frame, put his feet through and swung himself down into the room. There was no way he could land silently, not dropping eight foot onto a stone flagged floor in nailed boots. She spun round on her chair, gripping the back of it, her face reflecting the gamut of emotions from shock, puzzlement, fear and finally, he was impressed to see, imperious anger masking all else. They had not told him about her courage.

‘Who the devil are you?’ she demanded in unaccented English, getting to her feet with perfect deportment, as though rising from a throne. Her right hand, Jack noted, was behind her: he searched his memory for his survey of the room. Ah yes, the paper knife. A resourceful lady.

‘You speak English excellently,’ he commented. He knew from his briefing that she was half English, so it was only to be expected, but it was a more tactful beginning to their conversation than Put down that knife before I make you! might be. ‘But how did you know I would understand you?’

She looked down her nose at him. Jack registered dark eyes, thinly elegant eyebrows arched in distain, a red mouth with a fullness which betrayed more passion than she was perhaps comfortable with and one deep brown curl, disturbed from her coiffure and lying tantalisingly against her white shoulder. He focused on those eyes and banished the fleeting speculation about just how the skin under that curl would feel.

‘You will address me as Your Serene Highness,’ she said coolly. ‘I was thinking in English,’ she added, almost as an afterthought.

‘Your Serene Highness,’ he swept her a bow, conscious of his clothing as he did so. He was dressed for the purpose of shinning down castle walls, not making court bows, but he managed it with a grace that had one of those dark brows lifting in surprise. ‘My name is Jack Ryder.’ He had wrestled with whether or not to tell her his real name and decided against it. His nom de guerre would be safer in the event they were captured.

‘Then you are English Mr Ryder?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘So you have not come to kill me?’

www.louiseallenregency.co.uk

Louise Allen – Those Scandalous Ravenhursts. Seven close cousins, six very different love stories:

The Dangerous Mr. Ryder – July 2008

The Outrageous Lady Felsham – August 2008

The Shocking Lord Standon – September 2008

And in 2009:

The Disgraceful Mr. Ravenhurst

The Notorious Mr. Hurst

The Piratical Miss Ravenhurst

It should just be said… expect sybil to be late… really late on Saturdays. Hey it is 9am somewhere *g*

Today’s guest is Nicola Cornick, who has a couple of books coming out in the US this year as well as a few more in the UK.

The Last Rake in London has been reviewed by the ever fab Wendy. Do check it out! And then read on for the summary, excerpt and a touch on what to look for in July.

Sally Bowes is a scandalous figure in Edwardian London. The owner of the outrageously fashionable night club, The Blue Parrot, Sally guards her business and her heart well. But when she meets Jack Kestrel, both come under threat…

Jack Kestrel is known as the last rake in London. Descended from the ancestral line of the devastatingly attractive Dukes of Kestrel, Jack is dangerous and dissolute and irresistible. When Jack and Sally start a passionate affair, neither of them think that the last rake in London might finally lose his heart.

You can find another nifty excerpt at her site here don’t miss it…

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The Last Rake in London by Nicola Cornick

‘Miss Bowes?’

The voice was low, mellow and familiar. It spoke in Sally’s ear and she came awake abruptly. For a moment she could not remember where she was. Her neck ached slightly and her cheek was pressed against something cold.

Paper.

She had fallen asleep in her office again. Her head was resting on the piles of invoices and orders that were on the desk. She half-opened her eyes. It was almost dark. The lamp glowed softly and from beyond the door drifted the faint sound of music, the babble of voices and the scent of cigar smoke and wine. That meant it must be late; the evening’s entertainments at the Blue Parrot Club had already begun.

‘Miss Bowes?’

This time the voice sounded considerably less agreeable and more than a little impatient. Sally sat up, wincing as her stiff muscles protested, and rubbed her eyes. She blinked them open, stopped, stared, then rubbed them again to ensure that she was not dreaming.

She was not. He was still there.

Jack Kestrel was leaning forward, both hands on the top of her desk, which brought his dark eyes level with hers and put him approximately six inches away from her. From such an intimate distance Sally could not focus on all his features at once, but she remembered them clearly enough from the previous night. He was not a man one would forget in a hurry, for his appearance was very striking. He had dark brown hair, very silky looking and a little ruffled from the summer breeze, a nose that was straight and verging on the aquiline and a sinfully sensuous mouth. Sally was not generally impressed by good looks alone. She was no foolish débutante to lose her head over a handsome man. But Jack Kestrel had had charm to burn and she had enjoyed talking to him the previous night. She had enjoyed his company too much, in fact. Spending time with him had been dangerously seductive. It would have been all too easy to accept his escort, and then, perhaps, to accept an invitation to dinner…

Sally had not been so tempted in a very long time and had known she could not afford to get to know Jack Kestrel any better. As soon as he had told her his name she had been wary, for all of Edwardian society knew who he was. The ancestral line of the Dukes of Kestrel had bred rakes and rogues aplenty in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and there were those who said that this man was the last Kestrel rake, cut from the same cloth as his ancestors. Cousin to the present Duke, eventual heir to the dukedom, he had been banished abroad in his youth as a result of an outrageous scandal involving a married woman and had returned ten years later having made an independent fortune.

Sally could see why he had gained the reputation he had. There was certainly something powerfully virile about him. Women were supposed to swoon at his feet and she had no intention of joining their ranks and littering his path.

She realised that she was still staring at him. Suddenly hot, she dragged her gaze away from Jack’s mouth and met his eyes. His expression was distinctly unfriendly. She drew back immediately, instinctively, and saw his gaze narrow at her reaction. He straightened up and moved away from the desk.

He was not in evening dress tonight and Sally thought that looking as he did, he could not be mistaken for a member of the Blue Parrot’s usual clientele. The club catered for the filthy rich members of King Edward’s circle who were mainly fat, pampered and accustomed to soft living, and to the sophisticated American visitors whose money and influence increasingly held sway in London. Occasionally the club also hosted the soldier sons of the old aristocracy, roistering it up on leave. Jack Kestrel looked as though he might have been a soldier once—he had a long scar down one lean cheek—and he certainly looked as though he would be more at home on the North-west Frontier or in southern Africa than in a club off the Strand. He was very tall, broad and sunburnt and Sally guessed he was about thirty. Instead of evening dress he wore a long driving coat in dark brown leather over a suit that was as carelessly casual as only Savile Row could make, and he carried his height with a lounging grace that was compulsive to watch. He turned back towards her and Sally felt her breathing constrict. She could not deny that Jack Kestrel had a dangerously masculine appearance. His features were hard and uncompromising.

‘I apologise for waking you,’ he drawled. ‘I suppose that in your profession you must snatch your sleep where you can.’

Sally was not quite sure what to make of that. Although she enjoyed accounting, she did not normally find it so riveting that it kept her from her bed. She was tired that evening only because she had been out late at the Wallace Collection the night before and then up early supervising the final redecorations of the Crimson Salon, which was to open to the public in two weeks’ time. The renovations had taken six months and the new developments were going to be the talk of London.

Even the King himself had promised to attend the unveiling.

‘You are Miss Bowes?’ Jack added, for a third time, when Sally still did not speak. Now he sounded downright impatient.

‘I…Yes, I am. I told you that last night.’Sally cleared her throat. She realised that she did not sound very sure. She certainly did not sound like the authoritative owner of the most successful and avant-garde club in London. Once, long ago, in the genteel drawing rooms of Oxford, she had indeed been Miss Bowes, the eldest daughter, sister to Miss Petronella and Miss Constance. But a great deal had happened since then.

Under Jack Kestrel’s pitiless dark gaze she felt younger than her twenty-seven years, young and strangely vulnerable. She straightened in her chair, brushed the tangled hair out of her eyes and hoped desperately that the ink-stains she could see on her fingers did not also adorn her face. It was infuriating that she had been caught like this. Normally she would change into an evening gown before the club opened, but because she had fallen asleep she had not had time, and no one had come to wake her.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Kestrel?’ She assumed her most businesslike voice. She had already realised that this could not be a social call to follow up their meeting the previous night. No matter how brief and sweet their encounter had seemed at the time, something fundamental had changed. Now he was angry. ‘I think you must know perfectly well why I am here, Miss Bowes.’ Jack’s tone was clipped. ‘Had I known who you were last night, I would have broached the matter then. As it was, I realised your identity too late. But you must surely have known I would seek you out.’

Sally got to her feet. It made her feel stronger and more capable. ‘I am sorry,’ she said politely, ‘but I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr Kestrel, nor why you are here, unless it is to enjoy the famous hospitality of the Blue Parrot.’

She had heard that Jack Kestrel had once spent a thousand pounds on champagne alone in one sitting at the gambling tables in Monte Carlo. Sally wished that he would do the same at the Blue Parrot. But it seemed unlikely, given the hostile expression on his face.

Jack’s mouth twisted with sarcastic appreciation at her words. ‘Legendary as I understand the Blue Parrot’s hospitality to be, Miss Bowes,’ he drawled, ‘that is not what I came for.’

Sally shrugged. ‘Then if you could perhaps enlighten me?’ She gestured to the papers on the desk. ‘Stimulating as your company is, Mr Kestrel, I do not have the time to play guessing games with you. As I mentioned last night, my work is my passion and I am keen to return to it.’

Some emotion flared behind his eyes, vivid as lightning. Sally could feel the anger and antagonism in him even more powerfully now, held under tight control, but almost tangible. She wished the lamps were turned up. In the semi-darkness she felt at a strong disadvantage.

‘I can quite believe that you have a passion for what you do, Miss Bowes,’ Jack said, through his teeth. ‘You must possess a great deal of nerve to pretend that you are unaware of my business with you.’

Sally did not reply immediately. She moved out from behind the shelter of the desk, turned up one of the gas lamps, struck a match and lit the second and the third. She was pleased to see that her hands were quite steady, betraying none of the nervousness she was feeling inside. She could feel Jack Kestrel watching her, his dark eyes fixed on her face. She wished the room were a little bigger. His physical presence felt almost overwhelming.

She turned to find that he was standing directly behind her. There was something close to a smile lurking in his eyes, but it was not a reassuring smile. Now that she was standing she found that her head reached only to his shoulder, and she was a tall woman. It was unusual for her to have to look up in order to look a man in the eyes.

‘Well?’he said softly. ‘Have you changed your mind about this unconvincing little game of pretence that we are indulging in?’ His appraising dark gaze travelled over her. ‘I must confess that you are not quite as I imagined,’he added slowly. He raised a hand and turned her face to the light. ‘When we met last night I thought your looks unusual, but when I found out who you were I was surprised. I was expecting someone a great deal more conventionally pretty. After all, they call you the Beautiful Miss Bowes, do they not—’

Sally slapped his hand away. Despite her anger, his touch had made her skin prickle. His gaze made her acutely aware of her body beneath the plain brown shirt and skirt she was wearing. She felt very strange… She paused to think about the hot, melting feeling within her. She felt as though she was bursting out of her corset and coming unlaced. Not a single one of the gentlemen who frequented the Blue Parrot had ever made her feel that way, although plenty had tried.

‘Mr Kestrel…’ she kept her voice steady ‘…you speak in riddles. Worse, you are boring me. My good looks, or lack of them, are something about which I alone need be concerned. As for the rest, unless you explain yourself I shall have to call my staff to remove you.’

He laughed and his hand fell to his side. ‘I’d like to see them try. But I will explain myself with pleasure, Miss Bowes.’He spoke with deceptive gentleness. ‘I am here to take back the letters that my foolish cousin Bertie Basset wrote to you. The ones you are threatening to publish unless his dying father pays you off.’

His words made no sense to Sally. She knew Bertie Basset, of course. He was a young sprig of the nobility, charming but not over-endowed with brains, who came to the Blue Parrot to play high and drink with the girls. When last she had seen him, her sister Connie had been sitting on his knee as he played poker in the Green Room.

Connie… Of course…

Sally rubbed her brow. Jack had called her the Beautiful Miss Bowes, but it was Connie, her youngest sister, who was known by that title. If she had not been so distracted by Jack Kestrel’s touch, she would have realised sooner that he must have confused her with Connie. Miss Constance Bowes was indeed so beautiful that the gentlemen wrote sonnets to her eyebrows and made extravagant promises that she was quick to capitalise upon. But Sally had never envied her sister’s looks, not when she had the brains of the family.

Jack Kestrel was watching the expressions that chased across her face.

‘So,’he said thoughtfully, ‘when I first mentioned the matter you had no idea what I was talking about, did you, Miss Bowes? And then, suddenly, you realised.’

‘How on earth do you know?’ Sally snapped. She was annoyed with herself for having given so much away.

‘You have a very expressive face.’Jack sat down on the edge of her desk and swung his foot idly. ‘So you are not Bertie’s mistress. I might have guessed. He would be too young and unsubtle to be a match for you, Miss Bowes.’

‘Whereas you, Mr Kestrel,’Sally said, very drily, ‘no doubt claim, quite truthfully, to be far more experienced.’

Jack shot her a sinfully wicked grin. For a second it reminded her forcibly of their meeting the previous night. Sally’s knees weakened and her toes curled within her sensible shoes. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘And please call me Jack. I doubt that this place operates on formality.’

It did not, of course, but Sally was not going to let Jack Kestrel tell her what to do in her own club.

‘Mr Kestrel,’ she said, ‘we digress. As you so perceptively pointed out, I am not your cousin’s mistress. I know nothing of this matter. I believe there must have been a misunderstanding.’

Jack sighed. His expression hardened again. ‘There usually is in cases like this, Miss Bowes. The misunderstanding is that my uncle is going to part with a large sum of money.’

This time the angry colour stung Sally’s face. ‘I am not attempting to blackmail anyone!’

