Deirdre Martin is back with her wildly popular New York Blades series, this time taking readers on a journey away from hockey and all the way to Ireland. Breakaway pulls you into the story of the NHL’s only Irish player, Rory Brady, and the one and only woman for him, Erin O’Brien – but he has a lot of groveling to do now that he’s home again.

Since Rory left her behind after making it big in the states, Erin has finally come into her own, determined to make her dream of leaving the small town of Ballycraig at the earliest opportunity. But when Rory unexpectedly returns, plans have a way of changing, no matter how hard she fights against it. Will he work his magic on her again, claiming the forgiveness he needs and the love he knows is still there? Or will Erin stick to her path and make it without the big lug?

Summary:

Erin O’Brien was everyone’s favorite in Ballycraig, while Rory Brady was the town’s golden boy: the local lad who moved to America and became a professional hockey player. Rory promised to return to sweep Erin away to the life of her dreams in New York. But the bright lights and late nights turned his head and he never came back.

Two years later, Rory realizes he’s made the worst mistake of his life. Heading back to Ballycraig, he’s confident that all he needs to do is flash his winning smile and Erin will fall back into his arms. But Erin’s moved on.

Racing the clock, Rory needs to prove to her that the man she fell in love with is still there. But can happy-go-lucky Erin risk it all and give another chance to the man who broke her heart?

Chapter One

Lord, please don’t let there be any truth to the saying, “This is the first day of the rest of my life,” thought Erin O’Brien, as she shoved guests’ dirty sheets into the massive washer in the basement. Ever since her parents had purchased Ballycraig’s sole B & B, she’d come to feel like an indentured servant. Helping her mother run the place was supposed to be temporary until they found “the right kind of help.” Apparently, no one in the village was right for catering to the PJ Leary fanatics who made up the bulk of the visitors. Months had crawled by, and Erin was still here, relegated to the less glamorous tasks: laundry, housecleaning, dishes. The worst part was, she did it all for free, out of what mother liked to term, “family unity.”

Unity? I guess da and Brian are exempt.

She envied her brother: Brian had left town as soon as he got married, an IT job waiting for him Liverpool. It was a great career opportunity, except it left their father all alone to run Ballycraig’s sole auto shop. For years they’d worked side by side. Now her poor father was working with a very green assistant mechanic, who’d already come close to crushing himself under a number of cars.

“How’s it going down there?” her mother called from the top of the basement steps.

“Fine,” Erin called back, peering up at her mother’s creased, anxious face. “Dad did a great job fixing the washer. Could be a second career for him.”

“No need to be cheeky.”

“I’m not!”

“Nevertheless, watch yourself.” Her mother checked her watch. “The first of the weekend guests will be here in three hours. Would you be a love and go to the supermarket in Moneygall for me?”

Erin’s shoulders slumped. “Mam—“

“Asking too much, am I?”

Erin felt guilty. “No, it’s just you’ve more than enough time to go to the market yourself. You’ll be back here and baking before they’ve even arrived.”

“Assuming the buses are running on time.” She looked fretful. “Normally, I wouldn’t ask you to shop on such short notice, love. You know that. It’s just that I’ve got so much to do…. ”

Lord help me, Erin thought. I really need to get my license. If I don’t, I’ll always be hostage to a bus timetable, or worse.

“Relax, all right. You know I’ll do it.”

“You’re a good girl, Erin.”

“A patsy, more like,” Erin grumbled to herself. Her mother was still peering down at her with a distressed expression. “Mum, calm down. I just said I’d do it, so why do you still look so upset? All you achieve by fretting and wringing your hands is driving yourself—and everyone around you—mad. You’re going to give yourself a stroke, and for what?”

“I know, I know,” her mother agreed distractedly. “It’s just that I want it all to be perfect, you know?”

“Perfection doesn’t exist.”

Her mother snorted. “Oh, so now you’re a philosopher, I see. You should be down at the pub with that Holy Trinity of Dimwits, sitting at the bar, each one thinking they’re the next Stephen Fry.”

Erin felt the sting of criticism but refrained from saying what she was thinking: I can never win with you. She didn’t want things to escalate, especially since her mother could go from zero to fifty in the rage department in seconds. Still, she did have a right to defend herself.

“I’m not being philosophical,” she replied calmly. “I’m just trying to point out that you drive yourself mad unnecessarily.”

Her mother didn’t respond. Erin could see this conversation was going in one ear and out the other.

“I’ll leave the list for you on the kitchen counter, all right?”

“Sure.”

“You’re a good girl,” her mother repeated.

Too good, Erin thought. She took comfort in knowing her escape plan was firmly in place and that she would, sooner or later, be free. She double checked behind her to make sure the washer was still tumbling properly, and headed up the stairs.

***

“Chores” done, Erin headed up to her room, locking the door behind her. She and her parents now occupied the top floor of the guest house, the sale of their family home and some land having provided the bulk of the money to buy the B & B.

She caught her reflection in the mirror atop the scratched bureau from her childhood, and paused. You’re no great shakes, she told herself. Nothing special to look at. But in the career she’d be pursuing, looks didn’t matter.

She glanced around the tiny attic room, her eyes caressing the reproductions of some of her favorite artwork that she’d pinned to the walls to help fend off dreariness: Frida Kahlo, the bright reds of Henri Matisse, fields of mood lifting bright yellow sunflowers by van Gogh, Irish landscape artist Henry McGrane’s gentle impressions of spring. Erin was pursuing an art history degree online with the Open University. Most people would think it impractical, even odd. Erin didn’t care: she loved art, and it was something she’d pursued off and on while Rory was away at college. Now that Rory was out of her life, she could do as she wanted, no more putting her dreams on hold for that selfish bastard. No one knew she was almost done with her degree but her best friend, Sandra.

Rory Brady. Just thinking about him made her feel like a twit. Ballycraig’s local idiot, that’s who she was, too stupid to tell when she was being played. How many times had she replayed their years long relationship in her mind? Why did she insist on torturing herself? The story always ended the same way: her life in tatters and his looking brighter and brighter, the first Irish born man playing in the NHL, for the New York Blades.

Rory’s face swam up in her mind’s eye. Her mam had always said he looked like David Beckham, and it was true. If he were a pop star, girls would be breaking into his house just to catch a glimpse of that dirty blond hair and blue eyes. It was a sin that a man should have eyes that beautiful and be such an SOB.

They’d started dating when they were just babies, fifteen years old. Casual, then serious. Very serious, then committed, even when his family moved to America. Six years of trying to find a place to be alone together when he’d come back in the summer, of arguing with her parents about visiting him, of the two of them planning their wedding. One memory in particular dashed back at her: it was early evening, the sky all grey dusk and pink, and she and Rory were lounging beneath the big oak tree in Old Man Mc Donagh’s field, the sun filtering through the lattice work of the leaves. “The Lover’s Tree,” it was called, because the old man never minded couples loafing beneath it. Rory was leaning back against the tree; she was stretched out with her head in his lap. It felt like they were in a poem.

Rory looked down at her, smiling. “I was thinking it might be nice if our wedding ceremony was just you and me, and some old padre saying the words in an ancient church, the only light coming from a blaze of candles surrounding us.”

Erin settled into his lap dreamily. “That’s very romantic.”

“And it saves us worrying about a guest list.”

Erin clucked her tongue and looked up at him with affection. “I knew you had an ulterior motive.”

“Me? Never.” His expression was tender as his large, strong hand brushed against her cheek. “I know it sounds mad, but sometimes I feel like we’re already married, we’ve been together so long.”

“Is that your way of telling me you’re getting tired of me, Rory Brady?” Erin teased.

His expression turned tender. “I could never get tired of you.”

“Promise?”

He put his hand over his heart. “On my life.” His voice, a deep sexy rumble, was charged with emotion as he continued, “You’re the only one for me, Erin, and you always have been. Nothing can change that, not even geography. You’re going to be my wife.”

She believed him. Their love was immutable, fixed as law. There was no telling where one left off and the other began. It had always been that way, and always would be.

The memory faded, straight on narrative returning as if she needed once again to recount the facts of what happened to make sure it was real.

They decided they’d wait to tie the knot until Rory graduated from Cornell and got picked up by a minor hockey team, and then hopefully, the NHL. Which is exactly how it happened.

Except part of it didn’t. The wedding. Erin loved him so blindly and with such faith that even after he hadn’t come back to Ballycraig for two summers running, she clung to her belief they’d always be together. swallowing all that rubbish he fed her about the NHL and training camp and not having any time to get back home. Deep down, she knew. So when she gave him the ultimatum—either marry me like you promised or walk—she shouldn’t have been surprised when he grabbed Option B.

Even so, when the crash came, it was no less devastating. She was dragged under by their history together, tormented by every loving thing he’d ever said and done over the years. She’d have donned widow’s weeds if she could. It was a lucky thing that she was surrounded by loving family and friends, like Sandra and Rory’s former best friend, Jake Fry. Were it not for all of them, especially Jake and Sandra, she’d have spent her life curled up in bed, not caring about anything. She certainly stopped caring about her job in the jewelry store in Crosshaven, quitting a month after Rory dumped her. She couldn’t handle dealing with people, especially happy couples who came in looking for wedding rings.

It took her two years her to pull herself together, but when she did, she made a promise to herself: never, ever again would she give her hopes and dreams over to a man like Rory Gallagher.

*Deep quivering sigh* I love Highlanders. Always have. Lately I’ve been disappointed once or twice in books that just didn’t live up to my expectations when reading about these alpha, sexy heroes. So I’m very happy to tell you that this book definitely gives a reader everything they want in a Highlander, sins and all.

Mad Rob MacLaren has reason to live up to the nickname given to him. He now lives dangerously on the edge, and with his current plan under way, folks are going to talk that much more when all is said and done and if he still lives. But his innocent abductee is going to change everything in his life. Elspeth at first wants only to return to her family, but when she learns more about Rob and sees him in action, her wants take a decidedly sharp left turn, and with Rob is where she wants and needs to be.

Summary:

Elspeth Stewart’s gift of Sight hadn’t warned her of the dark-haired madman who charged into her wedding and bore her away into the wild Scottish highlands. Pressed against his hard chest and nestled between his strong thighs, she ought to fear for her life. But her captor silenced all protest with a soul-searing kiss, giving Elspeth a glimpse of the pain behind his passion—pain only she could ease.

“Mad Rob” MacLaren thought stealing his enemy’s bride would be the perfect revenge. But Rob never reckoned that this beautiful, innocent lass would awaken the part of him he thought dead and buried with his wife. Against all reason, he longs to introduce the luscious Elspeth to the pleasures of the flesh, to make her his, and only his forever.

With two clans against them burning for battle, they must find a way to join—body, breath and soul. Or both will be made to pay for the … Sins of the Highlander.

Chapter One

The peat fire had burned out and the ash gone gray, but Rob MacLaren didn’t feel the least bit cold. Not while his hot-blooded woman writhed under him. Their breaths mingled in the frosty air of the bedchamber. Fiona tilted her hips, welcoming him deeper, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from emptying himself into her.

It was too soon. He never wanted it to end, this joining, this loss of himself in the woman he adored.

Rob raised himself up on his arms and gazed down at her. The candles had burned down to nubs but still flickered enough to cast her in soft light. He could see his wife clearly and loved looking at her.

“What are ye doing, daftie man? ’Tis too cold!” Fiona raised herself up and clung to him for warmth.

“That’s what ye get when ye marry a man on Christmas Day—a cold bridal night.” He gently pushed her back down, and she sank into the feather tick.

“It doesna have to be cold.” Her skin rippled with goose­flesh. “Come back under the covers, love.”

“I canna. I need to see the lass I wed,” he said. “I want to watch ye melt for me, to see your face when ye make that wee kitten noise just afore ye come.”

“Wee kitten noise, is it?” She shook with laughter. “Have a care, husband, lest I bare my claws.”She raked her nails across his chest, and the sensation made his balls clench.

He lowered himself and kissed her, devouring her lips and chasing her tongue. He withdrew for a heartbeat for the sheer joy of sliding slowly back into her slick wetness. Then he raised himself again and reached between them to stroke her over the edge.

“Oh, Rob.” Her inner walls clenched around him, and he felt the soft tremor that signaled the start of her release. “When ye do that, I don’t care a fig if it’s so cold I catch my death…my death…my death…”

Her voice echoed round the chamber and faded into the distant thatch overhead.

Rob jerked awake.

He wasn’t in his bridal bedchamber. He was lying on stone-hard ground with a stone-hard cock still primed to make love to the woman in his dream. Stars wheeled above him in a frigid sky. His band of men snored nearby.

And the fact that Fiona was dead slammed into him afresh.

He’d married her two years ago at Christmas, and she’d been gone by Epiphany. Twelve days, he’d been a husband. Only twelve.

And now a night didn’t pass without his wife visiting him as some phantom, sometimes tender, sometimes terrifying. She lived in his dreams, but always he was powerless to hold her to earth. She was so vibrant, so real by night, he suffered all the more in the waking world with the knowledge that he’d not find her there.

One of the men in the clearing let out a loud snore and mumbled in his sleep. It was hours till dawn, and even more till Rob could accomplish what he intended in the coming day. But he would not seek sleep.

He couldn’t bear to lose Fiona again so soon.

 

Rob narrowed his gaze at the stone kirk across the glen. The bagpipes’ celebratory tune ended with an off-key wheeze. He and his men, concealed on the edge of the forest, had watched the bridal procession and the arrival of the groom’s party. Now he heard nothing from the kirk. The only sound was the harsh cry of a jay from the branches above him.

The ceremony must have been beginning in earnest. Rob snorted, his breath like a curl of dragon smoke in the chilly air.

“’Tis time, Hamish.”