‘Perhaps not.’ Jack came to his feet in a fluid movement. ‘But I also believe that you know who is.’

Sally stared at him, her mind working feverishly. If her guess was correct, then her sister Connie, the toast of London, had done a monumentally foolish thing and was trying to blackmail a peer of the realm. Unfortunately it was all too easy to believe because, though Connie might be incredibly pretty, she was not over-endowed with intelligence. And she was spoilt. If she did not get what she wanted, she would stamp her foot.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

And here is a something you should check out. It isn’t a Harlequin Historical but will publish under the HQN line 1 July 2008 (don’t ask me what that means I am guessing it stands for “Harlequin”). The line does both historicals and contemps. This is historical.. YAY!
Unmasked by Nicola Cornick

Over the wild hills and valleys of North Yorkshire the notorious gang of highwaywomen the Glory Girls ride, to right the injustices of society. When Major Nick Falconer is sent to unmask Glory he finds instead the very proper widow Marina Osborne.

Nick never expected that Mari would be so intoxicatingly beautiful or so disturbingly luscious. Determined to have her—body, soul and secrets—at any cost, Nick sets out to seduce her with a passion that inflames them both.

But Mari holds much deeper, darker truths than Nick could ever imagine. Despite her fierce resistance, she can’t stop her body from yearning for his touch. Can she hide her sinister past from him much longer? Or will trusting the one man she so desperately wants lead her straight to the hangman’s noose?

You can find an excerpt here.

Georgina Devon‘s book Betrayal will be released in the US in July 2008 and was first published by Mills & Boon in 1999 (you can see the cover here, unless Gwen comes along and adds it… hint hint). You can also find the summary to her last HH, Her Rebel Lord, under the excerpt below. Georgina is currently working on her next Regency but sadly it is too early for me to get too much info out of her… of course don’t let that stop you from asking her again at 11am this morning. read on for more info on Betrayal…

Lady Pippa LeClaire was desperate to find Philip, her twin, even posing as a boy to search the battlefield at Waterloo for the wounded. As a healer, she couldn’t ignore the devastation, and did her best to help, saving the leg of Deverell St. Simon.

Given the task of nursing Dev, Pippa couldn’t reveal her true self to him, especially when he was told by the Iron Duke to find Philip, believed by them all to be a traitor. She had to clear her twin’s name, even if it meant losing Dev, the man she’d grown to love….

Pippa’s gaze darted around Brussels’s crowded, stinking streets. Wounded men lay everywhere. She could only be glad she was here. The times she had helped the local midwife and the county surgeon had given her skills which might save lives, or at least ease the passing. Her twin might even be here. Wellington’s letter saying Philip was dead had been sent from here. Philip might be amongst the British fighting Napoleon, and Wellington might not even know.

Her mouth twisted. It was a far-fetched idea. The note was dated weeks ago, and everything pointed to her twin being dead. But she knew her twin was alive, she felt it, and this was the only place she had to start.

A cry of pain caught her attention. It was from a man, his head wrapped in bandages turned brown by dried blood. Flies buzzed around him. His cracked lips opened, and his tongue ran over them, searching for moisture that was not there.

Pippa rushed to him. Kneeling, she felt the heat of fever emanating from him. She took a dipper of tepid water from a nearby bucket and, supporting the soldier’s head with one arm, tipped the liquid into his mouth. He gulped greedily.

‘Thank ye, lad,’ the man said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

‘Twas nothing,’ Pippa murmured, for the first time regretting her decision to disguise herself as a youth. She had done so because young men were allowed in many places where women were barred, places where there might be people with information regarding her brother. Nothing mattered more than finding Philip.

Yet, if she wore skirts, she could tear off her petticoats and make a new bandage for the man’s wound. As it was, she wore a pair of Philip’s old pantaloons and one of his shirts, her breasts bound by linen to give her the appearance of a man. She had nothing she could take off without exposing herself.

‘Blast,’ she muttered, putting aside her wish for petticoats. Steeling herself, she made the decision to remove the filthy bandage. The man would be no worse without it, and probably better.

‘Hey! Boy! What do you think you are doing?’

Pippa heard the voice as background noise. She was still too new at her masquerade to realize she was the ‘boy’.

‘You, boy,’the gruff voice said angrily as a beefy hand gripped her shoulder and swung her around so she landed on her knees.

Pippa did not like being touched. She liked even less being interrupted when she was with a patient.

‘Unhand me,’ she said, lowly and furiously.

‘Touchy for a mite of a lad,’ the man accosting her said, dropping his hand.

Scowling, Pippa stood and dusted the dirt from the knees of her buff pantaloons.

The officer looming over her—and she was not small— was a bull of a man, with a scowl the equal of hers. A shock of dark brown hair fell over equally dark eyes.

His frown deepened. ‘Leave the men alone. We have enough problems without your meddling.’ He squatted by the soldier. ‘And this one is sorely hurt.’

Pippa’s anger seeped away as she watched the surgeon gently tend to the man’s wound. ‘I can help, sir. I’ve trained with our county surgeon and know many of the local midwife’s pain remedies.’

Disregarding her, the surgeon soaked the bandage with water from the nearby bucket and then carefully unwrapped it. ‘He would be better off without this.’ Dismay moved across his craggy features, followed quickly by stoic acceptance.

The surgeon took off his coat and made it into a pillow, which he carefully laid the soldier’s head on. Next, he washed his bloody hands in the water and dried them. Only then did he deign to give Pippa a critical once-over.

‘You are naught but a boy, dressed in his older brother’s clothes. I’d sooner trust yon private—’ he jerked his head in the direction of a man who was going around giving the hurt soldiers water ‘—with an amputation before I’d let you treat these injured men.’

His callous words bit into Pippa, but she held herself straighter and met the other’s hard gaze with one of her own. ‘I know enough to realize you have ruined the drinking water by washing your hands in it. Now you must send someone to fetch a fresh bucket.’

‘Any fool knows that.’

‘You should also consider giving him a tincture of henbane to ease the pain and promote relaxation and sleep. You could do the same with opium or laudanum, but I doubt there is enough of either to go around.’

The surgeon’s eyes narrowed. ‘How old are you, boy?’

The barked question took her by surprise. It should not have. Only very young boys have downy cheeks and slim shoulders. She had tried to pad her shoulders, she could do nothing about her cheeks.

Going on the offensive, a trick her twin had taught her early in life, she met the surgeon’s eyes boldly. ‘Old enough to be here.’

For an instant the man’s wide mouth quirked up. ‘Plenty of spunk.’

Two moans pierced the air, each from opposite sides of the street. The surgeon glanced from one wounded man to the other, his face torn by indecision. The hook of his nose seemed to turn down.

‘All right, boy. This is your chance. I cannot tend both men simultaneously.’

Anticipation made Pippa’s hands shake. She looked from man to man and found her attention drawn to a bright brown thatch of hair. Her twin had hair that color, not black as her own because they weren’t identical. Could it be Philip?

She took a step toward the man, saying over her shoulder, ‘Yes, sir.’

The surgeon didn’t stop her. ‘Mind you don’t do anything that will harm the bloke,’ he stated, his dark eyes boring into her back. He raised his voice. ‘Or I shall have you thrown out of the city on your arse.’

‘Ingrate,’ Pippa muttered under her breath as she hastened to the patient who might be her twin.

She knelt beside the man, disappointment clenching her hands. He wasn’t Philip. But he was sorely injured.

The man’s moans increased in volume, and his arms and legs thrashed about, throwing off a dirty blanket that had been draped over him. His right calf was a mass of torn muscles and protruding bone. If she did not act quickly, putrefaction would set in and he would lose the limb. The moans stopped the first time she probed the wound.

She glanced at his face to see him watching her with pain-racked hazel eyes. Rivulets of sweat poured from his high brow. He was more handsome than she had ever imagined a man could be. Pain twisted his features and furrows creased his forehead and carved brackets around his mouth, a mouth that might have been wide and sharply defined if it were not flattened by agony. His jaw was square and clenched. His cheekbones were high and flushed with fever. Perspiration slicked his hair.

‘Don’t cut it off,’ he said, his voice a deep, dry rasp that made her fingers shake even more.

In some ways he reminded her of her brother; strong and clean of limb, with the exception of his right leg, and similar in colouring. But the feelings this man aroused in her, in spite of his helplessness, weren’t sisterly. Nor were they welcome under any circumstances, much less these.

Forcing her attention back to his wound, she saw that amputating the limb was his best chance, and yet she found herself agreeing with his command not to remove it. This man had a fierce light in his eyes and a muscular wiriness that spoke of activity. He would not appreciate living without his leg.

By the time she pulled the last fragment of bone and the final piece of torn cloth from the wound, perspiration drenched her shirt. His piercing gaze bent on her face as she worked did not help. Never had a man stared at her so intently, and never had a man’s attention affected her so completely.

She dared glance at him again, only to wish she had not. His face was creased in agony, and she knew it had been a supreme effort of will that had kept him conscious during the cleaning.

‘That leg will have to come off,’ the surgeon said in a gruff voice.

Pippa had not heard him approach. Starting, she twisted around in her squatting position and looked up at him. ‘I think I can save it.’

The surgeon shook his head. ‘If we were in a small town or he was the only patient, I might agree. But ’tis not so, lad. If the leg stays, it will fester and kill him. Better he lose a limb than lose his life.’

Pippa frowned. She had heard the surgeon at home say similar words, but…

Perhaps the surgeon was right.

The man’s broad shoulders shook and the leg beneath Pippa’s fingers twitched. His eyelids fluttered, their thick sandy eyelashes creating a sharp shadow against his pale skin. His eyes caught and held her attention, commanding her.

‘Don’t let him take my leg,’ the man whispered, his voice coming hoarse through cracked lips. His hand gripped her wrist and squeezed to emphasize his order. ‘I would rather die.’

Even as he said the words, his eyes closed and Pippa realized he was trusting her to do as he ordered. He did not have the energy to fight the surgeon. It was up to her to save his limb.

Her twin came instantly to mind. Philip would not want to lose his leg. He would call himself half a man. This man would do the same. She knew it with a certainty she did not want to question for fear that she would find herself gone insane; that she would find herself more involved with this man than she had any reason to be.

Chewing her bottom lip, Pippa stood and faced the surgeon. ‘You heard him. He would rather die.’

‘You would risk his life on a whim?’ The surgeon’s bushy brown eyebrows formed a bar across his wide face. ‘I was right not to entrust anyone’s care to you.’

Pippa flushed, half-embarrassed at her statement and halfangry at the surgeon for doubting her skills. ‘The way a man feels about his life is as important as whether he has one.’

The surgeon’s scowl deepened, his attention going to the patient. ‘You did a thorough job of cleaning the flesh. Can you set the bone?’

Pippa nodded, sensing that she had won.

‘You,’ the surgeon bellowed to a nearby soldier, ‘bring an eighteen-tail bandage and splint.’ Turning his frown back on Pippa, he said, ‘If this man dies, you will have to live with your conscience. Now, show me what you can do.’

Pippa bit her bottom lip and studied the surgeon. He met her gaze squarely. He was laying a heavy burden on her, but one doctors and healers faced every day of their lives. She could and would accept that burden.

Reaching into her herbal pouch, she withdrew some garlic oil and mixed it with fresh water. She poured the mixture over the wound to protect against putrefaction. Her patient flinched, and when she looked at his face she saw he had bitten his bottom lip until it bled. But his eyes were open and watching her.

Conscious of his gaze on her, she flexed the leg to straighten the bone for setting. Without a sound the man flinched and then went limp. He had finally passed out. She breathed a sigh of relief for his sake. Quickly and competently, she set the bone, put on soft lint to absorb the drainage and crossed the eighteen tails of the bandage so that the leg was completely wrapped. Lastly, she applied the splint.

By the time she was done, her hands shook and sweat ran in rivers down her spine. It was a hot, muggy day, but she knew it was the fear of failure that had worn her down. She did not want this man to have his leg amputated. She wanted him to awaken a whole person, wanted to see the fierce determination and fire in his hazel eyes once more.

‘You know he will limp—if he survives.’ The surgeon’s gruff voice intruded on her thoughts.

‘And it will pain him most in damp, cold weather,’ she added, standing and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves.

‘Perhaps we can use you after all. I could not have done a better job of cleaning and setting the leg.’

It was a concession she had begun to think would never come. Pippa released the breath she had been unconsciously holding and broke into a radiant smile. ‘You won’t regret it.’

He looked at her from the corner of his eye and shook his head. ‘You are as pretty as a maid. See that you watch yourself. Some of these men are none too particular.’

Pippa turned red. ‘Yes, sir.’

Her attention flitted to the unconscious man. What would he think of her as a woman? It was a question she was fearful of having answered.

‘I’d be doing you no favors if I didn’t warn you, lad.’

‘Thank you,’ Pippa muttered, trying to deepen her voice.

The surgeon looked at the patient. ‘This one is your special case. See that you let me know when gangrene sets in and the limb must be removed. You have until then to try and save the leg.’

‘I will do all I can,’ Pippa vowed, watching the steady, shallow rise and fall of the hurt man’s chest.

‘Meanwhile, there are others who need your services and your herbs.’ Turning from her, the surgeon bellowed, ‘Jones, stay with this lad and see that you get him what he needs.’

A tall, thin, battle-scarred sergeant ambled up. ‘Knew we was robbin’ the cradle for the fightin’, Major, but thought we wasn’t in need of babies to tend the sick.’

‘This young man has just performed as well as any army surgeon I know,’ the older man said. ‘Don’t go giving the lad trouble or I’ll have you confined to the hospital.’

Jones shuddered. ‘Horrible place. Dark and hot and stinking.’

‘A living morgue,’ Pippa whispered, her stomach churning. ‘Those poor men.’

‘Ah, Lord.’ Jones rolled his eyes. ‘The boy has that fervent look in his eyes. Now he’ll want to go nurse the bastards there.’

‘You are absolutely right,’ Pippa said firmly, squaring her shoulders and jutting out her chin. ‘Show me the way, Jones.’

‘What about this one?’ the surgeon said, stopping Pippa in her tracks. ‘Do you intend to leave him here, exposed to the elements?’

Pippa’s gaze traveled over the patient. He was tall and well-formed, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was a spectacular man. She didn’t want him going to the filth and squalor of the hospital.

He is your patient, she told herself. Patient and nothing more. He might not even live.

With difficulty, she forced her concentration to his medical problem. Because of the bands of muscles in his legs, it had been difficult for her to relax his calf enough to open the wounds so she could clean them.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

Her Rebel Lord by Georgina Devon

To polite society, Duncan McNabb, Lord Byrne, is the quintessential gentleman, occupied merely with fashion and flirtation. But Jenna de Warre knows his other identity – Duncan is also a hunted rebel! Bound to him by this deadly secret, Jenna soon finds herself drawn deeper into Duncan’s dangerous world, and falling evermore under his charismatic spell. When it seems the rebel lord returns her feelings, Jenna leaps at his proposal of marriage, but is she destined merely to be mistress to his cause?

You can read an excerpt here.

Western Weddings is an anthology coming from Harlequin Historical in May. It features Rocky Mountain Bride by Jillian Hart, Shotgun Vows by Kate Bridges, and Springville Wife by Charlene Sands.

We have had Jillian Hart guest and Kate Bridges told us all about her gold rush ways. Today’s guest is the third author from the delightful western anthology Western Weddings, Charlene Sands, who will tell us a bit more about the western hero @ 11 am.

Until then have a read of an excerpt from Springville Wife (just in case you missed it in April )

blockquote> Springville Wife by Charlene Sands

Grace Lander returns to Springville to pick up the pieces of her life and become the town’s schoolmarm. Single father Caleb’s Matlock’s kiss may be just what Grace needs to mend her heart and make a home.

Springville, Texas

1888

CHAPTER ONE

Grace Lander dusted off her sapphire blue traveling suit as she stepped down from the stagecoach. She hadn’t journeyed by stage since the horrendous robbery that claimed her husband’s life one year ago. Shivers of the fear she’d lived with during her stage ride from the rail station in Fort Worth, slowly ebbed and she found herself taking her first easy breath. Yet, the painful memory and the guilt she felt over Harrison’s untimely death were always with her.

But she was here in Springville now, her childhood home and hoping to carve out a new life as a schoolmarm to a full brood of eager children.

“You made it, deary!” Her spry rosy-cheeked aunt came rushing forth, a silly violet-feathered hat bobbing on her head.

“Aunt Enid, it’s good to see you.” She embraced the aunt she hadn’t seen since her visit to Boston some six years ago — her favorite aunt, if Grace were being truly honest.

“It’s about time you came back to your only livin’ kin.”

“Only kin? Aunt Enid, you know darn well, Aunt Flo and Auntie Roberta are still alive.”

“Alive, deary, but not livin’.”

Grace chuckled and relief washed over her. She put aside any doubts she’d had about her return to Springville. Her Aunt Enid, who ran the Springville Boardinghouse, would be sure to keep Grace on her toes.

With somber eyes, Aunt Enid grasped her hands and squeezed gently. “Are you ready to start your living again, honey?”

The connection and the love flowing between them warmed her through and through. She gazed down the street to see familiar shops: McKenzie’s Dry Goods, Springville Bank and Trust, Shorty’s Longhorn Saloon, the marshal’s office and Spring’s Diner. Not too much had changed in thirteen years. Grace found great comfort in the small thriving town where she’d grown up. Springville was different than Boston, in ways too abundant to name. Even the May sky seemed clearer, the air crisper and the sunshine brighter.

Was she ready to start living again?

On a shaky breath, Grace nodded. “I think so, Aunt Enid. I’m ready.”

“Good.” She released her hands and looked over at the young depot operator. “Chuckie, send over Miss Lander’s bags to the boardinghouse, as soon as you can, boy. There’ll be a warmed slice of cherry pie waiting for you.

“Yes, ma’am!”

Aunt Enid’s wide smile took twenty years off her aged face. “Ready to settle in?”

“I am, but I’m eager to visit the schoolhouse. To see if it’s how I remembered it. It’s all that’s kept me sane these past few months.”

Her aunt nodded in understanding. “Then go on.” She winked. “You know where it is.”

“Won’t you come along?”

“No, deary. You go revisit those memories by yourself. I think you’ll like what you see.”

Grace kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you, Aunt Enid. I’ll be along soon.”

Grace picked up her silk skirt and walked briskly toward the opposite end of town where the schoolhouse stood, the light brown paint appearing fresh and new, though the white of the window frames were slightly faded. She approached the school slowly, as good memories flooded in. She’d gone to school here until her family moved away when she was twelve, her father’s venture into ranching proved unsuccessful and they’d left town to move in with their family to the east.

But Grace always believed herself a small town girl. And she’d loved learning. School meant getting away from grueling chores at the failing ranch. It meant being acknowledged and encouraged by schoolmaster Mobley for her thirst for knowledge. And presently, she hoped it meant a way to forget the heartache that plagued her daily.

“Oh, Harrison,” she uttered, standing just outside the school gate. “I’m so sorry.”

She entered the schoolyard and closed the gate behind her. Stepping on overgrown bluebonnets lacing the path to the schoolhouse, she made a mental list of work she’d have to do on the grounds. But most importantly, she’d start the school up again. Mr. Mobley’s sudden death had left the town unprepared and the children hadn’t had instruction in over three months.

When she reached the front door, she tried the latch. The door didn’t budge. She walked over to the side window and peered inside, glad to find the desks in order, set up in rows of four just like when she attended school. A side bookshelf contained McGuffey Readers and the potbelly stove that billowed smoke on cold winter days, still claimed the back corner of the room. The black chalkboard centered the front wall and Grace’s mind flooded with all those days she’d stay after class to help Mr. Mobley wipe it clean. One impudent classmate had labeled her “teacher’s pet”, but she’d only held her head up high, proud of the title.

A deep voice from behind the schoolhouse broke into her thoughts. “Tarnation! Damn it! Get away from me, you dang little pests!”

Curious, Grace raced around to the back of the building toward the commotion. She bumped a ladder and brown paint rained down in big clumpy droplets, just missing her head. “Oh!”

She looked up and another “oh” fell silently from her lips. A man stood on the ladder she’d just bumped, his chest bare, broad and bronzed, a black Stetson covering his head as a swarm of bees circled around him. His denims hugged his body below a very trim waist and a narrow line of dark hairs arrowed down beyond his thick leather belt.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut and turned her back on him, but the image remained in her head. Lordy, he was a fine looking man. Her heart pumped hard against her chest at the sight.

Immediate remorse set in. She’d been a widow for a year now, and blamed herself for Harrison’s death. She had no business bearing such lusty thoughts.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” she said softly, opening her eyes. She was the new schoolmarm. She shouldn’t behave like a foolish smitten girl of fifteen.

The man stepped down from the ladder, setting the paint can and brush onto the ground. When he lifted up, she caught another glimpse of his muscled chest. “Suppose I should thank you. I was about to be eaten up by them bees.”

“Those bees,” she corrected automatically. Her face flamed with heat, not so much from the ill-timed correction but by the vision he made.

He studied her for a long moment, his gaze raking her over from head to toe without apology. “By God. You’re Gracie. Little Gracie Greene. Would’ve never guessed except for that uppity tone you take.”

Grace eyed him with caution now. She was certain she’d just been insulted. “Yes, I’m Gracie. I go by Grace Lander now. And you are?”

His quick smirk rekindled a vivid childhood memory. One she’d rather forget. Grace suppressed the urge to crinkle her nose when she recalled her own personal school tormenter. He’d bully her every single day while in class or outside for recess.

They chorused both at the same time.

“Caleb Matlock.”

Caleb cocked a grin her way.

Gracie Greene.

He’d known she’d been hired on in Springville as the new schoolteacher, but he surely hadn’t expected her to look so dang blasted inspiring. The gangly awkward girl he’d teased and tormented in school had grown into a beautiful auburn-haired, amber-eyed woman with pale skin and tiny nose freckles. He assessed her female form and liked what he saw as well. “Gracie, Gracie, green like a frog and just as jumpy.”

She rolled her eyes without granting a smile. Caleb smiled enough for them both recalling his daily taunt.

“I haven’t thought about your silly prose in years.”

Caleb suspected different. She’d been easy to goad and he’d been unmerciful back then. “You never called them prose back then, Gracie.” Caleb reached for his shirt sitting on the fence. He put his arms through the sleeves and began buttoning. “Truth is, you retaliated pretty darn good. Let’s see,” he said, staring deep into her pretty eyes. “As I recall, you called me a big oaf, ugly as a longhorn, smelly as a skunk, stupid as–”

“I don’t recall any such thing,” she hurried out her eyes flitting to his bare chest for a second, before she turned five shades of red when he noticed.

His groin twitched. He hadn’t been so instantly taken by a woman since courting Felicia Holmes eight years back. He’d asked Felicia to marry him and she’d agreed, then she ran away with a traveling tinker the day of their nuptials. Since then, Caleb didn’t have much use for Springville females, Opal, being the exception.

Caleb shrugged off Grace’s denials. “No matter. Just glad you’re here.”

“You are?”

“The school’s been closed for months. Me and some of the others took up getting it ready again.”

She glanced at the work he’d done. The back of the building he’d painted was almost finished. “Thank you for that. Except for cleaning up the yard, it doesn’t look like you’ve left much for me to do.”

“That was the intent,” he said, staring at her. Damn, there wasn’t any one thing about her he didn’t enjoy looking at. Nothing had surprised him more. Little Gracie Greene had developed into a striking woman.

“What?” she asked, her expression filled with question.

“It’s you, Gracie. You’re all grown-up.”

She smiled a little, just enough to shape her mouth prettily. “That’s what happens with time.”

He shook his head. “Usually time only wears on a person. But you, you’ve become a beautiful woman.”

Grace turned away from him. Stark memories of the horrid stagecoach hold-up brought tears to her eyes.

“She’s too beautiful to leave behind, Pa. I’m taking her for myself. And no one’s gonna stop me.”

Grace would never forget her desperate panic that day or the clawing way Gray Bullock held her and groped at her body. She fought him off the best she could, crying for Harrison’s help.

“Get your hands off my wife!”

Her husband rushed toward her armed with only righteous fury and had been gunned down right before her eyes, trying to protect her.

There’d been three other women on that stagecoach, but she’d been the one singled out. She’d been the one widowed that day. The passengers had been saved when a band of gypsy wagons came down the road, scaring off the bandits who’d left her behind and Harrison dead on the ground at her feet.

And since then, there were times when she looked at her image in the mirror and hated the reflection staring back at her. She wasn’t one who wanted undue attention cast upon her, yet since her husband’s death, she’d had three proposals of marriage. All nice men who had promised to care for her, yet she’d seen that same lust in their eyes as that bandit and she knew she wouldn’t marry again. She’d lost her beloved husband that day, but she’d also lost the unborn baby she carried and any chance to be with child every again. So Caleb’s compliment to her beauty meant little to her. It was only a painful reminder of the saddest day in her life.

“Grace?”

She inhaled deep in her chest and blinking tears away, she turned back to him. “I plan on starting classes the first of next week,” she said, straightening her spine. “That’ll give me the rest of the week to work on the weeds.”

“If you need help with that–”

“No,” she cut him off quickly. “I want to do it myself.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Opal.”

“Opal?”

“My niece. She’s my brother’s child. I’ve raised her since she was a babe. Just so you’re not confused, she calls me her Pa.”

“Oh, I see. And Opal wanted to help?”

He grinned. “She’s excited to start school again.”

“I’m glad of that. And you can be sure I’ll give her plenty of chores to do once school commences.”

Caleb nodded. “If you need anything else,” he began, fastening up the last of his shirt buttons “for the school, I mean,” he said with a grin. “I’m three miles out, at the Bar M Ranch.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be just fine on my own.” She tilted her chin up, while she admonished herself for taking that one last glimpse of his chest. “Are you through here?”

Caleb hesitated a moment. Then he closed the paint can and wiped the brush clean. He set them inside a small shed and laid the ladder down next to it. “Seems I am. For today. But, I’ll be back.” He tipped his hat and smiled. His expression brightened in much the same way it had when he spoke of his niece, Opal. “To finish what I started.”

Grace ignored that chest-thumping feeling she got watching Caleb Matlock saunter away in long confident strides.

He was halfway off the grounds when he turned clear around. “You need the key to open the school, you’ll find that at the marshal’s office.”

He kept walking backwards until she acknowledged him. “All … right. Thank … you.”

Then on a nod, he hopped the school fence and was gone.

“Oh my.” Grace put her hand to her chest and leaned her shoulder against the newly painted wall. She shoved away the moment she realized what she’d done.

“Darn you, Caleb Matlock!”

Caleb always managed to get her all jumbled up and now she’d spend her first day home, washing paint stains out of her blue satin riding suit!

“Did you see anything interesting at the school, deary?” Aunt Enid unfolded clothes from Grace’s trunk in the pretty yellow-curtained, nicely furnished room that would now become her new home. Grace worked with her as they put some clothes up in a smooth burl wood armoire and arranged her perfumes and soaps and other such essentials on the dresser before a tall, framed mirror.

“You knew Caleb Matlock would be there, didn’t you?”