“I wish ye’d reconsider.” His friend shook his head, his scruff of red beard making him look like an alarmed hedgehog. Hamish never let his beard grow beyond the stubble stage. A metal worker couldn’t chance much facial hair. Even his eyebrows were habitually singed off. “If ye go through with this, folk will say ye’re…that ye’re—”

“Mad? They say that already.” Rob mounted his black stallion. The beast sensed his agitation and pawed the dirt, restive and spoiling for action. “I see no other path before me. Now will ye help me or no?”

“Aye, Rob, ye’ve no need to ask, but—”

“Then get the men ready to ride. I hope to be in a wee bit of a hurry when next ye see me.” He shot his friend a mirthless grin and spurred his mount into a gallop across the glen. It was possible the next time Hamish saw him, Rob might be in no hurry at all.

He might very well be dead.

 

The smell of incense was so cloying, Elspeth Stewart feared she might faint dead away. But a bride must stand before the altar. She drew a shallow breath and swallowed hard. That was better. As the priest droned on, she sneaked a glance from under her lashes at the man who would be her husband.

Lachlan Drummond.

Tall and commanding in his dress plaid, he wasn’t altogether unpleasing. His face was tanned, and the lines at the corners of his eyes suggested he’d squinted into countless northern suns. Those lines didn’t trouble her. They proved the laird was a man of action, not like the dainty fops who visited from the English court from time to time.

No, it was the deep grooves between his brows and the hard set of his mouth that gave her pause.

Dinna fret yerself,” her mother had assured her when she complained that she didn’t know her betrothed well enough to even speak to him if she met him in Queen Mary’s court. “An arranged match is a safe match. Yer father has chosen the Drummond for ye, and ye’ll do well to bide by his wishes.”

The queen had approved too. She’d angered so many of the nobles with her other policies, she didn’t dare gainsay two of them on something as inconse­quential as the marriage of one of her ladies-in-waiting.

Inconsequential to everyone but me, Elspeth fumed. An exchange of breeding cattle, a grant of grazing rights, a promise of fealty between their clans; that was really all that was being solemnized now. It was certainly no marriage as she’d ever imagined it.

Or Seen it. Elspeth was gifted with a bit of the Sight, and never in all her prescient dreams had she seen this match on her horizon. This loveless ceremony was as far removed from the tales of courtly devotion in her precious little book of sonnets as the distant moon.

Yet when the priest asked Lachlan Drummond to pledge his faith to her, his voice was strong, the tone pleasing. He even sent her a quick private smile.

Elspeth jerked her gaze back to her folded hands. Her cheeks burned as if she had a fever. She wondered if her mother was right.

“Passion,” Morag Stewart had said, “is a dish that flares hot, but then goes cold as a tomb often as not. An arranged match is like a cauldron set to simmer over a low fire. A nourishing broth heated evenly warms a body from the inside out.”

Elspeth wasn’t sure how she could do the things her mother said her husband would expect of her. Bizarrely intimate things. Of course, she’d seen horses mate, and dogs too, but she never suspected people did something as…primitive as the mere beasts.

And now she’d have to do it with a man she barely knew.

Silence jerked her back from her musings. The priest had asked her a question and was waiting for a reply. She blinked stupidly at him. What had he said?

Suddenly the double doors of the nave shattered. A man on a large black horse was silhouetted in the opening for a heartbeat. Then he urged the stallion into the kirk and charged up the center aisle.

“Mad Rob!” she heard someone call out. Half the horseman’s face was painted with woad, and his cobalt eyes burned as brightly blue. With his dark hair flying and the fierce expression of a berserker on his features, he certainly looked mad.

“The MacLaren,” shouted another. Her bridegroom was silent, but a muscle worked furiously in his cheek.

Her father reached for the horse’s bridle, but the MacLaren shouted a command, and the stallion reared, pawing the air. Then it lashed out with its hind hooves, and everyone scrambled out of reach of the slashing kicks.

Elspeth watched in disbelief as the man drew a long claymore from the shoulder baldric strapped to his back and laid the flat of the blade across Lachlan Drummond’s chest. Riding a horse into the kirk was bad enough. Mad Rob had broken the sanctity of holy ground by drawing his weapon. All the other men had laid their swords and dirks outside the doors, which now hung drunkenly from the hinges. Elspeth half expected the Almighty to strike the blasphemer down with thunderbolts from the altar.

“Twitch so much as an eyelash, wee Lachlan, and I’ll take yer head,” Mad Rob said as pleasantly if he’d offered Drummond a plate of warm scones.

Then he leaned down and scooped Elspeth up with his other arm and dropped her belly-first across his kilted lap.

She was too astonished to be afraid. All the air fled from her lungs with a whoosh. Her head and arms dangled on one side of the restive stallion, and her legs kicked on the other. She couldn’t rail at the man, since she was busy fighting for breath, but she struggled to free herself from such an undignified position.

“Hold still, lass, lest my hand slips and I lop off a bit of your groom.”

Now fear sliced into her. She froze and looked at Lachlan. The madman’s blade had slid up to his chin. Her bridegroom hadn’t taken his black-eyed gaze from Mad Rob’s face.

“I’ll be going now, Drummond,” Rob said in the same reasonable tone a man might use to discuss cattle or the weather. “If ye’ve the stones for a fight, ye may collect yer bride at Caisteal Dubh. But dinna show your face till month’s end. Come for her sooner or try to follow us now, and I might have to kill her.”

Elspeth couldn’t look up at her captor’s face, but she heard a wicked smile in his voice. Kill her reverberated in her mind.

And all she’d thought she’d lose when she woke this day was her maidenhead.

If you have teenagers, you might want to read this book. Then give it to him or her to read. It covers a lot of ground from the perspective of a depressed, post-suicidal teen. From family to school to his own inner thoughts, Try Not to Breathe doesn’t dwell on the negative. The story follows Ryan as he tries to move on, which he does with remorse, a good sense of humor, and more insight into himself and those around him than he had before.

Even if you don’t have teenagers, this is a book worth reading. Young adults today go through so much, and Jennifer Hubbard takes a look deep into that world with emotion and humor. Even a little romance. Yeah, remember those days? And maybe for some you, you might remember a few of the same issues Ryan is living today.

Summary:

Learning to live is more than just choosing not to die, as sixteen-year-old Ryan discovers in the year following his suicide attempt. Despite his mother’s anxious hovering and the rumors at school, he’s trying to forget the darkness from which he has escaped. But it doesn’t help that he’s still hiding guilty secrets, or that he longs for a girl who may not return his feelings. Then he befriends Nicki, who is using psychics to seek contact with her dead father. This unlikely friendship thaws Ryan to the point where he can face the worst in himself. He and Nicki confide in one another the things they never thought they’d tell anyone—but their confessions are trickier than they seem, and the fallout tests the bound of friendship and forgiveness.

It was dangerous to stand under the waterfall, but some kids did it anyway, and I was one of them. The water pounded my mind blank, stung my skin. It hit my naked back, chest, and shoulders so hard I couldn’t think. That water could knock me over, pound me into hypothermia, force the breath out of me, pin me to the rock, and I knew it.

But I kept doing it.

My parents’ heads would’ve shot through the roof if they’d known. They’d done their best to wrap me in cotton since I’d gotten out of Patterson Hospital a few months before. My mother panicked if I missed a dose of my meds, so I sure wasn’t going to tell her about the waterfall. How could I explain it anyway?

Because I needed it. The roaring water shot over the ledge and beat down on my shoulders and head, a thunder I felt even through the slick stones under my feet. My nerves crackled and buzzed. It was all I could do to stand still against the water.

Whatever else I had messed up in my life, I could do that much: stand still. Okay, so I wasn’t setting the bar too high.

There were rumors that a guy had drowned here once, or that he’d fallen from the cliff and smashed his head on the rocks, his brains spilling into the pool below. Each version of the story was bloodier and less believable than the last.

There were rumors about me, about what I’d done back in the spring. Everyone snuck looks at me in the school halls after I got out of Patterson. Sometimes I was tempted to foam at the mouth and babble to invisible people, because the other kids seemed so disappointed that I didn’t. But I couldn’t be sure they would realize it was a joke. The few times I’d tried to make anyone laugh, all I got were nervous glances and squirming. Nobody expected me to have a sense of humor, and it was safer for me to let them think I might be crazy than to give them proof.

So I knew about rumors, how they were 95 percent bullshit with maybe one kernel of truth. I wasn’t sure where the kernel was in the story about the dead guy at the waterfall.

I first went under the waterfall in May, and I kept it up all summer. July was so hot, I imagined steam pouring off me whenever the icy rush hit my skin.

Early in August, we got rain. I watched the waterfall from the stream bank, waiting for the cool stormy weather to pass, for the heat to return.

I was sitting there one day when Kent Thornton’s sister came by. Kent was going into eleventh grade like me, and I knew his sister was a year younger, but I’d never talked to her much. Last year she’d been at the junior high, since Seaton High didn’t start until tenth grade.

“Hey.” I tried to remember her name, but couldn’t.

She stood watching the water charge over the cliff. Ferns waved in the breeze. “Are you going in?” she asked.

“No, not today.” All that rain had swelled the creek and the waterfall. I was tempted to see if I could stand up under the cold weight of that water, but I wasn’t completely insane, no matter what kids at school might whisper about me.

“I do it all the time.” She grinned. “My friend Angie won’t even stick her foot in the water. She says the rocks are too slippery.”

“They are slippery.” Not that it had ever stopped me.

Kent’s sister wiped sweat off the back of her neck. “You live up at the glass house, don’t you?”

“It’s not glass.” I hated when people called it that. It sounded like we were expecting some TV show to feature us in our architectural wonder of a home. Lifestyles of People Who Have Way More Money Than You. “It just has a lot of windows.”

“Whatever. That’s your house, right?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Her face flushed pink. “Just wondered.” She waved at the waterfall. “Dare me to go under there?”

“Nah, it’s too cold today. And strong. It’s kind of dangerous.”

She stepped into the water. Ripples spread out from her foot. She wore a tank top and shorts, which she didn’t take off. She walked toward the waterfall, slipping once on the mossy rocks.

I followed her with my eyes. Dread squeezed my stomach and wedged a lump at the back of my throat. I didn’t even know this girl, but I had no desire to see her crushed, drowned. She disappeared under the silver curtain of water.

I stood up because I couldn’t see her anymore. I squinted at the foaming water, trying to see into it, through it.

My fingers tapped the sides of my thighs as if counting the seconds she’d been under. How long should I wait before going in after her? If I should go in at all—there being a narrow line between heroes and idiots.

Kent’s sister ducked out, spitting, hair glued flat to her head. I exhaled. She lifted a handful of wet hair off her face, shook herself like a dog, and laughed. She splashed toward me.

“You all right?” I said.

Her lips were purple; her skin prickled with goose bumps. Her teeth hammered against each other.

“I should’ve brought a towel,” she said.

I’d done that before—remembered the towel only after I was wet. “I can get you one.”

“Okay.” She rubbed her arms. “That sounds fantastic.”

If you like sinful heroes who fall hard for that perfect woman who pushes all his buttons, you should be reading Alexandra Hawkins‘ Lords of Vice series. The Notorious Lord is Vane, Earl of Vanewright, and he’s as sinful as they come, as Isabel is about find out once she engages him in a game she soon discovers can’t be won.

Vane has never been quite this fascinated with a woman before, he doesn’t know what hits him until it’s too late. Isabel finally acknowledges feelings for the man, even though he’s supposed to be someone else’s.

But fire and passion keep flaring between them, and they become lost in each other  – until secrets begin to unravel the dream that almost comes true.

Summary:

Christopher Courtland, Earl of Vanewright—known around London as “Vane”—is the very picture of a rich, handsome ladies’ man. Why shackle himself to just one lady when he’s free to sample them all? In spite of his own mother’s attempts at matchmaking, Vane has sworn to stay single. Until he has a chance run-in with Miss Isabel Thorne…

A modest and refined beauty, Isabel is a lot more brazen than she appears. When a pickpocket tries to make away with Vane’s bejeweled snuffbox, Isabel attempts to thwart his escape…and manages to steal Vane’s heart. But the harder he tries to seduce the sharp-tongued, strong-willed Isabel, the more she resists. Now it’s up to this tried-and-true bachelor to find a new way to play the game…or risk losing the one woman who’s ever captured his heart.

Enjoy the teaser of their banter, just to whet your appetite for more sin….

“Merciful heavens, what happened to you?”

Isabel smiled wanly at their housekeeper as Lord Vanewright carried her over the threshold and into the small front hall.  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Allen.  It appears you were correct when you warned us that shopping on Bond Street was fraught with peril and unsavory characters.”

Delia focused on what mattered most to her.  “Oh, Mrs. Allen, you should have seen the lovely evening dress we found!  I vow I shall perish if it is sold before we have the opportunity to return to the shop.”  She gave her sister a side glance, disgusted that Isabel had ruined the afternoon by tangling with a pickpocket.

Isabel sighed.  There was no point in reminding Delia that they could not really afford the expensive dress.  Such details mattered little to her sister.  Isabel started when the earl murmured in her ear, “Shall I carry you to your bedchamber?”

A wordless exclamation was uttered by the housekeeper.  Surprised by the brazen suggestion, Isabel turned her face toward Lord Vanewright’s, resulting in her nose brushing against his chin.  “No you shall not!  The drawing room will suffice, my lord.”

Trailing after the trio, the housekeeper said, “Miss Thorne, forgive my impudence, but who is this gentleman?  And why is he carrying you about town as if he has the right to put his hands on you.”

“Not a word from you,” she warned him sternly.  With her arms wrapped about his shoulders, she could feel his body quaking with laughter.  “Mrs. Allen, allow me to present Lord Vanewright.  My lord, this is our housekeeper, Mrs. Allen.  She is looking after us during our brief stay in London.”