Aunt Enid’s eyes crinkled and she smiled. “He’s been working at the school, getting it ready. That man’s been on his own for some years now. Raising little Opal all by himself.”

“That’s commendable.” She offered no other compliment. No need to give Aunt Enid false impressions. Grace had her chance at happiness with a wonderful man. She wasn’t interested in involving herself with anything but her students and their needs. “I’ll look forward to meeting his niece.”

“Caleb’s a good man, Grace.”

Grace scoffed. She had no such thoughts. Why even today, he’d managed to get her flustered enough to nearly destroy her traveling suit.

Aunt Enid hadn’t asked any questions when Grace walked in minutes ago, paint-stained. But she’d insisted Grace change her clothes immediately and her aunt worked on that garment until she got every lick of paint out.

“When I knew him, he was a bully and tormented me no end.” Grace set the silver-handled hairbrush and comb Harrison had given her down onto her small night table, next to a blue-bubbled glass lamp.

“Did he kiss you?”

“Aunt Enid! Of course not! Why would you ask me a thing like that?”

“Paint stains.”

Goodness, her aunt surely was astute. The older woman had an uncanny ability to see far too much. Even though Grace was ashamed of her momentary weakness with Caleb Matlock, she had no intention of ever letting that man close enough to kiss her.

“I just lost my balance, Aunt Enid. And knocked into the painted wall, is all.”

“Pity.” Her aunt’s eyes lit with a faraway look. “If only I was a younger woman.”

“I surely don’t intend to have Caleb or any man, for that matter, ever kiss me. You know where my heart lies.”

“I know how a heart can lie to you. Fool you into thinking you’re through and washed up as a woman.”

“I’ll have a full life in Springville, teaching my students. That’s what I came here for. If I’d wanted a man, I could have remarried back east. But that’s not what I want anymore,” she said softly.

Aunt Enid helped her put the last of her clothes into the armoire then turned to give her a warm smile. Taking her hands in a firm loving grasp, she said with utmost sincerity, “Deary, let me give you a bit of advice. If Caleb Matlock ever wanted to kiss me, I wouldn’t give him my cheek, if you know what I mean.”

Grace tossed her head back and laughed heartily. “Oh, Aunt Enid, I’m so glad I’m here.”

Aunt Enid patted her hands. “I’m glad of it too. Now, you rest up a bit. Dinner is at five every night.”

“I’ll come down to help you.”

“No, not today. You lay your head down and get some sleep. Dream good dreams, Grace.”

And minutes later, Grace laid her head down on the soft goose-down bed and closed her eyes, but instead of her beloved Harrison’s face appearing, as it always had in the past, another face came to mind.

Caleb Matlock.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and fought off the image of him, up on that ladder, fighting off bees and looking tastier than honey.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

I loved this book. I have to be honest, I didn’t really mean to read the whole thing but once I started it I had to finish it. The Borrowed Bride is, of course, a Western . What else would you expect for me to lurve so? It is set in Colorado, 1899 and there is already a sequel in the works! The new book has a working title of, Suddenly in April. It is set in 1906 San Francisco. And I can’t tell you to much more about that one… yet. Read on for a summary for The Borrowed Bride and an excerpt! Then you can hate me while you wait for November.

The Borrowed Bride by Elizabeth Lane
November 2008

(Summary provided by author)

Young Hannah Gustavson is devastated when her childhood sweetheart, Quint Seavers, sets out for the Klondike to seek his fortune. He promises to write and to marry her on his return, but as the weeks pass neither Hannah nor Quint’s wealthy, widowed mother receive any word from him.

Things get even worse when Hannah discovers she’s pregnant, and Quint can’t be reached. What will she do? Her large, poor farm family doesn’t need another mouth to feed, to say nothing of the scandal.

Quint’s older brother Judd comes to her rescue. Newly returned from the Spanish American War and still suffering its effects, Judd offers to marry Hannah in Quint’s place. The marriage would be in name only. They would draw up divorce papers that could be signed on Quint’s return, leaving Hannah free to marry the father of her baby. The quiet, brooding Judd is a near-stranger to Hannah, but, seeing no other way, she agrees.

The marriage catapults Hannah into a new life. The big house on the Seavers Ranch is like a palace, ruled by Quint’s bitter, antagonistic mother. Judd, her new husband, is brusque and remote. But something in his haunted eyes cries out for Hannah’s understanding. What will happen when she finds herself falling in love with the husband who’s vowed to treat her as a sister?

March 2, 1899

Hannah felt the approaching train before she heard it. Her fingers groped for Quint’s as

the platform quivered beneath her feet. A mournful whistle pierced the rainy distance.

“It’s coming!” Quint strained toward the sound like a tethered hunting dog, eager to be loosed and running. Hannah shivered beneath her shawl as the cold March wind whipped along the platform. Any second now, she would see the gray-white plume rising into mist above the bare cottonwoods. All too soon, the train would be pulling into the station. When it pulled out again, Quint would be waving goodbye from the window of the passenger car.

She gazed at his clean-chiseled profile, memorizing every feature—the chestnut curls that tumbled over his forehead, the tiny bump on the bridge of his nose, the alert hazel eyes, fixed now on the distant curve of tracks where the train would appear. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t fair, Hannah thought. Quint was happy, and her own heart was on the verge of shattering like a mason jar dropped onto a stone floor.

Hannah had loved Quint Seavers for as long as she could remember. They’d been sweethearts since their school days, and the whole town had expected them to marry. So why couldn’t he have just let nature take its course? Why had he gotten this crack-brained urge to run off and seek his fortune in the Klondike gold fields?

At first she’d hoped it was just a whim. But the Klondike was all Quint had talked about for the past year. Only one thing had kept him in Dutchman’s Creek. His older brother Judd had joined the Theodore Roosevelt’s Rough Riders and gone off to the Spanish American War, leaving Quint behind to tend the family ranch and look after their invalid mother. But that was about to change. After four months with the Rough Riders and five months in a Virginia military hospital, Judd was coming home. He’d be arriving on the train that had just appeared around the distant bend—the train that would be taking Quint away.

“Do you think he’ll be changed?” Edna Seavers’ white hands gripped the woven cane arms of her wheelchair. A cheerless wisp of a woman clad in widow’s black, she’d been wheeled around in that chair for as long as Hannah could remember.

“War changes everybody, Mama,” Quint said. “Judd’s been through a bad time with his wounds and the malaria. But he’ll come around once he’s been home a while. You’ll see.”

“I wish it was you coming home and Judd leaving.” Mrs. Seavers had never hidden the fact that Quint was the favorite of her two children. “Why do you have to go anyway? You’re too young to go rushing off on your own.”

Quint sighed. “I’m twenty-one, Mama. You promised me that I could go when Judd came home. Well, Judd’s coming. And I’m going.”

Hannah glanced from Quint to his mother, feeling invisible. She’d been Quint’s girl for years, but Edna Seavers barely acknowledged her existence.

The train whistled again, its shrill voice a cry in Hannah’s ears. She shifted her weight, conscious of the raw ache between her thighs. Her mother had lectured her about men’s appetites and made her swear, with her right hand on the Bible, that she would keep herself from sin. But last night with Quint, in the darkness of the hayloft, her good intentions had unraveled like a torn sweater. She had given herself willingly. But the act had been so awkward and painful that when Quint had moaned and rolled off her, she’d been secretly relieved. Later that night, in the room she shared with her four younger sisters, Hannah had buried her face in her pillow and wept until there were no tears left.

Pistons pumping, the engine glided into the station. Half-glimpsed faces flashed past in the windows of the passenger car. For an instant Hannah held her breath, as if she could will the train to keep moving. Then the mail sack thumped onto the platform. The brakes moaned as the line of cars shuddered to a full stop.

There was a beat of silence, then a stirring inside the passenger car. A door swung open. The lone figure of a tall man in a drooping felt hat emerged onto the step. Veiled by misting rain he moved down onto the platform.

Hannah hadn’t known Judd Seavers well. Eight years Quint’s senior, he’d been too old to be counted among her playmates. She remembered him as a taciturn young man with somber gray eyes and hands that were always working. In the years Hannah had been coming around the Seavers place, he’d shown no more interest in her than Edna had.

Now he walked toward them, where they waited under the shelter of the eave. He moved slowly, heedless of the rain that beaded his tan coat and trickled off the brim of his hat. A battered canvas field bag, the sort that a soldier would carry, dangled loosely from one hand. He looked old, Hannah thought. Old before his time. Maybe that was what war did to people.

But why was she thinking about Judd? Minutes from now, Quint—her Quint, the love of her life—would be gone. Certainly for months. Maybe for years.

Maybe forever.

* * * * * * *

Judd clenched his teeth against the pain that shot through him with each step. Most of the time it wasn’t so bad, but the long, jarring train ride had roused every shard of metal that the doctors had left in his body. He was hurting like blazes, but he wasn’t about to show it. Not with his mother and brother looking on.

The nurse had offered him laudanum to ease the trip. Judd had turned it down. He’d had enough opiates to know what they could do to a man, and he’d sworn he was finished. Still, sitting up those long nights with the rhythm of iron wheels rattling through his bones, he’d have bargained away his soul for a few hours of relief.

But never mind all that, he was home now, walking down the platform through the soft Colorado rain. Home from the war with two legs, two arms and two eyes. He could only wish to God that some of his friends had fared as well.

Harlequin Historical is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited. As such all excerpts are copyrighted © and all rights are reserved.

And if you missed it
ON THE WINGS OF LOVE by Elizabeth Lane

He gave her the freedom to fly…

Alexandra Bromley had everything her father’s money could buy. But what she really wanted was excitement, adventure and independence. When pilot Rafe Garrick fell out of the sky and into her arms, Alex discovered a thrilling new world. But how could she live her dream at the price of Rafe’s love?

Alex Bromley was trouble. Rafe knew it the first time he set eyes on her. But he couldn’t stay away. Not even if having her meant making a pact with her devil of a father. Now she was his, and it was up to Rafe to tame Alex’s reckless spirit—or lose her to the sky.

That way you have something to read while you wait for November . Look for Elizabeth Lane’s guest post at 11 am today!

Our Harlequin Historical guest today is another pond fave, Kate Bridges. It is hard not to adore a writer who shows us how the west was won, in the Yukon. If you are looking for adventures with Mounties or stories of the Klondike Gold Rush – Kate is the author to look for. Next she will be taking on the Alaskan side of the Gold Rush. The working title of her 2009 Harlequin Historical is Alaskan Masquerade. Until we can get her to give up the goods on that take a look at her 2008 books you want to make sure not to miss…

Klondike Fever by Kate Bridges
April 2008

It’s a reversal of fortune when Klondike Lily, the richest woman to strike gold in the Yukon, is robbed on a coach headed to Alaska and shackled to fellow passenger, Dylan Wayburn, a man she used to work for as a servant.

Yukon wilderness, August 1898

Dylan Wayburn recognized her before she recognized him.

She dressed differently, he thought. An odd mix of blatant beauty and hidden treasure. And after five years, instead of recognition in her eyes, there was dismissal. Dylan lowered the brim of his Stetson and hoped it would stay that way.

He studied her through half-closed eyes.

Miss Lilybeth Cromwell had always been self-conscious of a man’s attention. Yet the top button of her square neckline, scooped low like many high-society dresses, was half undone. It riveted the faces of all four men in the stagecoach. They waited for the button to slip completely and grace them with more of her bosom. Even the old lady seated beside Dylan was sniffing into a handkerchief and staring. Funny thing was, Lilybeth wore a black silk shawl around her shoulders, covering up the brilliant blue dress beneath.

Dylan never could understand that about women. She put that revealing dress on this morning and now she was trying to hide it.

Lilybeth was as far from demure as her flowing red hair and full lips would allow. But then again, Miss Lilybeth Cromwell was not the shy, nameless adolescent he’d once known. She was Klondike Lily, the wealthiest woman in the Yukon.

Rumor had it the gold nuggets on her claim were the size of grizzly claws.

Dylan tried to ignore her. He shoved a shoulder against the hard boards and peered out the window.

No sound of anything unusual. Still nothing to look at for the hundreds of miles between Dawson City and the tent town of Whitehorse except acres of spruce, aspen and the occasional cottonwood. A ridge of mountains engulfed the river valley. Turquoise waters of the Yukon River gushed on the other side of their coach.

They hit another rut. The six passengers swayed in unison and Dylan’s face bobbed back to Lily.

Her button inched closer to release. He swallowed mighty hard, turned away again and stared at the outside shadows—two men driving a team of twelve horses. A strongbox locked in between them. A stack of luggage.

No one else had voiced it, but Dylan was well aware they were carrying a cache of gold. He knew it the instant he’d seen the number of horses on the team this morning. He’d been following the gold but he hadn’t been looking forward to meeting up with Lily again. Sooner or later, he knew they would, seeing how much gold she owned and how attractive that made her to thieves. And that, of course, was the reason he was here.

Beneath his boots, he felt the weight of the gold shift, tucked somewhere into a secret iron trap beneath the floorplanks. The stash was fairly well balanced, but on the odd turn, it slid an inch or two to the right, making the iron wheels on his side of the coach creak.

Mud wagon was a more appropriate term for the contraption they were riding in. A far cry from a civilized stagecoach in a civilized part of the world.

Twenty-eight days and nights he’d been traveling alone. Hiding behind scrub bush, eating berries when he couldn’t light a fire to attract attention, letting the scratch grow on his jaw, ensuring his holster and Colt revolvers were visible to all.

He’d be damned if he’d allow one inconsequential woman to blow his cover. If necessary, he could take down the two men sitting on either side of her.

Still, Dylan bristled with caution. He hoped she wouldn’t do anything reckless that might jeopardize the coming ambush and what he had to do to protect everyone inside the coach.

* * *

Lily adjusted her skirts and turned away from the bodyguard sitting on her right. His breath smelled of breakfast sausages. Heat glued their shoulders together. She usually preferred a window seat when she traveled, whether by train or wagon or ship, but her two secret bodyguards, provided by the stage depot three hours ago, insisted on flanking her.

She wiggled, panting for a pocket of air that wasn’t scented with either man’s breath. Envy gripped her as she stared at the formidable stranger slumped across from them. He sat beside the curtain and its rustling breeze. Why, with his dark Stetson perched low over his face, the mysterious man who seemed impressed with his own sense of danger hardly needed all the fresh air blowing his way. He was sleeping, for Lord’s sake, not even able to fully appreciate the gust.

And here she was, gasping.

There were some things money still couldn’t buy.

In fact, a lot of things.

Oh, here it came…a pinch of pine. Summer cedar.

She inhaled. Perhaps she’d get to the town of Whitehorse in one sane piece, after all. Then on to Skagway, Alaska, where her sister had last been sighted.

She detected the scent of whisky again, hailing from the sleeping stranger. How could a person take to drink so early in the morning?

Lily slid her hanky beneath her heavy wall of hair. She dabbed the moisture. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave, she would have pinned her hair into a bun. Despite the heat, it wasn’t proper to go anywhere without a shawl.

Look how the stranger slid forward, silently demanding more space around him than any other passenger.

Weathered blue jeans covered his long legs. Expensive guns rested on lean hips. His crisp white shirt and suede vest made him look like an outlaw who was trying to behave. She glared at the broad shoulders and how many extra inches they occupied, inches that rightfully belonged to the older woman beside him and her elderly husband squeezed next to her, the Sawyers.

And why hadn’t the selfish man bothered to shave? Was it too much to ask for a man to look decent?

His shaggy brown hair could use a cut. He was traveling alone, but surely he hadn’t thought the coach would be empty from Dawson City to Whitehorse. They were in the middle of a gold rush!

Klondike fever, she called it. A burning inside the bellies of some men and women. A yearning to attain something grand, something they’d never seen or touched before.

They could have all the gold they could carry out of Dawson, if they struck it rich. The newly opened dirt path along the rivers between the Yukon and Alaska was no more than a hacked rut, but it was the only land route between Canada and the United States. Most folks still traveled by the waterways.

Heavens to God, look at him. Even his cowboy boots were obnoxiously large. She had half a mind to shake the living—

A dark eye peered at her from beneath his cowboy hat.

Heat rose to her cheeks.

Go ahead, tell him how much space he takes up! How his knees are just an inch away from her bodyguard’s. A bodyguard whose seat she had paid for. Why, she had literally paid for three seats in this coach, while he had only paid for one.

Air…she needed air…

The sound of gunshots lurched her forward, and suddenly she forgot all about the seating arrangements.

* * *

Her button finally came undone, but Dylan had no time to savor Lily. His pulse leaped at the blast of gunfire. He lunged for his Colts.

The old woman beside him shrieked, “No!”

“Hit the floor,” Dylan shouted and the Sawyers slid to their knees.

One of the drivers toppled from above the stagecoach, blood trickling off his left boot. He fell to the moving dirt.

Lily swung to her bodyguards. “Do something!”

Their guns were already halfway up, but Dylan was faster at pointing his six-shooters. “Toss your weapons.”

Fury etched their faces. They dropped their guns.

Lily trembled. “Blazes,” she whispered at Dylan, her skin pale against her wild auburn hair.

He knelt on the seat and peered out the window. The stagecoach careened down the trail, rocking everyone back and forth. They clutched their seats to hang on.

Hooves thundered in the grass. Five masked men galloped within yards of the coach, gaining fast. With steady aim, Dylan hit one chest, then another. Gravely wounded, the men toppled over their horses.

Dylan was well aware what was happening inside the coach, too. One of the bodyguards whipped out a hidden pistol.

Dylan twisted around, shot the man’s wrist, and as the other bodyguard rushed him, Dylan shoved his boots into the man’s gut and heaved as hard as he could. The man crashed through the door and out to the rolling ground. The door slapped open and closed.

More gunshots outside. The coach slowed.

“Damn,” said Dylan. The slowing meant his side was losing. Hidden gold beneath his boots shifted and the right wheels creaked.

Lily’s blue eyes widened. “What do you want?”

Dylan kept his gun pointed at the injured man beside her, who was clutching a bloody wrist. “Your hired men are part of the gang trying to rob you.”

“Go to hell!” the bodyguard hollered.

Lily recoiled, unsure of who to look at, unsure of who to trust.

Dylan nudged the old man on the floor. “You all right?”

The gent moaned and helped his wife to her seat.

Lily kept her startled sights on Dylan. Her eyes flickered with recognition. Her mouth slackened, about to speak.

“Don’t say it,” he whispered.

“But you’re—”

“Don’t say it.”

She blinked rapidly and clutched her beaded handbag. Her lips went white. Her chin quivered. Her posture lost its strength.

Her remaining bodyguard lunged at Dylan with a knife. Dylan kicked the blade out of the ravaged hands and kicked the son of a bitch straight through the flapping door. He hurled to the grass.

The old couple gasped.

Color rushed back to Lily’s cheeks. She took in everything around her as the coach came to a shuddering stop.

“Pretend you’re with me,” Dylan said.

“But—”

“You either trust me or you don’t.” He locked on to her frantic expression. And waited. . . .

(continued. . . .)

WESTERN WEDDINGS anthology, “Shotgun Vows” by Kate Bridges

It’s humiliation no bride should have to bear. Yet, Milly Thornbottom is forced to take a groom when her parents, Dawson City’s biggest gossips, are aghast to find her in a compromising situation with a young Mountie recruit. Corporal Weston Williams can’t believe his misfortune. All he did was ask for a simple dance….

Chapter One

Dawson City, Yukon, May 1899

“I think he’s going to ask you to dance.”

“Hush,” said Milly Thornbottom to her good friend, Cora Vandenberg. Heat of embarrassment rushed up Milly’s neck. She smoothed the pleats of her ball gown in the bright evening sun that blasted through the community lodge for the annual Spring Fever Ball. “I dearly hope not.”

Her other friend, Rose Addison, whispered. “He’s attracted by your wicked hat, no doubt.”

Milly glanced across the crowded dance floor to the tall man in the red uniform who wouldn’t let go of her gaze. A cool evening breeze ruffled the tiny hairs at the back of her knotted bun, dark brunette hair she’d carefully pinned up for the biggest event of the year. She fiddled with a lose strand.

The lace trim on her sleeves swirled through the air. Beside her, Cora leaned against Rose. The two friends were such a contrast—Cora with her ruddy complexion and short golden curls, Rose with long black tresses.

“Can’t you two behave?” In order to break away from the Mountie’s gaze, Milly adjusted the brim of her hat, a wine-colored burgundy that matched her dress.

She’d stitched the organza to the brim only last night at eleven o’clock because it had been so sinfully busy at the hat and tailor shop where she worked. She’d volunteered to stay extra late to help her dear older neighbor, whose vision was going. The grandmother had needed help to hem a dress she’d attempted to fix on her own. Milly had restrung the loose beads across the waist while she was it.

The customers had all dropped in at the last minute it seemed, women boisterously preparing for the coming week of celebrations.

The Yukon was celebrating its spring, the thawing of its rivers for passage, and the endless sunshine that would soon bake the north. Milly couldn’t wait.

Across the room, the door opened again and caused another breeze. More folks entered the lodge. The fluttering white sash on Milly’s hat tickled her back, where her neckline plunged in a fashionable swoop.

She wondered if the man in uniform was truly coming for her, and dared another glance his way.

They hadn’t spoken the entire winter.

Weston Williams. Recent recruit for the North-West Mounted Police. He maneuvered his muscled frame through the crowd, aiming his blue-eyed gaze on Milly. To her annoyance, he still made her pulse rush. Dark blond hair brushed his shoulders, a bit longer than the other Mounties’. Although she and Weston had been quarantined for measles together last summer for two whole weeks in a group of strangers, they’d rarely shared an entire conversation. No matter how hard she’d tried.

He’d treated her as though she was far beneath him, a young child compared to his maturity. Ha. He wasn’t that much older.

The flecks of black in his blue eyes added to their depth and mystery. His lips seemed always on the verge of expression, yet never seemed to give away what he was thinking.

His red wool jacket tugged at the corners of his broad shoulders. Dark breeches spanned long legs, and tall leather boots added height to his already huge physique.

Did the Mounties dress to intimidate? She supposed the uniform and boots did that. Or perhaps the shoulder harness and gun.

Judging from the other men nodding at her, it seemed Weston was not the only one who’d noticed how much she’d changed from last year to this. Changed on the outside, she thought, but not on the inside. She was the same she’d always been, only he’d been too haughty to notice when it had really mattered to her.

Tonight, she appreciated the others in the room who had more manners and kinder things to say to her as a woman, not a child.

“Pardon me,” said a male voice behind her.

Milly twirled around. Her long skirts flashed across the plank floors, exposing the pointed black tips of her new boots. When the mercantile’s handsome son, James Yakov, nodded his dark head at her, she beamed. “James.”

“Your father said I might have this dance.”

“Absolutely,” she gushed. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

She’d stitched this dress for James. He’d once complimented her on a burgundy-colored blouse, and so she’d chosen burgundy linen for the gown tonight.

“You look pretty,” he told her, causing her pleasure to deepen.

“Thank you. I’ve-I’ve never seen you in a suit before. It makes you look quite dashing.”

He boldly took her hand and whirled her around the floor to a waltz, awkward at first, then synchronizing steps.

She glanced in her parents’ direction. Theodore and Abigail Thornbottom, owners of the rope and broom shop in Dawson City, were watching her carefully, even while shaking the hands of Reverend Murphy. Her thin father, in his tight plaid suit and white ponytail, squeezed the plump shoulder of her mother, whose own golden ball gown Milly had worked on in secret for a solid month, and then surprised her. It had been well worth her mother’s delight.

Tonight, her mother’s skin was flushed with pride, her eyes sparkling as she said goodbye to the minister. The man was leaving on a journey in the morning to visit the camps that dotted the riverbanks, for those in need of religious services that had been stymied by the impassable winter weather.

Milly reveled in the feel of James’s loose hold on her waist. She wished he’d press tighter so she could really feel his grip. She also wished her folks would let her make her own decisions regarding dance partners, but she was working on them.

Thank goodness they’d said yes to James.

It was spring and Milly, Cora and Rose would blissfully take their time deciding on men. Potential husbands, even. The thought made Milly’s stomach flutter. Like Cora and Rose, Milly was ready for courtship—for the year ahead, meeting all types of gentlemen she could thankfully choose from. Perhaps she didn’t have to look far. James was here.

He squeezed her waist. She lowered her lashes and held back a smile, not wanting to be too obvious. Then to her utter shock, he twirled her around right at the base of Weston William’s feet. She held her breath and didn’t dare look up.

Weston had been snubbed by James already, if he’d intended to ask for the dance first. However, it was Weston’s loss. He’d waited too long. Ever since last summer, to be frank.

When the waltz ended, she was panting with enthusiasm. “Thank you so much, James, I—”

“Her Pa said I was next.” A heavy-set older man interrupted them. Mr. Dirk Slayton. He’d apparently missed a patch of dark stubble on one cheek when he’d shaved this evening.

Queasiness rolled up her spine. Must her father direct every moment? In his late forties, Mr. Slayton was nearly as old as her folks. And as big as a giant.

She nodded goodbye to James—for the moment—and slipped her hand into the palm of this rich gold miner, one of the Klondike’s newest millionaires.

He waltzed her into the crowd. She held her face away from his sweaty neck.

It was said Mr. Slayton had more gold than he could carry. More than he could spend in a lifetime. But his problem was the same as everyone else’s who’d struck it rich, here in the middle of nowhere at the end of civilization.

Nothing to buy. No place to spend his massive fortune. The shops and tented stores couldn’t keep up with the demand for clothing, utensils, furniture, and everything else that most folks back home in Montana took for granted.

“Been a long cold winter,” said Mr. Slayton.

She nodded. Her hair tugged from its bun as he spun her around a little too freely. “Yes, sir.”

“Fella gets awful lonely.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A wife is what I need.”

“Yes…no…I see.”

Her temple throbbed. Her fingers, moist with perspiration, slipped against his grip. She dreaded what he might say next.

“And in case you’re wonderin’, my nuggets are the size of eggs.”

Good grief. How crass.

Milly’s gaze darted about for a means of escape. Cora and Rose were also on the dance floor, being whirled about by a shopkeeper, and another gold miner even older than Milly’s.

To her rescue, one of the youthful Baldwin brothers appeared. “Your parents suggested I come say hello.”

With great relief and giving the pleasant bartender her best show of welcome, she moved forward, intending to place her hand in his.

Instead, a familiar figure slid in. Weston snatched her hand and placed his other firmly against her waist.

Firmly.

Her pulse leaped.

“She’s mine this time, Baldwin.”

Had Weston asked permission from her father?

She stared open-mouthed across the floor, searching for her parents, but Weston yanked her back to look at him.

She stared up at the cut of his dark blond eyebrows, the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbone. With a tingle racing through her stomach, Milly didn’t know how to stop him from entwining his fingers into hers.

“Have you asked permission?” she said.

“The only permission I need is yours.”

He paused for a moment to let her respond while her heart pounded against her ribs.

Piano music filled the hall. Guitars strummed. Banjo pickers added flavor to the waltz.

She should object. She should say no. He gave her precisely two seconds, then taking her silence for a yes, he pressed his warm palm against the plunging back of her dress and led her firmly across the floor.