“Mrs. Allen, would you mind opening the door to the drawing room?  Miss Thorne had a terrible fright with a pickpocket and I want to see her settled comfortably before the surgeon arrives.”

“The surgeon?” Isabel echoed, struggling in the earl’s arms to be released.

Mrs. Allen stepped around the couple and opened the door.  “A pickpocket?  In a dressmaker’s shop you say?  Is no place safe, I ask you?”

“Isabel stumbled into the thief and rescued Lord Vanewright’s snuffbox,” Delia explained as she retrieved a pillow from a chair and placed it on the sofa.

Isabel marveled that the earl was not winded by his efforts.  He carried her to the sofa with an ease that suggested he appreciated the outdoors and had a casual familiarity with manual labor.  She was almost disappointed when he lowered her onto the sofa.

“When did you have time to summon a surgeon?” she demanded, annoyed by the unexpected expense.

“I ordered my coachman to fetch him.”  His look was inscrutable as it rested on her grim features.  “Are you in pain?”

“As I have told you over and over again, I am fine,” she said through clenched teeth.  “Ow!  Stop that.”  She slapped his hand away when he deliberately probed her wrapped ankle to prove that she was lying to him—again.

“Uh-huh,” he said, his tone suspiciously flat.  He glanced at the housekeeper.  “Mrs. Allen, would be so kind as to fetch a shallow basin of warm water for Miss Thorne’s ankle and a pot of tea to settle her nerves.”

Eyes blazing, Isabel glared at the presumptuous man.  “See here, Lord Vanewright.  You have no right to bully me or my staff!”  Before she said something that she would come to regret, Isabel cleared her throat.  “Yes, Mrs. Allen, I believe a cup of strong tea would benefit us all.”

Rudeness was clearly not the way to get rid of the man.  From the sparkling glint in his eyes, the earl was having too much fun baiting her.

“Nothing else to say, Miss Thorne?” he asked, sitting down in the chair to her left even though no one had invited the arrogant man to remain.

“Not at this time,” Isabel said haughtily.  “I am saving my strength for the surgeon.”

Fae magic and guilt. Malcolm MacDowylt has both in his life much more than he wants. One he can ignore until a later time, the other he has to face day in and day out. Especially when that magic tosses Danielle Dearmon right smack into the middle of his world, which is now tilting every which way, forcing him to look at a future he never imagined.

Dani, on the other hand, is finally where she belongs. Despite Malcolm wanting her to return where she came from. All the years of trying the gain the good graces of the fae and now thrust seven hundred years into the past to a man who is her destiny is more than she could have ever dreamed of.

Together they must fight the evil that no knows no bounds in a war to conquer them. Is love enough to help them survive?

We have the first chapter of Warrior’s Redemption for you today. Get ready to trek down to your local bookstore after this! Or navigate over to your favorite online bookstore. Or enter the contest included with Melissa’s guest blog today. Good thing there’s a few options today. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Summary:

Will the magic of modern romance help him defeat an evil ancient power?

Malcolm MacDowylt sees himself a failed warrior, haunted by the death of the woman he married to become laird of Clan MacGahan.  Neither his Viking heritage nor his claim to descend from Norse gods can restore his confidence in his ability to protect his people.  His sister is held captive, her life in jeopardy, and his Magically powerful half brother wants him dead.  The last thing he needs is more responsibility, but that’s exactly what he gets when his Faerie mother-in-law arrives seeking justice for her daughter in the form of an enticing woman from seven hundred years in the future.

Danielle Dearmon has waited fifteen years to discover the life she is supposed to live.  She just never dreamed she’d end up in the thirteenth century with a handsome Scot bent on saving everyone but himself.

With the lives of those most dear to him hanging in the balance, Malcolm sets out to battle a powerful evil Magic, only to learn that the redemption he seeks exists only in the arms of the woman he loves.

PROLOGUE

Tom Green County, Texas
Fifteen Years Ago

Fairies absolutely were real. Dani didn’t care what her Aunt Jean claimed.

After Mrs. Palmer down at the new library had loaned her those wonderful books this past summer, she’d known it wasn’t just her imagination. Lots of people believed in them. She’d spent the entire vacation between fourth and fifth grades reading all about Faeries.

“Dani?” Aunt Jean’s voice carried all the way down to the chicken coops. “Dani! You better hurry up with those eggs, little girl, if you expect to get breakfast in you before the school bus gets here.”

Dani grabbed the one egg that had been laid already, dodging the grumpy old brown hen’s beak, and hurried back toward the farmhouse. She’d have to gather again when she got home from school, but at least Emma Hen had come through early, as usual.

A furtive glance to the empty corner next to the steps as she approached the house warned her of what was to come.

“Get your hands washed and sit yourself down.”

Aunt Jean’s no-nonsense expression was firmly in place and Dani quickly did as she was told, slipping into her spot at the old kitchen table as her aunt slid a warm plate in front of her.

“What did I tell you about setting a saucer of milk out by the steps?” Aunt Jean waited, arms folded in front of her.

“Not to,” Dani mumbled around her first bite of thick toast. “Draws snakes.”

“So it’s not that you forgot. You’ve just decided you’re not going to mind me, is that it? You’re just trying to be bad?”

“No ma’am, I’m not trying to be bad. I promise.” The Faeries liked milk and bread. It encouraged them to stay. “My book said –”

“Nuh-uh,” Aunt Jean turned back to the stove, scrambling Dani’s egg, her gray curls swaying with the stubborn shaking of her head. “I don’t want another word of that fairy nonsense, you hear me? There’s no such thing as a fairy, but rattlers are real enough. Those damn snakes will smell that milk a mile off and next thing you know, you or me one will be getting ourselves snake bit. And then what?”

“The Faeries would keep us safe, if you’d let me feed them,” Dani muttered, tearing a corner off her toast and dropping it into her lap. If her aunt would just believe, the Faeries would hear all their wishes and make them come true. “I read that in one of my books.”

“Danielle Faye Dearmon!” Aunt Jean turned around from the stove and leaned across the table. “I’ve had just about enough of this nonsense from you. Not everything in books is true just because somebody wrote it down. I’m serious as a heart attack about this, little girl. I want your promise right now that you won’t put any more milk out by the steps for these damned imaginary fairies of yours or else I’m going to have to paddle your butt, you understand me? I want your promise on it, Dani. I want it now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dani didn’t hesitate with her response. She had no choice. Her aunt was really serious this time. She almost never pulled out the ‘paddle your butt’ threat. “I promise.”

She meant to keep the promise, too. No more milk by the porch steps. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t hunt down a new spot to feed the Faeries when she got home from school this afternoon. A better spot. One that Aunt Jean wouldn’t find.

Because no matter that Aunt Jean was the best substitute mama on the face of the planet, in this one thing, she was completely wrong.

Faeries were absolutely real and Dani meant to make sure she stayed on their good side.

CHAPTER ONE

Land of the Faerie
1294 [as calculated by Mortals]

Howls echoed through the forest of Wyddecol, so protracted and pain-ridden they tortured Elesyria’s eardrums. Like some animal in its death throes, the screams pitched from fury to terror and back again.

She ran faster through the trees, seeking in vain to escape the torment of those sounds. Knowing she could never outrun that which came from her own throat.

It was her agony, her torment that tore the screams from her lungs as if the pain were a living creature eating at her innards.

Her daughter, her only child, her beautiful Isabella had disappeared from the World of Man.

On she ran, unseeing, dodging by instinct the low-hanging branches and fallen limbs. On, deeper into the forest until at last she broke through into a clearing. Ahead lay the Temple of Danu, golden in its perpetual shaft of sunlight, encircled by its ring of massive stones.

Elesyria pushed herself harder, maintaining her pace up the long marble staircase. Not even at the doorway did she slow. No stopping to shed her sandals, no washing her feet, no bending low to show reverence at the doorway to the inner sanctum. Not this time. This time, for the first time ever, she simply didn’t care.

Her precious Isabella was gone from the World of Man.

“Show yourself, I demand it! How could you allow this to happen?” she accused, ignoring the hysterical echo of her own words in the cavernous rounded room. “You promised. She was to be cared for if I would but leave her with the Mortals and return to your service. You promised!”

She screamed the final words, her voice cracking as she sank to her knees. The until-now strangely absent tears at last found their release, rolling down her cheeks to splatter on the white stone floor at her knees. “You promised,” she accused one final time, her words no more than a whisper against the canvas of her grief.

“You would demand my presence in your world, Daughter of Danu?”

The words echoed off the arc of the room’s high ceiling, bouncing, tumbling in a harmonious melody of sound.

“I do,” Elesyria answered without hesitation. She had no care for the ancient protocols. No time to travel to the trance world. No desire to honor the bitch-Goddess who had betrayed her.

In front of her a pale green mist coalesced, writhing and bubbling, shifting from one form to another until at last a tall, beautiful woman emerged. The Goddess, the Earth Mother, had arrived.

“Then I can only assume these are the direst of times. What troubles you, my child?”

“The loss of my child.” Elesyria rose to her feet, well aware she breeched all acceptable behavior in doing so. Eye contact with the Goddess was too painful, so she fixed her gaze on the other woman’s chin. “Isabella is dead. You’ve broken your promise to me.”

The Goddess lifted her hand as if to catch a handful of air in the room before rubbing her thumb against her fingers, much in the way a merchant might sample the feel of a fine silk.

“Isabella lives.”

“Impossible!” Elesyria had been to the curtain between the worlds this very morning. She’d stood there as so often she did, stretching out her magic to caress the essence of the daughter she’d left behind. Only this time, there had been nothing. “She’s not in the World of Man. I felt for her myself. That which had been her is gone.”

“Nevertheless, Isabella’s soul has not returned to the Fountain. She lives.”

“How can that be?” Elesyria’s legs buckled, too weak to hold her weight and she dropped to her knees. “The place where I felt for her is as empty as my heart.”

The Goddess lifted both arms and the mist returned, swirling in a sphere between her hands. It moved as if alive, frantic with a billion life forms, its color shifting from the palest green to a brilliant emerald and back again. Then the Goddess clapped her hands together and the mist disappeared as quickly as it had formed.

“Not only does she live, she has joined with her SoulMate. Though, as you say, she is not in the time and place where you left her.”

“What does that mean?”

The Goddess shrugged, palms held upward. “I cannot yet say. I know only what I feel when I search the Myst.”

Elesyria’s mind reeled in confusion. Isabella’s space on the Mortal Plain was empty. She’d felt that for herself. And yet, the Goddess claimed her daughter lived. Lived and had found the one happiness every Fae sought: her own SoulMate!

“I need answers,” she whispered, as much to herself as to the Goddess standing nearby.

“Indeed you do. Go with my blessings.”

Her blessings? Not enough. Not by half.

Elesyria raised her head, coming as close to meeting the Earth Mother’s eyes as she dared. “After all the years I’ve dedicated to your service, Goddess, I want more than your blessings. I want to travel through the curtain with the power to punish any who harmed my child.”

“Crossing over with your Magic intact is forbidden by your High Council.”

If the Goddess thought to dissuade her with something so trivial, she was seriously mistaken.

“I’ve no more care for the politics of Fae than I have for those of Man. I care only for the child grown to woman who I left behind when I returned to my service in your temple. I must know the truth of her fate. I want to travel through the curtain. With my Magic.”

“And if you find your daughter has not been harmed? If you find it is as I have indicated?”

If, pray the Goddess, Isabella lived happily joined to her SoulMate as the Goddess insisted? “Then I want the power to reward those who aided her.”

The visage in front of her shimmered from green to gold and back again.

“In offering reward as freely as you threaten punishment, Elesyria, you demonstrate your wisdom. So be it. You may retain your powers to use for this purpose and this purpose only. Your years of faithful service watching over my followers have earned at least this much from me. As you go forth, I will set in motion what I can to assist. Travel to the place where your daughter should be. Seek out the Tinklers when you arrive. They are my eyes and ears in the World of Man. If any can guide you to the truth, surely it will be they.”

“Thank you, Earth Mother.”

Elesyria bowed her head, honoring the Goddess before her. When she lifted her eyes once again, she was alone.

Rising to her feet, she squared her shoulders and hurried from the chamber, already seeing the spot she would cross over in her mind’s eye.

She would find the Tinklers the Goddess had spoken of and she would know the truth. She prayed the result would require her to use her Magic for the benefit of one who had helped her daughter, but if not?

Woe be unto any who had lifted a hand to bring harm down upon Isabella. They would feel her wrath even if it should shake the very foundations of the Mortals’ world.

You’re really in for a treat now. This first chapter of Hot Zone pulls you right in, places you in the middle of the devastation after an earthquake tumbles the Bahamas every which way. You meet Hugh and Amelia under the worst of circumstances, when you see the best of them, what makes them the people they are today.

Catherine Mann has given readers characters who are, foremost, honorable, so very likeable but also flawed, and who make you emotionally invest in them from the start. I don’t think you’ll be able to walk away from this excerpt without wanting more of Hugh and Amelia, without wanting to know what happens to them and where they go from here.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Summary:

Days full of danger…
For Pararescueman Master Sergeant Hugh Franco, it’s all about saving other people’s lives. Then he moves on. But when he pulls beautiful Amelia Bailey and her adopted nephew from the rubble of a catastrophic earthquake, he finds himself entangled in their lives in ways he could never have imagined…

And desire-filled nights…
Amelia’s trip to the Bahamas to help with an international adoption has been no vacation, but the hardest part is yet to come. As Amelia and Hugh are pulled unawares into a deadly smuggling scheme, simmering beneath their growing need to protect each other is a compelling attraction they’re both determined to deny…

Get ready…

Chapter One

The world had caved in on Amelia Bailey. Literally.

Aftershocks from the earthquake still rumbled the gritty earth under her cheek, jarring her out of her hazy micro nap. Dust and rocks showered around her. Her skin, her eyes, everything itched and ached after hours—she’d lost track of how many – beneath the rubble.

The quake had to have hit at least seven on the Richter Scale. Although when you ended up with a building on top of you, somehow a Richter scale didn’t seem all that pertinent.

She squeezed her lids closed. Inhaling. Exhaling. Inhaling, she drew in slow, even breaths of the dank air filled with dirt. Was this what it was like to be buried alive? She pushed back the panic as forcefully as she’d clawed out a tiny cavern for herself.

This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her trip to the Bahamas when she’d offered to help her brother and sister-in-law with the legalities of international adoption.

Muffled sounds penetrated, of jackhammers and tractors. Life scurried above her, not that anybody seemed to have heard her shouts. She’d screamed her throat raw until she could only manage a hoarse croak now.

Time fused in her pitch black cubby, the air thick with sand. Or disintegrated concrete. She didn’t want to think what else. She remembered the first tremor, the dawning realization that her third floor hotel room in the seaside Bahamas resort was slowly giving way beneath her feet. But after that?

Her mind blanked.

How long had she been entombed? Forever, it seemed, but probably more along the lines of half a day while she drifted in and out of consciousness. She wriggled her fingers and toes to keep the circulation moving after so long immobile. Every inch of her body screamed in agony from scrapes and bruises and probably worse, but she couldn’t move enough to check. Still, she welcomed the pain that reassured her she was alive.

Her body was intact.

Forget trying to sit up. Her head throbbed from having tried that. The ceiling was maybe six inches above where she lay flat on her belly. Again, she willed back hysteria. The fog of claustrophobia hovered, waiting to swallow her whole.

More dust sifted around her. The sound of the jackhammers rattled her teeth. They seemed closer, louder with even a hint of a voice. Was that a dog barking?

Hope hurt after so many disappointments. Even if her ears heard right, there had to be so many people in need of rescuing after the earthquake. All those efforts could easily be for someone else a few feet away. They might not find her for hours. Days.

Ever.

But she couldn’t give up. She had to keep fighting. If not for herself, then for the little life beside her, her precious new nephew. She threaded her arm through the tiny hole between them to rub his back, even though he’d long ago given up crying, sinking into a frighteningly long nap. His shoulders rose and fell evenly, thank God, but for how much longer?

Her fingers wrapped tighter around a rock and she banged steadily against the oppressive wall overhead. Again and again. If only she knew Morse code. Her arm numbed. Needle-like pain prickled down her skin. She gritted her teeth and continued. Didn’t the people up there have special listening gear?

Dim shouts echoed, like a celebration. Someone had been found. Someone else. Her eyes burned with tears that she was too dehydrated to form. Desperation clawed up her throat. What if the rescue party moved on now? Far from her deeply buried spot?

Time ticked away. Precious seconds. Her left hand gripped the rock tighter, her right hand around the tiny wrist of the child beside her. Joshua’s pulse fluttered weakly against her thumb.

Desperation thundered in her ears. She pounded the rock harder overhead. God, she didn’t want to die. There’d been times after her divorce when the betrayal hurt so much she’d thought her chance at finally having a family was over, but she’d never thrown in the towel. Damn him. She wasn’t a quitter.

Except why wasn’t her hand cooperating anymore? The opaque air grew thicker with despair. Her arm grew leaden. Her shoulder shrieked in agony, pushing a gasping moan from between her cracked lips. Pounding became taps… She frowned. Realizing…

Her hand wasn’t moving anymore. It slid uselessly back onto the rubble strewn floor. Even if her will to live was kicking ass, her body waved the white flag of surrender.

**

Master Sergeant Hugh Franco had given up caring if he lived or died five years ago. These days, the Air Force pararescueman motto was the only thing that kept his soul planted on this side of mortality.

That others may live.

Since he didn’t have anything to live for here on earth, he volunteered for the assignments no sane person would touch. And even if they would, his buds had people who would miss them. Why cause them pain?

Which was what brought him to his current snow-ball’s-chance-in-hell mission.

Hugh commando crawled through the narrow tunnel in the earthquake rubble. His helmet lamp sliced a thin blade through the dusty dark. His headset echoed with chatter from above – familiar voices looking after him and unfamiliar personnel working other missions scattered throughout the chaos. One of the search and rescue dogs above ground had barked his head off the second he’d sniffed this fissure in the jumbled jigsaw of broken concrete.

Now, Hugh burrowed deeper on the say so of a German Shepherd named Zorro. Ground crew attempts at drilling a hole for a search camera had come up with zip. But that Zorro was one mighty insistent pup so Hugh was all in.

He half listened to the talking in one ear, with the other tuned in for signs of life in the devastation. Years of training honed an internal filter that blocked out communication not meant for him.

“You okay down there Franco?”

He tapped the talk button on his safety harness and replied, “Still moving. Seems stable enough.”

“So says the guy who parachuted into a minefield on an Afghani mountainside.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Somebody had needed to go in and rescue that Green Beret who’d gotten his legs blown off. “I’m good for now and I’m sure I heard some tapping ahead of me. Tough to tell, but maybe another twenty feet or so.”

He felt a slight tug, then loosening to the line attached to his safety harness as his team leader played out more cord.

“Roger that, Franco. Slow and steady man, slow and steady.”

Just then he heard the tapping again. “Wait one, Major.”

Hugh stopped and cocked his free ear. Tapping for sure. He swept his light forward, pushing around a corner and saw a widening cavern that held promise inside the whole hellish pancake collapse. He inched ahead, aiming the light on his helmet into the void.

The slim beam swept a trapped individual. Belly to the ground, the person sprawled with only a few inches free above. The lower half of the body was blocked. But the torso was visible, covered in so much dust and grime he couldn’t tell at first if he saw a male or female. Wide eyes stared back at him with disbelief, followed by wary hope. Then the person dropped a rock and pointed toward him.

Definitely a woman’s hand.

Trembling, she reached, her French manicure chipped, nails torn back and bloody. A gold band on her thumb had bent into an oval. He clasped her hand quickly to check the thumb for warmth and a pulse.

And found it. Circulation still intact.

Then he checked her wrist, heart rate elevated but strong.

She gripped his hand with surprising strength. “If I’m hallucinating,” she said, her raspy voice barely more than a whisper, “please don’t tell me.”

“Ma’am, you’re not imagining anything. I’m here to help you.”

He let her keep holding on as it seemed to bring her comfort—and calm—while he swept the light over what he could see of her to assess medically. Tangled hair. A streak of blood across her head. But no gaping wounds.

He thumbed his mic. “Have found a live female. Trapped, but lucid. More data after I evaluate.”

“Roger that,” McCabe’s voice crackled through.

Hugh inched closer, wedging the light into the crevice in hopes of seeing more of his patient. “Ma’am, crews are working hard to get you out of here, but they need to stabilize the structure before removing more debris. Do you understand me?”

“I hear you.” She nodded, then winced as her cheek slid along the gritty ground. “My name is Amelia Bailey. I’m not alone.”

More souls in danger. “How many?”

“One more. A baby.”

His gut gripped. He forced words past his throat clogging from more than particulates in the air. “McCabe, add a second soul to that. A baby with the female, Amelia Bailey. Am switching to hot mic so you can listen in.”

He flipped the mic to constant feed, which would use more battery but time was of the essence now. He didn’t want to waste valuable seconds repeating info. “Ma’am, how old is the baby?”

“Thirteen months. A boy,” she spoke faster and faster, her voice coming out in scratchy croaks. “I can’t see him because it’s so dark, but I can feel his pulse. He’s still alive, but oh God, please get us out of here.”

“Yes, ma’am. Now, I’m going to slip my hand over your back to see if I can reach him.”

He had his doubts. There wasn’t a sound from the child, no whimpering, none of those huffing little breaths children made when they slept or had cried themselves out. Still, he had to go through the motions. Inching closer until he stretched alongside her, he tunneled his arm over her shoulders. Her back rose and fell shallowly, as if she tried to give him more space when millimeters counted. His fingers snagged on her torn shirt, something silky and too insubstantial a barrier between her and tons of concrete.

Pushing further, he met resistance, stopped short. Damn it. He grappled past the jutting stone, lower down her back until he brushed the top of her—

She gasped.

He looked up fast, nearly nose to nose now. His hand stilled on her buttock. She stared back, the light from his helmet sweeping over her sooty face. Her eyes stared back, a splash of color in the middle of murky desperation.

Blue. Her eyes were glistened pure blue, and what a strange thought to have in the middle of hell. But he couldn’t help but notice they were the same color as cornflowers he’d seen carpeting a field once during a mission in the U.K.

Hell, cornflowers were just weeds. He stretched deeper, along the curve of her butt, bringing his face nearer to hers. She bit her lip.

“Sorry,” he clipped out.

Wincing, she shrugged. “It was a reflex. Modesty’s pretty silly right now. Keep going.”

Wriggling, he shifted for a better path beyond the maze of jagged edges, protruding glass, spikes…

“Damn it.” He rolled away, stifling the urge to say a helluva lot worse. “I can’t reach past you.”

Her fingers crawled to grip his sleeve. “I’m just so glad you’re here, that everyone knows we are here. Joshua’s heart is still beating. He’s with us and we haven’t been down here long enough for him to get dehydrated, less than a day. There’s hope, right?”

Less than a day? Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the earthquake occurred, and while he’d participated in against all odds rescues before, he had a sick sense that the child was already dead. But alerting the woman to her own confusion over the time wouldn’t help and could actually freak her out.

“Sure, Amelia. There’s always hope.”

Or so the platitude went.

“I’m going to hang out here with you while they do their work upstairs.” He unstrapped the pack around his waist and pointed his headlight toward the supplies. “Now I’m gonna pull out some tricks to make you more comfortable while we wait.”

“Happen to have an ice cold Diet Coke? Although I’ll settle for water, no lemon necessary.”

He laughed softly. Not many would be able to joke right now, much less stay calm. “I’m sorry, but until I know more about your physical status, I can’t risk letting you eat or drink.” He tugged out a bag of saline, the needle, antiseptic swabs, grunting as a rock bit into his side. “But I am going to start an IV, just some fluids to hydrate you.”

“You said you’re here to help me,” she said, wincing at a fresh burst of noise from the jackhammers, “but who are you?”

“I’m with the U.S. Air Force.” Dust and pebbles showered down. “I’m a pararescueman—you may have heard it called parajumper or PJ—but regardless it includes a crap-ton of medic training. I need to ask some questions so I know what else to put in your IV. Where exactly did the debris land on you?”

She puffed dust from her mouth, blinking fast. “There’s a frickin’ building on top of me.”

“Let me be more specific. Are your legs pinned?” He tore the corner of a sealed alcohol pad with his teeth, spitting the foil edge free. “I couldn’t reach that far to assess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I thought you were checking on Joshua.”

“I’m a good multi-tasker.”

“My foot is wedged, but I can still wriggle my toes.”

He looked up sharply. If she was hemorrhaging internally, fluids could make her bleed out faster, but without hydration…

The balancing act often came down to going with his gut. “Just your foot?”

“Yes. Why? Do you think I’m delusional?” Her breath hitched with early signs of hysteria. “I’m not having phantom sensations. I can feel grit against my ankle. There’s some blood in my shoe, not a lot. It’s sticky, but not fresh. I’m feeling things.”

“I hear you. I believe you.” Without question, her mind would do whatever was needed to survive. But he’d felt enough of her body to know she was blocked, rather than pressed into the space. “I’m going to put an IV in now.”

“Why was it so important about my foot?”

He scrubbed the top of her hand with alcohol pads, sanitizing as best he could. “When parts of the body are crushed, we need to be… uh… careful in freeing you.”

“Crush syndrome.” Her throat moved with a long slow swallow. “I’ve heard of that. People die from it after they get free. I saw it on a rerun of that TV show about a crabby drug addict doctor.”

“We just need to be careful.” In a crush situation, tissue died, breaking down and when the pressure was released, toxins flooded the body, overloading the kidneys. And for just that remote possibility, he hadn’t included potassium in her IV.

Panic flooded her glittering blue eyes. “Are you planning to cut off my foot?” Her arm twitched, harder, faster until she flailed. “Are you going to put something else in that IV? Something to knock me out?”

He covered her fingers with his before she dislodged the port in her hand. “There’s nothing in there but fluid. I’m being honest with you now, but if you panic, I’m going to have to start feeding you a line of bullshit to calm you down. Now you said you wanted the unvarnished truth—”

“I do. Okay. I’m breathing. Calming down. Give me the IV.”

He patted her wrist a final time. “I already did.”

Blinking fast, she looked at the tape along her hand. A smile pushed through the grime on her face. “You’re good. I was so busy trying not to freak out I didn’t even notice.”

“Not bad for my first time.”

“Your first time?”

“I’m kidding.” And working to distract her again from the rattle overhead, the fear that at any second the whole damn place could collapse onto them.

She laughed weakly, then stronger. “Thank you.”

“It’s just an IV.”

“For the laugh. I was afraid I would never get to do that again.” Her fingers relaxed slowly, tension seeping from them as surely as fluid dripped out of the bag. “The second they uncover us, you’ll make Joshua top priority. Forget about me until he’s taken care of.”

“We’re going to get you both out of here. I swear it.”

“Easy for you to claim that. If I die, it’s not like I can call you a liar.”

A dead woman and child. He resisted the urge to tear through the rocks with his bare hands and to hell with waiting on the crews above. He stowed his gear, twisting to avoid that damn stone stabbing his side.

“Hey,” Amelia whispered. “That was supposed to be a joke from me this time.”

“Right, got it.” Admiration for her grit kicked through his own personal fog threatening to swallow him whole. “You’re a tough one. I think you’re going to be fine.”