Firmly.

(continued. . . .)

Today’s guest is Michelle Willingham. She has published 3 books in her medieval MacEgan family series (Her Irish Warrior, The Warrior’s Touch, Her Warrior King) and will have one that tells the tale of where it all begin in November 2008.

It is titled Her Warrior Slave, and is the story of a MacEgan ancestor, Kieran. Michelle will go into the origins of the MacEgan clan and she thinks you might be surprised how they began.

I haven’t had the chance to get more info yet but hopefully she will be by sometime (hey she has the whole month or really whenever) to give us more details! Until then here is the summary and excerpt to her January Harlequin Historical and do check out the info after the excerpt on what she will be working on next.

Her Warrior King by Michelle Willingham

Blackmail forced Patrick MacEgan into marriage—although he could not be forced to bed his Norman bride. But Isabel de Godred was as fair as she was determined to be a proper wife….

She wished to help her proud warrior king with the burden of his responsibilities. As queen, she could aid an alliance between their people. As wife, she longed to comfort him, for when alone, they could put aside war and be but man and woman….

E-X-C-E-R-P-T

Chapter One

England, 1170

Every woman considered stealing a horse and running away on her wedding day, didn’t she?

Isabel de Godred fought the restlessness building within her. It was her duty to obey her father. She understood it, even as she clenched the crimson silk of her kirtle and eyed the stables.

In her heart, she knew an escape was futile. Even if she did manage to leave the grounds, her father would send an army after her. Edwin de Godred was not known for his tolerance. Everything was done according to his orders, and woe to anyone who disobeyed.

The marriage might not be so bad, part of her reasoned. Her betrothed could be an amiable, attractive man who would allow her the freedom to run his estates.

She closed her eyes. No, highly unlikely. Otherwise Edwin de Godred would have paraded the suitor before her, boasting about the match. She knew little about him, save his Irish heritage and rank.

“Are you ready, my lady?” her maidservant Clair asked. With a conspiratorial smile, she added, “Do you suppose he’s handsome?”

“No. He won’t be.” Toothless and aging. That’s how the man would look. Panic boiled inside her stomach, and Isabel’s steps felt leaden. Her rash escape plan was looking more and more promising.

“But surely—”

Isabel shook her head. “Clair, Father wouldn’t even let me meet the man at our betrothal. He’s probably half-demon.”

Her maid crossed herself and frowned. “I heard he’s one of the Irish kings. He must be wealthy beyond our imaginings.”

“He isn’t the High King.” And thank the saints for that. Though she might rule over the tribe, at least she did not have the burden of ruling a country. As they walked down the wooden staircase outside the castle donjon, she wondered how Edwin had arranged a betrothal in such a short time. He’d gone to aid the Earl of Pembroke’s campaign only last summer.

“If I could, I’d take your place,” Clair mused with a dreamy smile.

“And if I could, I’d give him to you.” Unfortunately, that wasn’t possible.

Isabel’s imagination conjured up a monster. The man must be unbearable to require such secrecy. Though she knew it was unfair to pass a judgment before she’d met her intended, she couldn’t help but imagine the worst.

“You’ll be mistress of your own kingdom,” Clair sighed. “Imagine it. You’re to become a queen.”

“I suppose.” And that added even more fear to the forthcoming marriage. What did she know about being a queen? She knew how to run an estate and make it profitable, but that was all.

Her father Edwin de Godred, Baron of Thornwyck, awaited her outside the chapel among a small crowd of guests and servants. Tall and thin, his graying beard and mustache were neatly groomed. He inspected her with a glance, and Isabel felt like a mare about to be traded. She resisted the urge to show her teeth for inspection.

No, it did not bother her to leave this place. But what should she expect from the Irish king? Was he kind? Cruel? Her nerves wound tighter.
“Is he here?” she asked her father, staring at the men waiting near the church.

Edwin gripped her cold fingers, keeping them in a tight grasp as he escorted her to the church. “You will meet him soon enough,” he said. “My men sighted his traveling party a few hours ago.”

“I would rather have met him at our betrothal,” she muttered. Her father only grunted a response.

Isabel shivered. Until she saw this man with her own eyes, she’d not surrender her escape plans. With each step, she felt more alone. Her sisters were not here to lend their support. Edwin had not permitted it, and it had hurt more than she’d thought it would.

When they arrived in the courtyard, a well-dressed man was speaking to the priest. He had little hair, save a snowy fringe around his pate.
“Is that him?” she asked. Her father didn’t answer. He seemed preoccupied, his gaze focused into the distance.

The older man swallowed hard and wiped his palms upon the hem of his tunic. He glanced around as if searching for someone.
Isabel sent up a silent prayer, her cheeks flaming. God, please save me from this marriage, she thought, even as her father’s hand closed over her wrist.

A moment later, she heard the sound of a horse approaching. Startled, she glanced up at the heavens. “That was quick.”

“What is it?” Edwin demanded.

“Nothing.” Isabel forced a neutral expression onto her face, but the rumbling sound intensified. Her father offered a strange smile, and he motioned for the priest to wait. Moments later, the elderly man stepped among the other guests. So he was not her bridegroom.

The noise grew louder, and her father’s hand moved to his sword hilt. A few guests looked to Edwin, the women glancing around with uncertainty. The priest turned to Isabel, a questioning look on his face.

Isabel froze. There, riding toward the guests, a man emerged. His clothes were little better than rags, dried mud coating the hem of his cloak. And yet he rode a sleek black horse, a stallion worthy of a knight.

His sword was drawn, as if to cut down any man who dared oppose him. Guests scrambled to get away from the horse, several women shrieking.
Isabel’s heart leaped into her throat, but she held herself straight, refusing to scream. Instead she darted behind one of her father’s men, a soldier armed with a bow and arrows.

What was wrong with them? The men hadn’t moved, nor released a single arrow. As a single rider, the intruder was an easy target. Would no one stop him?

“Do something!” she shouted, but the soldiers ignored her.

The man drew his horse to a halt and dismounted, sheathing his sword. Isabel’s breath caught in her lungs, a strange sense of foreboding sliding over her. No. This could not be him.

Black hair flowed down his shoulders, his granite eyes burning into hers. He reminded her of a savage barbarian, bold and fearless. He wore a strange garment, a long tunic of blue that draped to his knees, and dun-colored leggings. A crimson ragged cloak hung across his shoulders, pinned with a narrow iron brooch the length of her forearm. Gold bands encircled his upper arms, denoting a noble rank.

Her father’s calm acceptance of the interruption could mean only one thing. The barbarian was her betrothed husband. Isabel bit her lip, fighting back the fear and the desire to flee.

Edwin confirmed it with his words. “Isabel, this is Patrick MacEgan, King of Laochre.”

She didn’t want to believe him. While the barbarian’s horse and sword suggested a high rank, the man looked as though he’d come from a battlefield rather than a throne. And where were his escorts, his servants? Kings did not travel alone. Her suspicions darkened.

The king dismounted, and Isabel kept a clear eye on his horse. Now, more than ever, she longed to escape. Perhaps she could seek sanctuary in the abbey. There was a slim chance she might make it.

“You are Lady Isabel de Godred?” he asked. The lilting accent in his voice sounded foreign in the Norman tongue.

“I am.” She stared at the man. “Is this the way you usually arrive at a wedding? By trying to kill the guests?”

“Isabel,” her father warned. She stilled her voice, fighting back the fear that pounded inside her. His steel eyes studied her dispassionately, and her gaze shifted to his hands. He could tear her apart with them, no doubt.

The barbarian king blinked a second. The fierce expression returned to his face. “Let us get the deed done.”

Not if she could help it. He wasn’t at all half-demon. Full-blooded demon, more like. If she ever intended to make an escape, now was her only opportunity.

Isabel dashed toward MacEgan’s horse. She gripped the saddle, trying to haul herself atop the creature before strong arms surrounded her like a shield. Sinewy muscles possessed her in a prison of strength.

Though she fought him, the king lifted her down as though she weighed no more than a fly. He kept her pinioned against his chest. His body heat warmed her cool skin, and the top of her head reached just below his shoulders. In his stance, she could feel the caged fury.

“I cannot wed you,” she insisted. This was not the sort of amiable husband who would sit upon a throne and let her handle the household. He was the sort of man who would lock her in chains and feed her body to the crows.

No one listened to her protests. Father Thomas began murmuring the words to the marriage rite. The king took her hand in his, and blood roared in Isabel’s ears.

This could not be happening. This man would steal her away from her homeland, to the island of Erin where she had no family. She’d never see her sisters again. Pain twisted within her skin, and she held back tears.

His hand squeezed hers tighter, and she caught the warning look. Anger rose up within her, permeating and harsh. What had she done to be punished with a husband such as this?

The priest was waiting for her vow. Isabel shook her head and her throat closed up. “I will not wed you.”

“You’ve no more choice than I, a chara.”

Isabel tried to break free of him, but Patrick overpowered her. “You wish to have your freedom, do you not?”

She made no reply. What did he mean?

“Agree to this marriage, and it shall be yours.”

She did not believe him. Every inch of this man was uncivilized. Her father sent her an icy glare. “Look around you, Isabel. If you do not wed the King of Laochre, there is none other who will have you. What man desires a disobedient wife? You bring shame upon yourself.”

Hot tears gathered in her eyes but Isabel held her ground. The wedding guests appeared uncomfortable.

Patrick softened his grip upon her wrist. Lowering his voice, he brought his mouth to her ear. His breath made her shiver.
“Your father holds the lives of my people under his control: men, women, and children. The only way to save them is if I wed you. And wed you I shall, a chara, be assured of it.”

A single tear slid free, staining her cheek. The truth broke through, unwanted. Her father’s conquest in Erin had made her into a bargaining pawn, her own wishes meaningless. This was a political alliance, and the king’s rigid expression made it clear he would not accept a refusal.

Was he telling the truth? Would children and women die if she refused? She turned and studied her father. In his eyes she saw no mercy.
She looked closer at Patrick MacEgan. Past the anger she saw exhaustion. And a hint of sadness. If he was right, if innocents would die without her acceptance . . . She closed her eyes, knowing she could not escape her fate. In that moment the chains of obligation tightened around her.

When the priest asked for her vow again, she forced herself to nod aye. Within moments, the rite had ended. Her husband brushed a kiss of peace upon her cheek, and Isabel clenched her teeth to keep from screaming.

All throughout the Mass, Patrick kept her hand imprisoned in his. She barely heard the priest’s words, her head spinning with disbelief. So fast. Wedded to a man she didn’t know, a king who lived a world apart from her homeland.

Afterwards, they walked into the inner bailey. Isabel’s stomach roiled at the scent of the wedding feast prepared. Peacocks, a roasted pig, and all manner of exotic fare awaited them. She couldn’t imagine touching a bite of it. Celebrating was the furthest thing from her mind.

Patrick stopped in front of his horse. “We leave now. Say farewell to your father for you will not see him for a long time.”

His command caught her unawares. “But my belongings and dowry,” she protested. “The wagons—”

“We’ll send for them later.”

Isabel cast a glance toward Edwin de Godred. No longer did she see the face of her father, a man she had tried desperately to please. Now she saw a man willing to sell her into marriage with the Devil, should it further his own ambitions.

Her father moved forward. “You cannot depart until the marriage is consummated.”

“I have met our agreement.” Patrick’s expression hardened, and his palm moved down to the hollow of her spine. Isabel stiffened at the mark of possession. “You need not doubt the rest. But it will be on my terms, not yours.”

Lord Thornwyck deliberated before at last handing over a scroll of sealed parchment. “If she is not carrying an heir by the time I return to Laochre, I will require evidence that she is no longer a virgin.”

Isabel’s face burned with mortification. Now it seemed they viewed her as a brood mare. Terror lanced her at the idea of submitting to the Irish king. Though he’d granted her a reprieve from the ceremonial bedding, she had no doubt he would want to share her bed later this night. Her skin prickled beneath the touch of his hand upon her body. The awareness of him only heightened her fears.

“At Lughnasa, we’ll expect you,” Patrick replied. He did not await a response, but lifted her atop his horse. He swung up behind her, spurring the stallion into a gallop.

The horse raced onward while strong arms confined her in an iron grip. Neither her father, nor his men, made any move to stop him. Isabel’s last thought was, God, this was not what I meant when I begged you to save me from this marriage.

From the book Her Warrior King
Copyright © 2007 by Michelle Willingham
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.

In other non-medieval news Michelle will be publishing a Victorian in 2009.

Wedded to the Enemy

Stephen Carrington, the earl of Whitmore, has no memory of the past three weeks of his life. When he awakens at his country home, he discovers he has a wife and two children. Or does he?

Emily Carrington would rather be dead than married to Lord Whitmore. But she has two children to support and a secret scandal she longs to forget. One matter is quite clear–she’ll never be a true wife to him, no matter how Stephen fights to win her heart.

You can check out an excerpt here. I would not be shocked if it didn’t change some because I don’t think the copy edits have been done but this is on her site. In fact you should go play around on her site… lots of great details on her books and some fun facts – she even has a blog.

I am running late today and thought I had done this. Sorry! Today we will have a guest post by our own Harlequin Insider Michelle Styles (so she is used to me running late ).

If you haven’t already, go read Lawson’s review on Taken by the Viking. There are a couple of things in the review I want to talk about later but for how we shall focus on this…

It’s rather odd though that the first one I read is about Vikings. I had a bad experience with a Viking romance some years ago and haven’t really liked them since. I think Michelle Styles has made me change my mind about that though.

I think that says a lot, as does her coming over yesterday and leaving with Michelle’s next HH as well as another HH or two.

We will have a guest post from Michelle today at 11 am but until then you can read not one but two excerpts from her.