“I’m a county prosecutor. I chew up criminals for a living.”

“Atta girl.” He settled onto his back, watching the hypnotic drip, drip. His fingers rested on her wrist to monitor her pulse.

“Girl?” She sniffed. “I prefer to be called a woman or a lady, thank you very much.”

“Where I come from, it’s wise not to be nitpicky with the person who’s saving your ass.”

“Score one for you.” She scraped a torn fingernail through the dust on the ground. Her sigh stirred the dust around that shaky line. “I’m good now. So you should go before this building collapses on top of you and keeps you from doing your job for other people.”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.” He ignored a call from McCabe through his headset that pretty much echoed the woman’s words. “The second they give the go ahead, I’m hauling you out of here, Amelia Bailey.”

“And Joshua. I want you to promise you’ll take care of him first.”

“I will do what I can for him,” he answered evasively.

Her wide eyes studied him for seven drips of the IV before she cleared her throat. “You don’t think he’s alive, do you? I can feel his pulse.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m not imagining it, damn it.” Her hand flipped and she grabbed his arm, her ragged nails digging deep with urgency. “I can feel his pulse in his wrist. He’s a little chilly, but he’s not cold. Just because he’s not screaming his head off doesn’t mean he’s dead. And sometimes, he moves. Only a little, but I feel it.” Her words tumbled over each other faster and faster until she dissolved into a coughing fit.

Ah, to hell with it. He unhooked his canteen. “Wet your mouth. Just don’t gulp, okay? Or they’ll kick my butt up there.”

He brought the jug to her lips and she sipped, her restraint Herculean when she must want to drain it dry. Sighing, she sagged again, her eyes closing as she hmmmed, her breathing evening out. He freaked. She needed to stay awake, alert.

Alive.

“Tell me about your son Joshua.” He recapped the canteen without wasting a swallow on himself.

Her lashes fluttered open again. “Joshua’s my nephew. I came with my brother and his wife to help them with the paperwork for their adoption. They don’t want any legal loopholes. What happens to Joshua if they’re…?”

She bit her lip.

His brain raced as he swept the light along the rubble, searching for some signs of others. Although there hadn’t been a helluva lot of survivors in the vicinity. All the same, he made sure they heard upstairs, by speaking straight into his mic as he asked her, “Where were your brother and sister-in-law when the earthquake hit?”

“They were in the street, outside the hotel. They left to buy lunch. They waited until Joshua was asleep so he wouldn’t miss them.” Her voice hitched. “I promised I would take care of him.”

“And you have.” He pinned her with his eyes, with his determination, the swath of light staying steady on her face. “Keep the faith. Hold steady and picture your family in one of the camps for survivors right now going nuts trying to find you.”

“I’ve read stories about how babies do better because they have more fat stores and they don’t tense up or get claustrophobic.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “He’s just napping, you know.”

The force of her need pummeled him harder than the spray of rocks from the jack hammered ceiling. The world closed in to just this woman and a kid he couldn’t see. Too clearly he could envision his wife and his daughter, trapped in the wreckage of a crashed plane. Marissa would have held out hope for Tilly right to the end too, fighting for her until her nails and spirit were ragged.

Shit.

The vise on his brain clamped harder, the roar in his ears louder, threatening his focus. “I’m changing your IV bag now, so don’t wig out if you feel a little tug.”

She clenched her fist. “You must get pretty jaded in this line of work.”

“I’ve got a good success rate.” He didn’t walk away from tough odds. Every mission was do or die for him.

“About my foot,” she started hesitantly, “am I imagining that it’s okay? Be honest. I won’t panic. I need to be prepared.”

“The mind does what it needs to in order to survive. That’s what you need to focus on. Surviving.”

Not that any amount of determination had mattered in the end for Marissa or Tilly. They’d died in that plane crash, their broken bodies returned to him to bury along with his will to live. A trembling started deep inside him. His teeth chattered. He dug his fingers into the ground to anchor himself into the present. Amelia Bailey would not die on his watch, damn it.

But the trembling increased inside him. Harder. Deeper. Until he realized… The shaking wasn’t inside, but outside.

The ground shuddered with another earthquake.

Beautiful scenery, white water rapids, and long-limbed models yours for the taking. What could be better than that for a sexy and single adrenaline junkie with a soft spot for kids? How about a Goth chick sporting skull and crossbones and who can’t resist the latest Jimmy Choos?

Oh, yeah, there are a few such dichotomies in this book, and they all add up to one heck of a good time.

Robin Kaye has written one of those feel-good books that makes you laugh, then sizzle, and then grin till it hurts. Think you know whether it’s Hunter or Toni who’s Wild Thing? Don’t count on that cover helping you out!

Summary:

Whitewater-rafting guide Hunter Kincaid lands his dream job–guiding sportswear models through Idaho’s rugged wilderness for a week-long photo shoot. When he meets Toni Russo, the goth New York manager of Action Models, there are enough sparks to set the forest ablaze.

When Hunter finds Toni’s book on how to marry the man of your choice, he studies it as a joke. Before long Hunter realizes he’s never cared enough for a woman to bother working this hard to get her. But the last man in the world this city girl wants is a Survivor Man wannabe…

Now for some real fun…

Chapter 1

Toni Russo stood on the porch of the Sawtooth Inn ignoring the mountains cutting the bright blue sky, concentrating instead on Hunter Kincaid’s very confused, very green eyes. She recognized him from the photos on the River Runners’ website. They didn’t do him justice, probably because there was no way to transmit the pheromones rolling off the man onto an image.

Hunter stared at her the whole way from his old Land Cruiser to the porch. He stopped, tipped his baseball cap back, and then put his hands on his hips. “You’re not who I expected to see.”

Well, no shit. “Yeah, I guess you’ll have to learn to live with the disappointment. I know I have.”

“Toni?” A look of relief flashed across his face then a smile ticked up the right side of his mouth as he made a slow perusal of her from head to feet and back again.

She waited, knowing it would take awhile. Ever since she’d landed in Boise, she’d experienced the same thing. No one quite knew what to make of her. Holding her clipboard to her chest, she wondered if it would have been better to have spent her time in Boise shopping for less interesting clothes. She mentally shook her head and knew it would never have worked. You could put her in a sack, and she’d do something to stand out. She’d long since given up trying to rein herself in. As Catherine Aird said, “If you can’t be a good example, then you’ll just have to serve as a horrible warning.” So far, it had worked for her.

Blowing her bangs out of her eyes, Toni looked down at her outfit. The short, red plaid kilt wasn’t too offensive. She pulled her clipboard away to see she had on her Stay Away T-shirt. Maybe he had something against the collage of pistols, brass knuckles, knives, and bullets. But really, he didn’t look like a pacifist, not that she wasn’t—it was a T-shirt for goodness sake, not a personal manifesto. The kitty-face Mary Janes and red skull-and-crossbones knee-socks were a bit busy. Okay, Hunter’s thirty seconds were up. She fingered the D-ring on the studded collar around her neck and cleared her throat. “Do you mind?”

Hunter took a sip of whatever was in the travel cup he held. “Not at all—just wondering if you were going for that naughty-schoolgirl-fantasy look.”

“No, I was going for my not-quite-sure-what-to-wear-for-a-meeting-with-Davy-Crocket look. How’s it working for you?”

Hunter’s mouth worked its way into a full smile. Great teeth. She had a thing for nice teeth, and yeah, his mouth was full of them.

“Really well, thanks. Over the phone, it sounded as if you wouldn’t be caught dead out here. When Bianca came to scout for photo shoot locations, she said something about you having a phobia. What changed your mind?”

Toni took in the rustic porch wrapping around the log cabin lodge and decided to sit on a rocking chair. There was nothing else to sit on except the steps, and they needed a good sweeping. “You asked Bianca about me?”

Hunter leaned against the rough-hewn post holding up the corner of the porch. “I didn’t know it was a federal offense.”

“Bianca was involved in negotiating a big deal so she sent me.” Toni placed her clipboard on her lap and clicked her pen a few times in rapid succession. “I had no choice.”

Hunter’s big hiking boots filled her line of sight. Her gaze wandered up to where neatly rolled, rag-wool socks met hard, tanned calf muscle with just the right splattering of leg hair—not so much you’d be tempted to take a brush to it, and not so little you’d wonder if he routinely waxed. He wore khaki shorts low around the hips, his green River Runners T-shirt pulled tight against his chest and abs. She’d seen him without a shirt thanks to the picture on the website, so she knew if she poked him it would feel like poking a brick wall. She’d bet dollars to doughnuts he didn’t get that hard body in a gym.

When her eyes hit his stubbled chin, she encountered another full-toothed grin. Damn, she hadn’t meant to be so obvious.

The slap of an old-fashioned screen door broke the tension. “Sorry.” James, Bianca’s right-hand man, appeared with two cups of coffee. He handed Toni hers. “That’s decaf. Maybe you’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

Not likely. The woods seemed to inch closer and closer to the lodge. God only knew what roamed out there. She took a sip of bad coffee as James, an ex-model and now her partner in managing the series of shoots, shook Hunter’s offered hand. James’s dark hair glittered with silver at the temples, his bright blue eyes were full of intelligence and humor, and his build was still trim and muscular, but not like Hunter’s. Hunter’s muscles were brought about by his life’s work, James’s by a trainer, weight machines, and a strict diet.

“James, this is Hunter Kincaid. Hunter, James Ness.”

“Hunter, good to see you again. Do you want coffee?”

“No, thanks, I brought my own.” Hunter’s handshake turned into a guy hug, which was weird considering James’s sexual preference was in direct opposition to the one Hunter oozed.

Toni caught James’s eye with a raised brow. A quick shake of his head confirmed Hunter was, in fact, straight. She’d forgotten James had accompanied Bianca on the scouting trip. The guys had obviously bonded.

Hunter set his travel cup on the table and sat. She finally saw what was written on the side of the cup: “The Way to a Fisherman’s Heart is Through His Fly” along with a picture of what looked like an insect with a hook up its butt. Nice.

“I was surprised to find Toni here,” Hunter said as he eased back on the chair.

James let out a laugh that grated on her nerves. “No more than she, I presume. Bianca didn’t give her much notice. Or should I call it warning? Still, Toni can run the show with one hand cuffed behind her back. We won’t have a problem.”

“I wasn’t worried.” Hunter watched her over the rim of his cup as he sipped his coffee, no decaf for him. He slept like a baby every night, no matter how late he drank coffee, but he wouldn’t mind spending a few sleepless nights with a beautiful woman.

He’d wondered what Toni looked like since the first day she’d called River Runners in January. Her deep, husky, raspingly sexy voice brought to mind an unbidden picture of a young, blonde, long-legged Kathleen Turner. The New York accent was all wrong, but that do-me voice was right on. Man, was he ever way off base. He found himself eye-to-eye with the polar opposite of the woman he’d pictured. Toni wore her jet black, shoulder-length hair in pigtails. Instead of making her look like a schoolgirl, it made him wonder what kind of underwear she wore, if she was into bondage, or just dug the whole collar-and-cuff thing for fashion’s sake, and had him searching all exposed skin for ink. When he didn’t see any, he thought about putting himself in the position to do a full body search.

Checking his dive watch, Hunter looked around for the models he’d promised his brothers they’d be working with when they signed on as guides. That was an ingenious idea if he did say so himself. By bringing Trapper and Fisher along, he not only got free guides and someone to distract Bianca, who, on their week-long outing, had been determined to share a sleeping bag with him, but supplied a physician and legal help if necessary. Since his brothers had plenty of vacation time racked up, they jumped at the chance to spend a week escorting ten models through the mountains and down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in the Sawtooth Recreation Area. Hunter could have gotten his brothers to pay for the privilege, but he hadn’t pushed it since Bianca Ferrari, the owner of Action Models, had paid top dollar for his services. “My guides, Trapper and Fisher, will be here any minute for the barbeque and to meet your group.”

Toni flipped through the pages stuck in her skull-and-crossbones stenciled clipboard, which, if he wasn’t mistaken, was shaped like a coffin. The clasp was a bat forged from what looked like pewter with onyx stones for eyes. “I’ve called a 9:00 a.m. meeting tomorrow then the models can spend the rest of the day getting acclimated.”

Hunter stopped staring at the clipboard and shrugged, trying not to envision what that bat would look like tattooed on Toni’s lower back, its wings spanning her small waist. “We can take a short rafting trip and have a picnic down by my cabin. Bianca had planned a shoot there. There’s a nice beach with plenty of space for sunbathing and a regulation sand volleyball court. It’ll be an easy trip and will give your group a chance to have a lesson on the rafts.”

James nodded. “That sounds great. I’ll make arrangements to have a lunch packed for everyone. It’s gorgeous, Toni. You’re going to love it.”

Toni paled, which was hard to do since the girl without makeup was pale enough to qualify for a vampire casting call. She was definitely a candidate for skin cancer. Hunter made a mental note to make sure she wore plenty of sunscreen—he’d be happy to help with the hard to reach spots.

She shook her twin ponytails as her lips drew into a deep frown. “I’m sure you’ll have fun. I’m going to stick close to my cabin. I brought plenty of reading material.”

Hunter crossed his arms. “You really need the lesson on the raft, and the only way to do that is to get you on the river.”

Still shaking her head, Toni backed away. Not a good sign.

“If you want to get out of the sun and hang out in my cabin and read, you’re more than welcome to. Put your book in a Ziploc, and bring it along.”

Toni held her clipboard tight against her chest. “I won’t be joining you.”

Hunter moved toward her like he would a spooked horse. “You’re not going to supervise the photo shoots?”

“Of course I will. That’s my job.”

It took him a moment to compute what she’d said since she’d spoken so fast. He tried his most encouraging smile. “Then you’ll want to come tomorrow. If not, you’re not going to be able to do at least two of the shoots Bianca planned.”

Toni stared at James as if she expected him to jump in and save her.

Hunter watched the silent argument going on between them. When no words were spoken, he cleared his throat. “It’s perfectly safe. Everyone wears PFDs and even lightweight helmets. We teach you everything you need to know in case you fall in. We show you how to get back into the raft, how to paddle, and what to do if we get stuck. We’ll be running down a lazy part of the river tomorrow. I promise there will be no class-five rapids.”

When James did nothing more than shrug, she tossed her clipboard on the table and turned on Hunter with both hands on her hips. “What the hell is a PFD?”

“A personal flotation device.”

“And why would I need a helmet?”

“The helmet protects you in the rare instance you should fall and hit your head on a rock in the river.”

Toni blinked twice and looked as if she needed to sit down and put her head between her legs.

“Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer. She just stood there, wide-eyed, looking as if she wasn’t breathing. Really not good.

The purr of Trapper’s Sequoia broke the silence. The engine died as doors opened and shut. Hunter looked for help from James who suddenly found his shoes very interesting. Great.

When boots hit the steps, Hunter turned. “Trapper and Fisher, this is James Ness. He’s working with Toni Russo, the manager of Action Models in New York.” Hunter turned back toward Toni only to find she’d disappeared, coffin clipboard and all.
***
Trapper watched Toni slip around the corner of the inn and then run down the path toward the cabins. He whispered to Fisher, “Did you remember to wear deodorant today? I know it wasn’t something I said since I didn’t say a thing.”

Fisher did a sniff test. “Deodorant, check. I even brushed my teeth before we left, but I didn’t get close enough to breathe on her, which, when you think about it, is a real shame.”

Hunter said something to James then chased after the hot, Goth chick.

Trapper leaned closer to Fisher. “Looks like Hunter has dibs on Toni. That means you owe me a twenty. Didn’t I bet you that he’d go after the first model he set eyes on?”
Fisher opened his wallet and pulled out a Jackson. “I’m not sure I actually owe you this since Toni isn’t a model. Hunter said she was the manager of the modeling agency—if the manager is that hot, just imagine what the models look like.”

“Stop being cheap, and hand over the money.”

Fisher did, and Trapper stuffed it in his pocket before his baby brother changed his mind. “You know what this means, right?”

Fisher smiled wide. “We get first dibs on the rest?”

“Exactly.”

James seemed awfully interested in Hunter and Toni. When they were out of sight, James whistled, “Brave brother you have there.”

Trapper leaned against the porch rail. “Toni doesn’t look that scary to me.”

James sat and curled his hand around a steaming mug of coffee. “Oh she’s not. She’s all bark and no bite, but that doesn’t mean she’s not a handful. Hunter has an uphill climb, that is, if he can talk her into ever coming out of her cabin.”

“Agoraphobic?”

James shook his head. “Nah, just not a fan of the great outdoors. Well, the great outdoors without paved streets, high rises, and a Starbucks on every corner.”

Trapper tipped his straw cowboy hat back. “At least it wasn’t personal. Fisher and I were wondering.” He sat beside James, who stared at the cabin Hunter had followed Toni into. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”

James pulled his gaze away from the cabin. “I’m not worried.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Trapper sat back and made himself comfortable. It could be awhile. “Hunter is great with anyone skittish, be it people or horses.”

Fisher dragged a rocking chair over and took a seat. “Oh yeah, Hunter’s used to it in his field of work. Hell, he specializes in it. He spends a few weeks a couple of times a year running a camp for abused kids.”

Taking off his hat, Trapper twirled it on his finger. “It’s amazing how he can reach out to kids who are afraid of their own shadows and have enough baggage to fill a freight train. After a week with Hunter, you wouldn’t recognize them.”

Fisher nodded. “He’s a real miracle worker, my brother.”

Trapper couldn’t agree more. “Toni should be a walk in the park compared to some of the kids he’s worked with.”

James nodded but didn’t look convinced.

“You’ll see. I’ll bet you the twenty I just won from Fisher that Hunter has her out of that cabin inside a half hour.”

James smiled. “You’re on.”

***

Toni knew running away in the middle of introductions was rude. Still, it was less embarrassing than hyperventilating and passing out in front of three completely gorgeous strangers.

She’d fought to keep the panic at bay ever since she’d climbed out of the van that had taken her and the Action Models crew through vast mountain wilderness for the three-hour trek from Boise. With each mile they’d driven deeper into the wilderness, the panic increased exponentially.

She ran into her cabin, throwing herself on the bed before the door slammed shut behind her. Toni buried her face in a feather pillow, concentrating on taking deep, slow breaths.

The door to her cabin opened and closed quietly. She didn’t raise her head. She thanked God James was there and that he understood. He was the closest thing to a father she had. Not that her father was dead or anything—he’d just never been interested in the job.

“I know. I made a complete fool of myself. But believe me it was better than what would have happened if I’d stuck around. At least I didn’t pass out.”

She focused on her breathing. Nothing was said, but nothing needed to be. It was just nice to have James close by. The creak of the cane chair next to her bedside table told her he’d sat. When she finally had her breathing under control, she rolled over and shot up in bed. “Hunter?”

Hunter sat perusing the book she’d set on her bedside table. He Comes First: How to Find Your Perfect Man and Marry Him.

She didn’t know which was more mortifying, her behavior, or the fact that he knew she was reading that book. “It’s not mine.”

Hunter peered over the top of the book and raised an eyebrow. He must have practiced that look since he was a kid. It bothered her that it worked.

“Okay, it’s mine, but I didn’t buy it. My mother sent it to me. She believes in marriage—she must since she keeps trying it, over and over and over. After number five I thought she’d give up, but apparently she hasn’t.”

The man said nothing.

“Some girls might find the strong, silent type attractive. I don’t.”

He turned the page and kept reading.

“Just so you know, I’m not looking for a husband, but I would like to have a healthy, long-term relationship. So I thought, what could it hurt? You know? It stands to reason you’d look for the same thing in a long-term relationship as you would in a spouse. I mean, really, marriage is nothing more than a long-term relationship with a license attached and a divorce in the making. Since I’m not into doing paperwork or being legally bound to anyone, I plan to forgo the whole wedding thing.”

When he didn’t comment, she blew her hair off her face and crossed her arms. “Are you always so talkative?”

“With you it’s hard to get a word in edgewise.” Hunter closed the book and held his finger in it as if not wanting to lose his place. He’d gotten farther into it than she had. “I thought I’d let you finish.”

“I’m done.”

He set the book on the table and slid the chair around to face her. The tall bed put them eye-to-eye. “No, you’re not.”

Toni took a deep breath. She wasn’t known for her patience, but dug for it, since pissing him off on their first day was probably not a good idea—especially since she’d have to work with him for the next week. God help her. “I think I would know when I’m finished babbling. I usually don’t babble. I may talk to myself or mumble on occasion, but I never babble. You caught me off guard. I thought you were James. He’s the only one brave enough to come into my cabin without an invitation. This begs the question, what made you think it’s okay to waltz in uninvited?”

Hunter threw his ankle over his knee as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “I’m not much of a waltzer. Walking usually works for me.” He cocked his head and grinned. “Though there have been times I’ve found running effective. I told James I was going after you, and he didn’t try to stop me.”

“The charm is so not working on me. I deal with beautiful men on a daily basis. I’m immune. So since James didn’t stop you, you assumed you had permission to invade my personal space? Why?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “It wasn’t as if you stopped me either.”

“I would have had I known it was you.”

“But you didn’t, and I’m here. Why don’t you tell me what you’re so afraid of?”

Toni shook her head. “That’s personal.”

“And your mother’s five marriages aren’t? Not to mention your low opinion of the institution of marriage and your interest in hooking up with someone.”

“I’m not interested in hooking up.”

His eyebrow rose again.

“Not hooking up the way most people think of hooking up. I’d just like to have a normal, stable relationship with a normal, stable man.”

She snapped her mouth shut, not sure why she was even talking to him about this, especially since it didn’t look as if he was buying it. Since it was the God’s honest truth, his cynicism ticked her off. She pulled her pillow onto her lap, hugging it to her chest. “What?”

“Maybe our definition of normal is different. I can’t see you going out with anyone boring enough to be defined as normal.”

She sat up a little straighter. The guy certainly knew how to get under her skin, and not in a good way. “You don’t know anything about me.”

His low, sexy chuckle grated on her nerves. “Toni, I’ve learned more about you in the last half hour than I know about most of my best friends.”

“You don’t know much about your friends then, do you?”

“I know how long their skis are, how much they weigh, their favorite beer, what kind of flies they tie, and who they’re married to or dating—all the important stuff. Now why don’t you tell me what’s got you so spooked you almost passed out at the thought of taking a raft down a lazy river?”

“No.”

“Afraid of the water?”

Damn, the man could have been a cop. All he was missing was the bare light bulb. “Not particularly.”

“Then what is it?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I own River Runners, which makes you one of my guests. Everything about you that affects the quality of your experience is my business.”

“Nice try, but no cigar. The only thing you’re responsible for is following the schedule I emailed you last week and keeping my models safe. The rest is my business and mine alone.”

He stood and inspected the living area of the small cabin as if he expected to see something more than the rustic couch, coffee table, chair, TV, desk, and a few lamps. He returned to the bedroom section against the far wall, peeked into the bathroom, and then opened the closet, which served as a partition separating the two spaces. “Did you get everything on the packing list?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because you can’t wear a get-up like that on the raft tomorrow.” He reached into her closet and pulled out her checkerboard, slip-on, canvas Vans.

He was going through her closet? She got off the bed and pulled her sneakers from his huge hands. “Do you always invade everyone’s personal space and property, or am I just special?”

“These will work fine. You might want to put on a bathing suit or at least swap that skirt for a pair of shorts. Oh, and don’t forget your sunscreen, sunglasses, and a hat tomorrow. I’ll be here at 9:00 a.m. sharp.” He grabbed a hoodie out of her closet. “Everyone’s meeting up by the lodge for the barbeque. You might think about changing into a pair of jeans. And I’m sure you’ll need this.” He tossed the hoodie to her; she caught it with one hand. “Once the sun ducks behind the mountains the temperature drops. I’ll wait outside for you to change.”

“You ignored my question.”

Hunter turned and looked her up and down again. “I didn’t ignore it. I don’t know the answer yet.”

“You don’t know if you invade everyone’s personal space?”

“No, I don’t know if you’re special, but I’m looking forward to finding out.”
***
Hunter stepped outside. He leaned against the closest tree, pulled his sat-phone off his belt, and dialed his sister. God, this was going to kill him.

“Speak.”

“Great phone manners, Karma.”

“Ha, you’re just jealous you can’t answer the same way, Mr. Businessman.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I need a favor.” He could almost hear her deciding how to make him pay. “I need you to buy me a book and bring it up here tomorrow.”

“Oooh, this is gonna cost you. What book and where?”

“You have a pen handy?”

“Do I need one? It’s not one of those boring treatises on history or literature you’re so fond of, is it? If it is, I’m going to charge you twenty bucks a pound to lug it all the way up there. And why the urgency?”

“It’s a paperback, and no, it’s nothing like my usual reading material. You have to promise you’ll keep this a secret.” Man, he was going to be paying for this forever.

“This is just getting better and better. What is it? The Joy of Sex or something?”

“Worse. It’s called He Comes First: How to Find Your Perfect Man and Marry Him.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He pulled off his hat and wiped his brow on his forearm. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Spill.”

“That’s not part of the deal.”

“It is if you want to get your hands on a copy in the near future.”

“Fine.” He held back a groan. “A woman I know is reading it. I just thought it was something I could use—”

“To become her perfect man?”

“No… well, maybe for a little while. I thought it could be fun to screw with her.”

“Literally, figuratively, or both?”

“Not your business.”

“And what about that whole ‘men come first’ thing? I thought the woman was always supposed to come first, sexually speaking, of course. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”

“I’m not talking to you about this. Are you going to bring me the book or not?”

“Okay, I’ll bring it, but you owe me big. What’s her name?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“The usual reasons. I’m a nosy little sister, and I want to meet the woman who would incite you to call me and ask me for something you know you’ll never live down.”

“Karma, how about this? If you don’t bring me the book, I’ll tell Trapper who backed into his brand-new Sequoia.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Fine. I’ll bring you the damn book, and I’ll find out on my own who the lucky lady is. Heck, I’ll probably know more about her than you do before I’m halfway to wherever it is you expect me to deliver your package.”

“Doubtful.”

“Which reminds me, where are you?”

“I’m up at the Sawtooth Inn now. Tomorrow morning we’re taking a raft trip to my place. When can you come?”

“Lucky for you, tomorrow’s my day off. I guess I can meet you at the cabin. Want me to bring anything else since I’m making the trip?”

“Has Mom made any cookies lately?”

“I’m sure she will if she knows you want some. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Call me if there’s a change of plans.”

“Will do… and Karma? Mum’s the word, okay?”

“Sure, but it’ll cost you.”

“Believe me, I know.” He ended the call and waited. He’d give Toni another three minutes, and then he was going in after her.

Hunter checked his watch and called Emilio, one of the campers he worked with and wished he could have kept longer. Emilio had begun to show progress just in time to go back to the streets. “Emilio, it’s Hunter.”

“Hey.”

Street sounds came blaring through the phone. “What’s up?”

“Just hangin’.”

“Pat said you missed curfew last night. What’s up with that?”

“Dude, I had my girl with me. I wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout no curfew.”

“You should be thinking about your curfew, but more importantly—be safe. Real men protect themselves and their girls.”

“I hear ya. Hey, I gotta go. Later.”

“Emilio, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” The phone went dead.