Taken by the Viking excerpt can be read here.

and

Viking Warrior, Unwilling Wife, which was released this month by Mills & Boone, can be read here. I am not sure if a US date has been set yet but I will double check.

So going back to what Lawson said, what is your take on Viking romances? What have you read before and do you like them?

Western Weddings by Charlene Sands, Kate Bridges, and Jillian Hart

We have a very nifty interview with Jillian Hart going up today at 11am. She has a ton of books coming out, most with Harlequin’s inspy lines, but she hasn’t forgotten about Harlequin Historical. She was apart of the Western Wedding‘s antho in May (review coming as well as Charlene and Kate will be guests this month) and will have another antho coming up in 2009 (a bit more info after the excerpt).

Rocky Mountain Bride by Jillian Hart

Savannah Knowles arrives in Montana expecting to marry Nate Brooks, but he has never heard of her! Can this quiet man find room in his heart for lonely Savannah?

Snow. Savannah Knowles had never seen so much of it. It was everywhere–sifting through the air and clinging to the roof of the train depot and crunching at the platform beneath her feet. She gathered her courage, gripped her satchel by the patched handle, shivered inside her traveling coat and squinted into the last light of the April evening. She could see only the shadowed impression of dense forests through the downfall, but nothing more of her new home.A few men stood against the ticket station, veiled by the icy snow. Was her Mr. Brooks one of them, the man she’d come to marry? She lifted her chin, watching each scowling face or curious look, but no one moved toward her.He wasn’t here yet, but he would be. She had faith in him. Of all the letters she’d received from her advertisement, his had been the most sincere. He was her last hope. She was out of options and out of money, which is why she’d come to this strange rough country with its rugged mountains and unfathomable weather. A keen-edged gust of wind sliced through her layers of clothing, cold enough to freeze the insides of her bones.

Goodness, she’d never felt such cold. Already she missed the sweet gentle warmth of a Carolina spring. Snow caught on her eyelashes and stung her face as she picked her way through the accumulation of snow and ice to the baggage car. Every bit of her ached with homesickness and with hope.

“Hey, there, Miss!” A gruff man barked out from the cavern of the opened railcar. “This one yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mighty fancy trunk for these parts.” The railroader lifted his lip as if in distaste or something worse and tossed down her trunk with a careless heave.

My books. She watched the precious container crash onto the platform. It skidded on the ice and tipped over to rest on its side–still in one piece.

A stroke of luck. Snow battered the finely crafted side of the trunk, but the contents inside were safe at least, and not scattered over the icy platform. All that was left of her family’s great library, collected for generations, the volumes with sentimental value too great to sell. Hard times had fallen, after the War Between the States.

Suddenly, the biting wind hailing against her back seemed to lose its teeth. Before she could turn around, she sensed a tall presence behind her. Her stomach slid to her toes. Mr. Brooks? Could it be him?

“Hope nothing breakable was in that.” His gaze met hers and, despite the haze of snowfall between them, she felt a snap of recognition.

Those dark blue eyes were exactly as he’d described them in his letters. Her pulse fluttered in her chest. She’d memorized his features from his self-description, and he’d been surprisingly accurate. He had a granite face, a square jaw and a serious expression just as she’d pictured, but he was taller than she imagined. Maybe it was his bulky coat and the shroud of snow, which made him look like a giant bear of a man, but it was him. Her Mr. Brooks.

He’d come for her, just as he’d promised. Happy relief washed through her, warm enough to chase away every chill. At first sight, he looked as dependable as she’d made him out to be. “Nathaniel Brooks?”

“Uh, yep. That’s me.”

She couldn’t breathe as he gave her a simple smile–sincere and respectful. Instead of greeting her, maybe taking her by hand, or offering to carry the satchel she carried, he looked past her to the baggage man.

“Hey, there, Roberts.” Mr. Brooks spoke in a cozy, friendly baritone. “You got a bundle coming for my pa? Something from Savannah?”

Oh, he had other business, too, she thought, a little disappointed, waiting patiently. Maybe he was preoccupied with that?

The baggage man straightened and gave the small of his back a two-handed rub. “What kind of bundle?”

“Pa said it was a surprise, but I’m not one for surprises. He ought to know that.”

The baggage man shook his head, ready to slide closed the cargo door. “Sorry, Nate. I’ve got nothing else for this stop. Just the woman. Good luck.”

“Just the woman?” He looked perplexed as he studied the other end of the platform. It was as empty.

The only other passenger who’d disembarked had already left, and she realized the men who’d been standing in the shadows of the depot had disappeared, perhaps seeing nothing had arrived for them. But why was Mr. Brooks acting as if he didn’t know anything about her?

This couldn’t be right. Shouldn’t the man who proposed to her remember? Maybe she’d better try again. “Mr. Brooks? I’m pleased to meet you in person. I’m Miss Savannah Knowles.”

When he looked at her, no recognition sparked in his dazzling eyes. “You’re from Savannah?”

“No, that’s my name.” Why did he seem so confused? “I knew you wouldn’t keep me waiting.”

“Waiting?” He looked at her as if he didn’t understand the English language. “You’re Savannah?”

“That’s right.” This was not going the way she’d imagined. Her heart tumbled to her toes. Shouldn’t the man who’d paid for her railroad ticket look less mystified? A knot tightened in her midsection. “You’ve come for me, isn’t that right?”

“For you? You’re a woman, not a bundle.” He knuckled back his hat with one gloved hand. He seemed to have no recollection of who she ought to be.

She started to shake–from cold or nerves, she didn’t know which. “This is Moose, Montana Territory? I did get off at the right station?”

“Yes, Miss.” His gaze raked from the tip of her snow-covered bonnet all the way to her icy skirt ruffle. “Did my mother hire new help? Is that why you’re here?”

“Your mother? I don’t understand. You don’t know who I am.” The wind gusted mockingly, and her high hopes crumbled.

You’re a fool, girl, her grandmother’s lawyer had told her. You’re chasing after a paper promise, when I’m offering you a home with all the luxuries you could want–

She closed her mind against the memory and the old man’s vein-lined hands, the man who’d offered her marriage and payment of her grandmother’s debts. Surely, she’d not make a mistake in coming so far. “Maybe we’re not talking about the same man. This Nate Brooks owns the feed store in town. He’s–”

“I own the feed store in town.”

“He’s twenty-nine years old. He was born on New Year’s Day.”

“That’s me. As far as I know, I’m the only Nathanial Brooks in these parts anyhow. How do you know so much about me?” His face was hard granite.

She would have thought him angry but for the pain she saw in his dark, kind eyes.

“We’ve been corresponding.” She clenched her teeth together to keep them from chattering as she tugged the envelopes, tied with a gold ribbon, from her pocket. She held them out with a shaky hand, feeling the beat of the snow against her face, hearing it against the arm of her coat as she waited a long moment for him to take the letters. The icy-cold crept into the hollows of her heart. She’d come all this way with nothing to go back to and no other place to welcome her. Surely, had has to be some explanation. Some misunderstanding of sorts and then it would come out all right in the end.

But with the way the wind howled like a lonely wolf as it gusted around her, she wasn’t so sure.

The bear of a man took the letters. He knocked the snowflakes from the parchment with his leather-gloved knuckles and squinted to study the handwriting. “That’s my name but not my address.”

“It isn’t? I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t write to you.”

“Then who did? And why?” Her satchel slipped from her grip and hit the platform beside her with a muted thunk. “You proposed to me. I came all this way to marry you.”

“M-marry?” He choked on the word. No. No. No. It rose up like a wellspring from his very soul right along with a blinding panic. It was so dark, he could barely make out the familiar handwriting on the top envelope. The ink was beginning to smear from the snow, but there was no mistaking the truth. Not only did he know who’d written these letters, but also he could plainly see this woman had nearly traveled all the way across the country. What would prompt a delicate looking woman to risk a trip all that way?

Sure, a proposal of marriage would. He tried to think past the rush of horror pounding through him and–beneath the panic–the pain of his last and only intention to marry. It was the hurt Adella left him with, that was the reason for the panic, but this little woman didn’t know that.

The woman–Savannah–looked at him with pure hurt in her soft sweetheart’s face. “I see that idea of marrying me horrifies you. I’ll just–”

“Wait.” He bit out the word with venom she didn’t deserve. Calm down, he told himself and took a single deep breath, which was hard to do considering he was still in a blind panic. Not all marriages were awful; he knew this. But after his experience, he wanted nothing to do with it. “Obviously I knew nothing about this–this–m-marriage offer. Without warning, a remark like that can scare a man.”

“I don’t understand. Is this someone’s idea of a practical j-joke?” Her soft voice broke on the last word. “I was so sure. The letters were so wonderful. Too wonderful. Maybe that’s what fooled me. I wanted to believe–”

The hurt and confusion so honest in her pretty blue eyes chased away most of his panic. None of this was her fault. “This is my father’s handwriting.”

“Your father’s?” She held up her hands in a helpless gesture, so small and alone. “I don’t understand.”

How could she? He didn’t have a chance to answer, for the train gave a powerful blast of steam and noise and churned on its way. The rumble of the powerful engine vibrated through the soles of his feet. He watched the cars pull away and the caboose slip out of sight.

Pa probably laid it on thick, judging by the fatness of the envelopes. Nate shook his head, and snow rained from his hat brim. How could his father–who was a decent man–do such a thing? A bundle, that’s what his youngest brother had said. There’s a bundle waiting for you from Savannah.

He still didn’t see how could the “bundle” be the pale, delicate looking Southerner in front of him looking like a rose out of season. Not that he could see much of her with the snow falling with a vengeance, but she was shivering in the cold, too fine and lacking enough common sense to have worn warmer clothes to this high country.

Nate flicked the gathering snow off the letters and handed them back to her, noticing the dark tips of her expensive traveling gloves. He didn’t have to unwrap that cloak to know what he’d find beneath it: the fashionable clothes and shoes, with no expense spared.

If his folks had gone to the trouble of bringing a bride all the way to Montana Territory, then couldn’t they have at least tried to find one that wasn’t just like Adella? What did a man who worked hard for his daily living have to offer a delicate lady?

Not a damn thing. He swallowed down the bitterness and debated what to do. It wasn’t the woman’s fault she’d come all this way on a false promise, and he couldn’t leave her alone in the cold.

“Why w-would your f-father do th-this?” She trembled so hard, her words trembled, too.

“My parents have decided it’s about time I marry.” He began unbuttoning his coat. “The trouble is, we’ve had a difference of opinion–”

“What kind of difference?”

“I’m not partial to the institution of marriage.”

“Did your father write me thinking that you might change your mind once I arrived?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me. My folks been talking about taking matters into their own hands. I didn’t put much stock in their teasing. I didn’t think they would actually find me a woman.”

She looked down at her shoes, and he hoped she wasn’t trying not to cry. He didn’t know how to deal with a crying female. He shrugged out of the heavy buffalo coat and there were tears in her eyes. He felt helpless. Too big. Too rough. Too…everything.

She gazed down the empty train tracks. “I wish I w-would have known that sooner.”

“The storm’s getting worse. We just can’t leave you here on the platform. You look mighty cold.”

“Cold? Sir, this is hardly c-cold. This wind would fr-freeze the fires of H-hades.”

“True, but you get used to it after awhile. I reckon my pa didn’t write about the weather here?”

“N-no.” She was shaking so hard, she could barely speak. It wasn’t only due to the biting artic temperatures. She lifted her chin, refusing to let this man know how crushed she was. She might not have much left, but she did have her pride. “I’m sorry to have troubled you. It was good meeting you, Mr. Brooks.”

“Now, wait one minute.” He closed the distance between them, towering over her, blocking the brunt of the wind. “It’s nearly dark. You shouldn’t be wandering around town alone.”

He was close. Too close. She could see the day’s growth dark on his jaw. She gulped, taking a step back. “Perhaps you could recommend a place to stay?”

“Sure. I’ll take you there myself.” He laid his coat over her shoulders. “You look awful cold. Maybe this will help.”

The weight of the buffalo coat, the warmth from his body’s heat and his pleasant, man and wood smoke scent enveloped her. Overcome, she gaped up at him, touched by his kindness. He really was the gentleman she’d come to know from those letters. The bitter sweetness tugged like a lost dream in her heart.

She slipped her arms into the coat’s sleeves. “Thank you.”

“Can’t have you freezing to death before we give my father the devil for bringing you out all this way.”

Emotion burned in her throat and she could only shake her head in an answer. Nate Brooks was perfect, just as she knew he would be.

This wasn’t how she’d imagined her journey would end. She wrapped her arms around her middle, but there was no comfort. Not from the wind or the cold or the realization that she had made a terrible mistake in coming. Still, she was a Knowles, and she had the ability to stand on her own two feet.

The storm was getting worse. She thought of the handful of change at the bottom of her reticule, tucked in her satchel. It might be enough to get her a room for the night but little more. If only she had been able to keep her governess position through Grandmama’s illness; but in the end, taking care of her grandmother had meant more than the money. The plantation had been sold off in pieces starting well before the war, but Grandmama’s lingering illness had been costly. There was almost nothing left in the end. Now Savannah had nothing to fall back on. Nowhere to call home. No one left who cared.

She watched Nate heft the trunk onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing at all. The letters in her pocket, by contrast, seemed as heavy as an anvil. Watching him, it was hard not to think about the promises written in those letters and the stories of a large extended family with lots of love to spare. So many hopes she’d had.

Maybe she had been a little naive, but she’d wanted to find a new family after losing hers. That was all.

Now, she was alone again.

“Follow me.” He headed straight into the thick curtain of snow and nightfall. Into the unknown.