Hunter cursed under his breath. Emilio didn’t believe him, and why should he? He had absolutely no reason to think that Hunter would follow through on his promises. No one else in his life ever had.

Hunter slammed the phone back onto his belt and felt like punching the tree he leaned against. Emilio was slipping away, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. It was a good thing he had another problem to concentrate on.

Just as he turned toward the cabin, Toni stepped out wearing skintight black pants with what looked like black leather suspenders hanging from the waistband. The pants were tucked into tall, high-heeled black boots that laced up the front and had four black straps hanging from hooks and draping around the calf. Hunter swallowed hard as his gaze moved up to the black-and-white-striped top that fit her like a second skin. She wore the same wrist cuffs she’d sported earlier, but she’d changed collars; this one sported studs and rings with silver chains draped between them. Her hair was down and so straight and shiny, it looked fake. She caught her bright red bottom lip between her teeth and watched him with wide eyes. She looked like something out of a steaming hot sexual fantasy. He’d never had a sexual fantasy of the Goth variety before. He was pretty sure that was about to change.

The shadows lengthened, and although it didn’t get dark until after ten at night in high summer, the first hint of the evening chill had settled. Hunter cleared his suddenly dry throat. “You forgot a jacket.”

“Oh.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m not going to stay long.” Her gaze skittered to the edge of the clearing and back to him.

“We’re having a bonfire after the barbeque. Come on, it’ll be fun.” He took her arm and walked her toward the barbeque.

“Yeah. Fun is subjective… obviously.”

He wasn’t sure why she was so nervous, but whatever it was, it had her wound tighter than a duck’s ass. The farther they got from her cabin, the slower she walked, and the more often she glanced back.

Maybe she was reconsidering going back for her jacket or possibly rethinking the outfit choice. She looked fine to him. Mouth-wateringly so. But he figured Karma would probably think Toni was overdressed. He didn’t know what they wore at barbecues in New York, though if the few episodes of Sex and the City he was forced by assorted girlfriends to watch were accurate, they dressed a whole lot different for just about everything. In Idaho, shorts or jeans and T-shirts were good for every occasion except weddings and funerals.

She stopped dead in her tracks, and Hunter almost stumbled over his own feet.

“You know, I’m really tired. It’s been a long day, and I’m still on Eastern time.” She backed away. “I think I’ll just go back to my cabin and crash.”

“You’re not even going to eat?”

She shook her head and bolted.

Since Toni looked more terrified than tired or angry, Hunter didn’t take it personally. He just wanted to know what had her so upset.

When he arrived at the barbeque, James was deep in conversation with Trapper.

Trapper shook his head, dug a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket, and handed it to James. “Little brother, I’m disappointed in you.”

“Yeah, and why is that?”

“I just lost a bet to James that you’d have Toni out of her cabin in under a half hour.”

“I had her out of the cabin and halfway to the barbeque before she made up some excuse about being tired and bolted. What’s going on with her?”

James let out a sigh. “That, my friend, is Toni’s story to tell. If she chooses to share it with you, she will. I’ll fix her a plate and make sure she’s okay.”

Shit. Hunter had wanted to do the same thing, but then barging into Toni’s cabin uninvited twice in one day might not be the best idea. “I need to know what’s going on James. I can’t do my job if I have to be afraid of Toni freaking out and disappearing. This isn’t New York.”

“I believe Toni is painfully aware of that. I’ll talk to her, and we’ll see you all in the morning.”

James made his way to the buffet that had been set up and piled two plates with food before moseying off in the direction of Toni’s cabin.

Trapper handed Hunter a cold one. “James said she’s not into the great outdoors.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious, not to mention an understatement. She’s terrified. Why is a mystery—she’s told me everything but.”

“Everything?” Trapper speared Hunter with the look he had that makes everyone spill his guts. Everyone but Hunter, that is.

“Nice try, Trap, but that hasn’t worked on me since I got caught under the bleachers with Jeannie Coleman in the sixth grade.” Hunter took a draw off his beer before going to get some grub, leaving Trapper to give up on the idea of an inquisition. Hunter wasn’t about to say anything that might incriminate himself. He knew better.
***
James knocked on the screen door to Toni’s cabin with his foot. “Toni, it’s James.”

“Come on in. Everyone else does.”

His girl sounded disappointed. She must have expected Hunter. “I can’t get the door. My hands are full.”

The door opened a crack, and Toni looked out before opening it fully.

“Did you think I’d bring the paparazzi?”

“As if, I was just making sure Hunter wasn’t lurking.” She moved aside to let James in. “Hunter just walked right in here earlier as if he owned the place. I thought he was you. I was shocked when I found out who it was.”

James handed her a plate. “Oh, so I was right. You are disappointed.”

Poor Toni was completely flummoxed. “Now or then?”

“Both.” But she was definitely disappointed now.

Toni gave him a confused look, and avoiding both the table and the subject, took her meal to her bed and crawled up, sitting cross-legged in her vintage cabbage rose, blue, and white cotton pajamas. She’d taken off the collar and wristbands. With her hair down, she looked like every other pretty twenty-six-year-old woman. Unfortunately, he was the only one who ever saw the softer side of Toni. She wore her Goth clothes like armor. James understood why. He just wished she did.

Toni took a bite of a barbecued chicken leg. “Thanks for bringing me dinner. I was getting hungry. I tried to go…” She licked her finger and then waved her hand. “I just couldn’t.”

“You’re welcome.” James sat at the end of the bed and leaned against the footboard facing her. “I’m sure if I hadn’t thought of it first, Hunter would have brought you something. He’s a good guy, not to mention single and gorgeous.”

“He makes me nervous. He looks at me as if he’s trying to read my mind.”

“Maybe he can. I hear he’s great with troubled youths—he has a way with them.”

“I’m hardly a troubled kid.”

James gave her his “get real” look. “You used to be. Hunter’s observant—maybe too observant.” He held a chicken leg and pointed it at her. “You’re going to be working closely together. He’s smart. He’s going to figure you out on his own, so you might as well just tell him why you’re afraid and get it out in the open. It’ll save us all time and trouble.”

The expression on Toni’s face said she wasn’t buying it—her and her damn walls.

“I spent a week with him, Toni. Believe me, he’ll understand and help you out.”

“James.” She nudged him with her foot. “You swore you wouldn’t say anything.”

“And I won’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you should. You should give him a chance.”

“Why?”

“Because for some reason, he seems to have taken a shine to you.” James ignored Toni’s eye roll, moved over to sit beside her, and smiled when she leaned back against him. “He went after you, didn’t he?”

“To my eternal embarrassment. He found me with my face buried in a pillow trying not to hyperventilate. I’m sure I made a real strong impression—just not the kind that makes a man want to peel my clothes off.”

“I guess that depends upon just how much of your butt was showing when your head was buried in that pillow. You were wearing a really short skirt.”

Toni laughed and elbowed him in the ribs. “Thanks so much for pointing that out. As if I didn’t have enough to be embarrassed about.”

James threw his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “I live to serve.”

“Even if Hunter is understanding, how am I supposed to get the models’ respect if I’m falling apart?”

“Exactly. The only way they’re going to respect you is if you do your job, and you can’t do your job if you don’t figure out a way to deal with your phobia. All I’m asking is to let me and Hunter help you.”

“I’ll try, but you’re the only one I’ve ever talked to about it, I would never have bored you with my own personal nightmare if you hadn’t been with me when I found out about this trip.”

“Yes, but I was, and there’s no way you’re going to pull the wool over Hunter’s eyes. You don’t have much choice but to accept his help. Everything he gives you beyond that will be a bonus.”

“James, having one mother giving me dating books is bad enough. I don’t need two. Sheesh, you’re turning into a regular yenta.”

James watched Toni toy with her food.

“He found the dating book my mother sent me.” She nodded toward her bedside table. “He was reading it and probably thinks I’m out to hook up with the first man I set eyes on. I was so mortified I babbled like a lunatic.”

“No, he probably thinks you’re quirky. Guys like quirky.”

“Somehow I doubt that—especially when the quirky girl is surrounded by beautiful models. Not that I’m even interested. Could you see me and Survivor Man? I don’t think so.”

***

Hunter didn’t have much of an appetite but took his plate and sat with his brothers.
Trapper moved over to make space at the picnic table. “Thanks for striking out again. You cost me twenty bucks.”

Hunter decided to ignore him. It was Trapper’s own fault for betting. He never seemed to learn. “Have either of you talked to Ben and Gina lately?”

Trapper’s gaze wandered from one beautiful model to the next. “We’re surrounded by gorgeous women, and you want to talk about family?”

Hunter shook his head and picked up a barbecued rib. “I was just wondering if that private detective found out anything more. I’ve been working twenty-four—seven all summer and haven’t had a chance to talk to the newlyweds.”

Their cousin, Ben, his wife, Gina, and the whole family had been searching for Gina’s brother Rafael who’d been put up for private adoption when Gina was six years old. The only thing they had to go on were the memories of a terrified child, which wasn’t much.

Fisher stopped gnawing on his corn-on-the-cob. “I think they’ve found seven possibilities. Dick Sommers is following up on them.”

A red-headed model wearing goose bumps and an oversized bandana disguised as a dress sat next to Hunter. “Hi, I’m Yvette. You must be our fearless leader.”

He wiped his hand on a napkin before shaking hers. “Your fearless leader is Toni. I’m just the guide—Hunter Kincaid.”

“Nice to meet you.” Yvette didn’t let go of his hand. “I thought I’d come over and break the ice.”

Fisher leaned in, practically knocking over Hunter’s beer to shake the woman’s hand. “I’m Fisher. I’m a guide and a doctor.”

Hunter rolled his eyes. “We couldn’t get him to stop watching ER when he was a kid.”

Fisher took an awful long time to let go of Yvette’s hand. “Yeah, like you weren’t glued to Grizzly Adams.”

“It was better than those stupid law shows Trapper always watched. Remember the Susan Day poster he hung over his bed?”

Trapper set his beer down with a thunk. “Hey, watch it. She was hot.”

Yvette scooted closer to Hunter. “Who’s Susan Day?”

“Never mind.” Hunter shook his head wondering what planet she was from. “You’re probably too young to remember.”

Trapper kicked him under the table. “I’m Trapper. There’s a bonfire after the barbeque. Are you going?”

“Of course, James said it was a meet and greet.” Yvette touched the inside of Hunter’s leg, and he jumped. “I can’t wait to get better acquainted with you.”

Hunter removed her hand and set it on top of the table as he rose. “I can use another cold one.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Trapper slid into Hunter’s spot. “A beer or a shower?”

When Hunter returned with three more bottles, he made sure to sit next to Fisher. As soon as he settled, a set of twins straddled the bench, sandwiching him between them.

“Hi.” The pair said in stereo.

“I’m Candace, but you can call me Candy.”

Fisher leaned forward and caught Hunter’s eye. “Sweet.”

“And I’m Randy.”

Trapper took a swig of his beer and grinned. “Even better.”

Hunter cleared his throat as he looked from Candy to Randy, feeling like a piece of meat slapped between two slices of Wonder Bread—bleached with no nutritional value. Not that he had a problem with that, but at the moment, all he wanted was to have a private conversation with his brothers. “If you ladies have finished eating, you should go put on some layers. It gets really cold up here at night.”

One of the male models strolled over, sat beside Trapper, and gave him the once-over. “Looks like the party’s here. I’m Ari.” He scooted closer to Trapper. “And who might you be?”

Hunter enjoyed watching Trapper squirm. He wondered how PC his big brother would be if Ari ended up on his lap, which seemed to be the model’s objective.

Trapper stood. “Trapper Kincaid, Judge Trapper Kincaid.” Taking advantage of his full six-foot-four height he looked down at Ari. “Hate to break it to you, Ari, but we don’t bat for the same team, and I’m not a pinch hitter either.”

“A judge, huh? I always wondered what they wore under their robes.”

Trapper sat his hat on his head and adjusted the angle. “Clothes.”

Fisher snorted beer out of his nose, and Hunter tossed him a napkin. “Don’t mind Fisher. He’s just learning to eat in public.”

Yvette laughed. “I gathered that.” She gestured at Fisher. “You uh… have a little corn stuck in your teeth.”

Ari stood locking in on his second target. “I have dental floss back in my cabin if you need some. It’s Oral B.”

Fisher laughed. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got some fishing line back in the truck.”

Hunter stood and collected the plates. “It’s getting cold. I’m going to get my jacket. You might want to do the same.”

He moseyed toward the trucks with his brothers. “Finally, before we get interrupted again, tell me what Dick Sommers found out. You said he had seven possibilities?”

Fisher took out his Swiss Army knife, pulled the toothpick from its sheath, and poked it between his teeth.

Trapper took the last swig of his beer and tossed it in a waste barrel. “He’s checking them out.”

“Which sucks.” Fisher ran his tongue over his teeth.

Trapper stopped and looked over. “Why? At least we have something to go on.”

“Sure, but what are we doing? Nothing. I thought this was a family thing.”

Hunter nodded. “Fisher’s right. We should all be more involved. After I finish up the season, I’ll fly to New York and see what I can hunt down. We can’t let Dick Sommers have all the fun.”

Trapper raised an eyebrow to that. “And I don’t suppose this has anything to do with Toni Russo or the models who were just plastered to you, does it?”

Hunter just smiled at Trapper. “Jealous, older brother?”

“Hardly.”

“Trapper, get real. I’m free from September through mid-November, and I want to help Ben and Gina find Rafael.”

Fisher laughed. “Sure, okay. But let me just say, if I were going back to New York anytime soon, I’d sure as hell look up any number of the models at this shindig. Look at them all.”

Trapper chucked him on the arm. “Ari would love that. I’ll make sure he gets your number.”

“No thanks. He went after you first. I don’t like playing second fiddle.”