Savannah lifted her skirts, grabbed her satchel and plowed through the ankle-deep snow before the storm could steal him from her sight.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Jillian Hart’s current schedule of historical releases:

High Country Bride, Love Inspired Historical, July 08
A Blessed Season, in Yuletide Treasure anthology, Love Inspired Historical, Nov 09
Rocky Mountain Courtship (Joseph’s story), HH anthology, spring 09

Jillian also has a free online read at eHarlequin, the link is on the homepage of her website, for a LI Historical short story.

Summary–

For widow Joanna Nelson, life presented constant hardships. Evicted from her home, she and her two children sought refuge, which led them to rancher Aidan McKaslin’s property. The kind but embittered cowboy couldn’t turn her away, and their agreement benefited them both. He sheltered her family, while she brought faith and a woman’s touch back into his world. When outside forces threatened their blossoming friendship, Aidan decided to take action. Could he convince the special woman to bind herself to him permanently or would he drive her away forever?

An Improper Aristocrat by Deb Marlow
**Dec 08 US** (March 08 released in the UK)

There is no link yet to buy the book for the US release in December but you can get it from Amazon.co.uk here. We will update when there is a link, read on for the summary

Navigating the Nile to uncover the antiquities of Upper Egypt might sound perilous, but Niall Stafford, the Earl of Treyford finds it infinitely safer than sailing the fickle waters of the Beau Monde. He is back in England and on dangerous ground when a deathbed pledge has him delivering an ancient artifact to a colleague’s sister. Desert bandits are more easily managed than Miss Chione Latimer, but her fascinating mix of knowledge and innocence arouse far more than his protective instincts. Can such an improper aristocrat learn to be the true gentleman that Miss Latimer deserves?

summary provided by author and you can check out an excerpt here…

What do you think? I love the Egypt angle, which you can read a touch more about today at 11 am.

I admit it, when I heard Deborah Simmons was finally returning to Harlequin Historical, I sqqquuueee’ed. When I first started to read romance I believe she had already left HH. And it took me a while to collect her Regency Quartet. But once I had them and read them I was hooked.

Although I think she is best known for her unfinished The de Burghs series, since it didn’t seem like she was going to be finishing it up anytime soon I haven’t been in a hurry to read them.

But now she is back!

Make sure you check out her guest post today at 11am Central to get more info on her newest book, as well as some info on what is next. To hold you over here is the summary, a short excerpt and a nice big version of The Dark Viscount cover.

Siblings Kit and Sydony Marchant are thrilled to receive the legacy of a medieval manor house from a distant relative, but their new home is plagued by odd rumors and strange discoveries. Intrigued by the overgrown maze that looms over the rear of the property, Sydony soon is delving into its disturbing history. But even more disturbing is the sudden arrival of Bartholomew Hawthorne, a former neighbor with whom she shares a history of her own.

The old window was dirty, and she hurried to wipe at it, resisting a temptation to call the maid from her duties. Although the panes needed proper cleaning, Sydony still could see through them since the rain had stopped. She looked eagerly below, where a mass of greenery caught her eye. It was much larger than she imagined, and despite being overgrown, there was a definite pattern.

“There it is!” Sydony whispered. Filled with excitement, she grabbed Barto’s arm, as she might have years ago, and pointed with her other hand.

“What?” he asked, as though startled by her enthusiasm.

Sydony glanced up at him in surprise. Had no one mentioned the hedges? She opened her mouth to explain, but the flicker of interest on Barto’s usually impassive face told her that he had seen it, too.

“A maze,” he murmured, and they shared a moment of wonder that made Sydony forget her earlier discomfiture.

“You’d need a scythe to get through some of the passages,” Barto said softly.

He probably was right. The hedges were so thick in spots Sydony could not easily discern the path, a twisty, tangled route that made her shiver. “But there’s certainly no mistaking the center,” she said, awed by the huge tree, obviously ancient, that stood like a sentinel in the middle, its branches spreading out over the surrounding plantings.

“It’s too wet to go out there now,” Barto said.

“Yes,” Sydony answered. She glanced up at the man standing beside her, and for a moment the years fell away. They shared a look from their past, one that promised adventure and daring, right here in her own garden.

© Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Leah Hultenschmidt: “I was immediately swept away by how evocative this book is – foggy nights, pounding hoofbeats, evil spectres. And the hero had a lot of the attributes that have always made vampires so popular–superstrength, unworldly powers, forced to rein in a dark side–but isn’t a vampire. It’s a gothic paranormal historical.”

TGTBTU: “It’s a gothic paranormal historical.” Need we say more? Honestly most of the paranormal historical novels I have tried haven’t worked for me. Other than Kathryn Smith’s Vamps I can’t think of one off the top of my head I LOVED. But toss in gothic and I am always interested in seeing what the author comes up with. Ok and I have a stack of them on my tbr pile… I have hope I can’t help it.

Every night at midnight Dax could start to feel the change. The curse that made him less human as the Phantom inside struggled to take over. Then he would hear the ghost riders—their pounding hoofbeats drawing ever nearer, reminding him that he was never safe. Nor were the ones he loved.

As a girl, Robyn had pledged herself to him. But that was a lifetime ago. Now she was a woman. Beautiful. Pure. Every time she was near—her soft skin, her delicate scent—the Phantom wanted to claim her, to bring her body to the greatest heights of pleasure. Then steal her soul. Dax couldn’t allow that to happen. He was supposed to be protecting her. But deep down, he knew her love could save him. If the Phantom didn’t get her first.

check out an excerpt here… if you read it let us know what you think…

The Accidental Demon Slayer by Angie Fox is coming in August.

Leah Hultenschmidt, Dorchester editor par excellence, sez: “You know editors are always nattering on and on about ‘voice’? Well, Angie’s got it. This is one of those books where every time I read the opening lines, I got sucked in all over again and just wanted to keep reading.

“The book itself is a wildly fun paranormal along the lines of Katie MacAlister, Stephanie Rowe or Michelle Rowen. In fact, Stephanie and Michelle were kind enough to read the book early and gave it fantastic quotes.”

Keep reading…

It’s never a good day when an ancient demon shows up on your toilet. For Lizzie Brown, that’s just the beginning. Soon her hyperactive terrier starts talking, and her long-lost biker-witch Grandma is hurling Smucker’s jars filled with magic. Just when she thinks she’s seen it all, Lizzie learns she’s a demon slayer—and all hell is after her.

Of course, that’s not the only thing after her. Dimitri Kallinikos, a devastatingly handsome shape-shifting griffin, needs Lizzie to slay a demon of his own. But how do you talk a girl you’ve never met into going straight to the underworld? Lie. And if that doesn’t work, how dangerous could a little seduction be…?

We sez: This has Laura J written all over it. And since Stephaine Rowe liked it so much Lawson might like it. I gave it a look over but quickly passed. It is the funnay! It doesn’t like me. This makes me sad. But I keep trying .

Read an excerpt here and you can check out her contest here.

Double Enchantment (Relics of Merlin, Book 2) by Kathryne Kennedy

“This is Kathryne’s second book in the Relics of Merlin series, and just like Enchanting the Lady, it delivers a Victorian world full of magic. Author Erin Grady summed it up best with: ‘The imagination of J. K. Rowling and the romance of Julie Garwood.’ I just love the premise of this book, not to mention the shape-shifting stallion of a hero.” – Leah Hultenschmidt, Dorchester Editor Extraordinaire

Lady Jasmina was in a world of trouble. A simple spell had gone disastrously haywire and now there was a woman running around London who looked exactly like her-a woman with no sense of propriety whatsoever. All Society was whispering, and a baronet she’d never met was suddenly acting like he knew her…in a most intimate way. To find her double and set things right, they’d have to work together-braving the fog-shrouded streets, a mysterious group called the Brotherhood, and a passion stronger than any magic.

You can find Devon’s review of book 1 here and she is mucho excited to read this next one. As is Sandy M, who also enjoyed the first book. If you haven’t picked it up yet and you are one of those “le gasp! books must be read in order or a fairy loses their wings” types, this is a September release (i.e., 26 Aug 08).

Check out her contest (hurry! closes May 31) here, read an excerpt here and pre-order here.

I met Jessica Andersen in Dallas last year. I think I made an ass of myself standing line staring at her before I finally had to say I am sorry I KNOW I know you.

I am shy… I am working on it. We were chatting later at the Berkley party, when I found out they were her new publisher. I was delighted, being the Penguin whore that I am… and she said that word… paranormal. So I figured I was going to have to pretend to be interested to be nice.

Color me SHOCKED when she told me about the book. Serious… here is the summary

According to the Mayan doomsday prophecy, time ends on December 21, 2012. In NIGHTKEEPERS, the last king of an ancient race of magi must team up with a sexy Miami-Dade narcotics detective in order to reunite his scattered warriors and fight the gods of the Mayan underworld. Wielding ancestral blood magic, the king must choose between his duty to avert the 2012 apocalypse and his love for the woman who is the gods’ destined sacrifice.

I know! Have you heard of anything like it? For those of you looking for a new paranormal author and are tired of bloodsuckers (or just want a lil variety in your paranormal diet). Write down this date…

AVAILALABLE JUNE 3, 2008

Jessica will be chatting tonight at EnchantingReviews, visiting with Book Binge on Friday (And they will be hosting a contest!) and at Freshfiction on the 29th. AND she is rolling out a brand spanking new website tomorrow. I will try and drop you a note when it goes live – or feel free to post here and tell us *g*.And she will be one of our guest bloggers in June… most likely on the 3th. I will try and twist her arm into giving away a book. Now I will shut up and you can read what you are here for anyway… enjoy

E-X-C-E-R-P-T
from NIGHTKEEPERS by Jessica Andersen

With her purchase concluded, the blonde wiggled out of the garden center, winking at Strike. “Your loss.”

“No doubt.” Strike watched her go, thinking that Rabbit was right. He was an idiot. Scratching a red patch on his inner wrist- he must’ve gotten nailed by a spider or something- he told Jox, “Your cow shit’s here.”

“Thanks.” The older man skirted the counter and headed for the back, where a set of swinging doors led to the warehouse and loading dock. “Watch the register for a few minutes. I want to make sure they didn’t send me broken bags again.”

“Ah, yes. A smell to remember.” Strike took Jox’s customary place on the barstool behind the counter, swallowing hard against a sudden, unexpected surge of nausea.

A glance around the storefront showed a few browsers, but nobody who looked like they needed immediate attention. Which was a good thing, because all of a sudden he wasn’t feeling so hot. His wrist was burning like a sonofabitch, and when he looked down he saw three right hands where there should’ve only been one. A quick grab told him he hadn’t sprouted extra limbs; he was seeing triple. He was also sweating like a pig, and the idea of sticking his head in the john so he could barf in peace sounded real good. Squinting to cut the spin, he groped for the phone to buzz Jox out back, and came up with a utility knife instead. This’ll do, he thought out of nowhere.

Moving without conscious volition, he flipped the knife open and sliced the blade across his right palm.

Blood spilled over, tracking down his wrist and across his glyph marks. Pain hit, first from the cut, and again when he slithered off the barstool and landed hard on his knees. His head spun and the nausea increased, but it was more like a pressure in his throat, a burning compulsion to say- what?

Jesus, what the hell’s going on? he thought, but the acid burning at the back of his throat told his head what his heart already knew. It was the summer solstice, one of the four days each year that the barrier used to be at its thinnest, when a Nightkeeper’s powers had been strongest.

The barrier- and his powers- were coming back on line after all these years.

Panic mingled with excitement. The warm smell of his own blood touched his nostrils, tangy and sweet and calling to something inside him, something that ripped at his chest like fear. Like heartache.

“Pasaj,” he whispered. The word was the basic command for a Nightkeeper to open a connection to the barrier, and it hadn’t worked in twenty-four years. Now, though, gray-green mist filled his brain and the world started to slide sideways. “Pasaj!” he said again, louder. “Are you out there? Talk to me, damn it!”

He heard distant voices, a woman’s cry of alarm. “He’s bleeding! Someone help!”

Inside his head, though, he saw something in the grayness behind his eyelids: a single slender thread of yellow in the fog. A travel thread. Holy crap. Acting on instinct, he reached out with his mind and touched the thread, grabbed onto it, and whispered the second word of the barrier spell. “Och.” Enter.

And the world around him vanished.

Seductive Secrets (Secrets Trilogy, Book 1) by Lynne Connolly!  Isn’t that just an amazing cover? I lurve it! If you are wondering it is by Anne Cain. You can see it, a touch bigger at the bottom of the post, you know, in case you missed it *g* (excerpt is coming!)

Hopefully Lynne will have some nifty news soon… because older series, Richard and Rose, she has pulled from Mundania Press and she is shopping it again to get it back into print.

To survive, she’ll have to trust him with all her secrets.

The Secrets Trilogy, Book 1

Nick is back.

After eight years of facing public scandal and private humiliation with her head held high, Isobel’s courage fails when the man she never stopped loving returns and asks her to marry him. Once he discovers her secret, he won’t visit her bed more than once. And she can’t bear his rejection.

Nicholas, Marquis of Cardington, is confident he can cope with the baggage Isobel carries from her first marriage. It doesn’t matter that the beautiful widow once left him to elope with another man. After all, he was partly to blame for that disaster. All that matters is he has always loved her, and now she’s free to accept his proposal.

Only on their wedding night does Nick learn the terrible secret Isobel has harbored for eight long years. To win his wife’s trust will take every ounce of tenderness he possesses—when what he really wants is to show her the passion he saved for her and her alone.

But just as Isobel begins to believe her heart is safe with Nick, the blackmailers who drove her first husband to suicide reappear. And they want their pound of flesh.

Isobel must finally trust Nick will all her secrets—and her life—or their enemies will destroy them both.