“But Hunter’s throwbacks are okay?”

“Damn straight—the operative word being straight, which, unfortunately for Ari, we both are. Right?”

Trapper laughed. “I know I am little brother. Is there something you want to tell us?”

Hunter opened the back of his Land Cruiser. “Are you two done yet, and do I have to remind you that these people are our clients? You can explore your sexuality later. We’ve got work to do.”

Trapper rocked on his heels. “Lord knows we’re going to have our hands full just keeping them out of the bonfire tonight.”

Fisher reached into the truck and pulled out a fire extinguisher. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered.”

***
The next morning Hunter was up with the birds. At a quarter to nine, after a nice breakfast at the lodge, he knocked on Toni’s cabin door. She answered wearing a big, black straw sun hat, its brim almost concealing her face, a black fishnet, see-through cover-up over a bathing suit that was… something completely unexpected.

The black one-piece suit was right out of a 1940s pin-up calendar—plain, save for a little ruffle on the sweetheart neckline, held up by wide straps, and a small ruffle at the leg where it ended like those boy shorts his old girlfriend wore all the time. He suddenly knew why those photos stayed on the walls for years and years. Her suit barely hinted at cleavage, but was so damn sexy he had to shake his head to clear it.

“What is it now?” She stuck her hands on her hips and spread her legs as if she was getting ready to fight. She had long, powerful legs, not the sticks some girls walk around on. Toni’s were cut without being bulky. Damn, even in those checkerboard Vans, she looked hot.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to mention that seeing her in an old-fashioned bathing suit scrambled his brain. “One good breeze, and your hat will be history. Do you have a baseball cap?”

“I thought we had to wear helmets.” She was cute when she was exasperated.

“We do when we’re on the raft, but this is for the hike to the river and the time we’re off the raft. Believe me, as pale as you are, you’ll need a hat. I have one you can wear if you want.”

She took a step back. “Hike?”

Damn. In a tenth of a second she went from mad to scared. He preferred mad—it was kind of a turn-on. He imagined she was always sexy, but anger made her go from hot to scorching. When she was scared though—shit, he had no defenses. “We’re about a quarter of a mile from the river. It’s an easy hike.”

“Nothing about this trip is easy.”

“Why is that?”

Toni shook her head and mumbled something that sounded like, “I can’t do this.”

James, Trapper, Fisher, and a pack of models chose that particular moment to join them. No matter how many beautiful women surrounded him, Hunter couldn’t take his eyes off Toni. She had all the signs of being terrified of something; he just didn’t know what. On that subject, her mouth was shut, which seemed out of character.

James slid beside her, threw his arm over her shoulder, and pulled her close. “How you holding up?”

“Just peachy, thanks. I have to get my other hat.” She took off her floppy hat and gave it a wave. “Survivor Man said this one won’t cut it. Everyone go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Hunter didn’t move. “I don’t mind waiting.”

She stepped into his personal space. A tough New Yorker replaced the terrified woman. “I don’t need an escort. I’m a grown woman. I think I can find the river on my own.” Not that she was planning to. As soon as she could get back inside the cabin, he was sure she’d slam the door shut, slide the bolt home, and shove a chair under the doorknob.

Hunter didn’t need reminding that she was a woman grown. He knew that in every fiber of his being. He had a sudden urge to make use of the collar she wore around her throat, whether to pull her closer or make sure she stayed, he was unsure. He didn’t have to be Einstein to know she was past ready to bolt. He wanted to know why. “I’m sure you can. I’m just not sure you will.”

With a toss of her head, she had James clapping his hands. “Okay, let’s get down to the rafts everyone. Toni and Hunter, play nice, and don’t be too long.”

After five books in her Darcy Saga, Sharon Lathan has changed tactics and given us a look at the younger sister of the very intimidating but lovable Fitzwilliam Darcy, Georgiana. Named for her Uncle George, she’s a quiet, shy young lady, but her in own book, Miss Darcy Falls in Love, Georgiana blossoms into a beautiful woman and brilliant musician on the journey of a lifetime.

But don’t think for a moment that Georgiana will have an easy time of it. As women our emotions and feelings are always front and center, and Miss Darcy is no different, as we find out when she’s faced with not just one but two handsome gentlemen who vie for her affections. Some problem, you say? Well, maybe, maybe not. You have to meet them all to find out who she chooses and all the whys and wherefores that go along with such circumstances.

Summary:

Noble young ladies were expected to play an instrument, but Georgiana Darcy is an accomplished musician who hungers to pursue her talents. She embarks upon a tour of Europe, ending in Paris where two very different men will ignite her heart in entirely different ways and begin a bitter rivalry to win her. But only one holds the key to her happiness.

Set in post-Napoleonic Empire France, Miss Darcy Falls in Love is a riveting love story that enters a world of passion where gentlemen know exactly how to please and a young woman learns to direct her destiny and understand her heart.

Chapter 1 – Overture in Lyon

Miss Georgiana Darcy was written on the outside flap of the folded parchment envelope in fine calligraphy. The addressee fingered the dried ink before turning the envelope and noting the imprinted, wax seal. A bold M circled by what appeared to be holly.

Interesting, Georgiana thought.

Not too long ago the concept of receiving what was undoubtedly an invitation addressed directly to her by people unknown would have flabbergasted her. Half a year of traveling through Europe had altered her expectations and such invitations were so common an occurrence that she barely noted the absurdity of it. Furthermore she was actually rather surprised that this was the first as yet conveyed since she had arrived in Lyon three days ago.

Her smile deepened, a low chuckle escaping as she shook her head. How Fitzwilliam would laugh at me, she mused, the thought rising unbidden and causing a sharp pang that pierced her heart. The smile faded, but she rapidly smothered her homesickness, walking to the wide, cushioned seat recessed into the window alcove where the stunning view would lift her spirits. She sat, taking a moment to gaze over the perfectly symmetrical rows of grapevines that stretched in an unbroken sweep to the distant river. All were currently barren of growth and she fleetingly wished it were spring or summer rather than deep winter, but then she squelched that ridiculous notion, thankful that her excursion abroad would encompass all four season ere her return to England in April.

Yes, I am a little homesick. The smile returned as her attention was given to the missive held in her hand.

The Marquis and Douairière-Marquise de Marcov request the presence of Miss Georgiana Darcy for dîner de gala at the Château la Rochebelin on 21, January of 1820 at hour seven.

As she suspected, the Marcovs were unknown to her. She shrugged, certain that her aunt and uncle would be familiar with the family. She was  under their jurisdiction for this leg of the journey and trusted them explicitly. Thus far, there had been no cause for doubt or dismay, every partaken entertainment delightful. She rested her head against the cold wall, her thick plaited coil of golden hair acting as a cushion. Her reflection shimmered on the polished surface of the glass, her densely lashed large eyes so vividly blue that they mocked the dull sky of winter. Not the tiniest wrinkle of unhappiness marred the smooth perfection of her high forehead, honeyed brows arching delicately over the round eyes that surveyed the landscape stretching before her. The chilled air infused rosiness in her cheeks, it the only hint of color on her creamy skin, and she drew the wrap closer about her arms.

The Château Plessis-Rhône, home of the Vicomte de Valday, sat on a gentle rise surrounded by fertile fields. Even in the winter the countryside was verdant with enormous evergreen trees and bushes randomly distributed amongst the dormant vines, leafless trees, and dulled lawns. The waters of the Saône glittered turquoise in the muted daylight of what was a typically sullen day, the residuals of misty fog lingering in places. The intermittent rain from the day before continued to threaten, lurking darkly in the patchy clouds that obscured the sun. Georgiana much preferred the warmth and brightness of a summer day, but the play of grays and shadows amid the nimbostratus clouds mixing with the colors on the ground was beautiful in its own way.

Sunshine or gloom, the joy of being stationary and surrounded by stout walls was priceless.

Georgiana had discovered during the Channel crossing from England the previous spring that sea voyages did not disturb her as they did her unfortunate brother. Therefore, as difficult as it was to say arrivederci to Italy, she had relished the complication-free voyage across the Mediterranean. Unfortunately, the inclement weather that had not plagued them during the voyage had beset them once on solid terra firma. Crossing the Alps of Switzerland last June was as easy as a country stroll compared to the rigors of the overland journey from Genoa to Lyon. Incessant rains and wind-blown debris required frequent halts and accommodations in less than luxurious coaching inns. The cold was unrelenting, their sturdy carriage and piles of blankets and furs seemingly worthless against the chill. The bedraggled travelers arrived at the massive estate owned by the de Valdays never before experiencing such joy to see a house!

Simply being warm and clean had lifted Georgiana’s sagging spirits immeasurably. Now if she could only ease the ache in her heart.

Georgiana sighed, gazing at the cloud formations suspiciously. A sudden flurry of activity to the right captured her attention and brought a laugh to her lips. A dozen birds had burst forth from a copse of low bushes with dead leaves flying crazily, the agitating predator unseen but the squawks indicative of some sort of fright. It was a simple thing, of course, and nothing she may not have witnessed at Pemberley, but the landscape was so unique and served to remind her of how fortunate she was – and how amazing the journey was, in spite of the pangs of homesickness and grief.

A clamor in French from the hallway broke her reverie, seconds later the door bursting open and three figures tumbling into the parlor.

“Dearest Georgiana, finally! Hiding away already, are you? Frédéric insisted that we hunt you down and rescue from your solitary daydreams!”

The speaker was a young woman of nineteen. She was short, barely reaching Georgiana’s shoulders, with a voluptuous figure finely accentuated by an exquisitely tailored gown of purple velvet. Her lavender-tinted eyes blazed vibrantly amid a round face. Mischief and impertinence were etched upon her entire countenance from the tiny tapping foot to the mass of tightly coiled ebony curls audaciously escaping jeweled pins. She was in all ways a vision of supreme, sensual loveliness that could wrest the breath away from everyone who beheld her, male or female. Her name was Zoë, and her lush beauty was so ineffable that it was impossible to imagine that another could match it.

Yet the woman standing beside her was indeed a match.

Her twin, Yvette, was nearly a duplicate. It was only the small mole located just to the right of her upper lip that easily revealed her unique identity. The combined essence of these two extraordinary creatures was a captivating assault upon one’s senses. The blessing from the Maker in allowing the creation of two entrancing offspring would presumably then exhaust any hope of further divine favor upon their parents, but this was not the case.

Frédéric, nearly eighteen, was as stunning and forceful a presence as his elder sisters. With his curls styled foppishly about his face, his enormous deep-blue eyes, and his plump mouth, he had a slight feminine air to his look that was aided by his shorter stature and stout fleshiness. But this was only at first glance. As soon as he moved or spoke a word, the effeminate vision was swept away by a personality, voice, and bearing that exuded confident masculinity. The three de Valdays were bewitching and somewhat exhausting, but Georgiana adored them already.

Frédéric bowed gallantly, spearing Georgiana with an unconsciously sensuous gaze. “Rescuing damsels is a gentleman’s sworn duty, is it not, beautiful lady? Especially those whom are fated to be one’s love for all eternity?”

Georgiana laughed, shaking her head as he kissed her hand.

“Foolish child!” Yvette declared, shoving her brother aside. “How many women have you declared undying, passionate love to this week?” Frédéric merely shrugged, his grin brilliant and unrepentant. Yvette sniffed, turning to Georgiana and opening her mouth to speak, but Zoë beat her to it.

“I see you have your own invitation to the de Marcov’s gala. Magnifique!” She fluttered the parchment paper addressed to her in the air while performing a sequence of graceful pirouettes about the room, gleefully singing, “Dancing, dancing, dancing! Until dawn! With endless parades of handsome men!”

“Shall you save one dance for me, sweet sister?”

“I said ‘handsome men,’ dear brother, not ‘homely child.’” She continued to dance about the room, Frédéric laughing and fluidly twirling toward her, engaging in an elegant pas de deux.

Yvette sat onto the window seat beside Georgiana. She held her invitation in her hand, face alit with the same sparkling joy as her sister’s. “Is it not marvelous? You shall meet dozens upon dozens of men, the finest noble gentilshommes of the Rhône-Alpes. Perhaps you shall fall madly in love and never wish to return home!”

“That is doubtful, my dear Yvette.”

“I shall not give up hope, my friend. Why return to dreary England?”

Georgiana laughed. “You have never been there, and should be hesitant to call any other place dreary considering the weather here.”

Yvette shrugged and then suddenly gasped, eyes wide as she grasped Georgiana’s hand. “They say the grand ball is in honor of Lord de Marcov’s betrothed, an Englishwoman! Perhaps you know her!”

“Highly unlikely. Dreary England is a vast continent. Do you know all in France?”

Yvette laughed gaily, deep dimples flashing, rising to commence her own sweeping ballet across the room. “Not as yet, mon ami, but someday I shall. Famous I will be! An actress or prima ballerina or wife to the greatest duke in the Empire!”

“Come, Georgiana! Practice the dance with us!” Zoë dragged her from the window seat, Georgiana blushing and shaking her head, but swiftly getting caught up in the frivolity of the moment. One could never maintain a dour attitude for long when surrounded by the de Valday siblings.

“I deduce the invitations have been delivered.”

The gay voice, accented English in a melodious tone, interrupted Georgiana’s silliness. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but the three de Valdays continued to twirl.

“Yes, mother dearest! Dancing and flirting and dancing!”

“Will there be handsome Englishmen, Mama? Men with exotic accents and clear blue eyes like Georgiana?”

“Not every man in England has blue eyes,” Georgiana explained with a laugh, but the girls ignored her.

“With luck the mysterious Englishwoman will have a dozen sisters for Frédéric to flirt and fall in love with.”

Frédéric grinned at Yvette, but declared emphatically, “My heart has been lost to the glorious Miss Darcy and I shall never gaze upon another!”

The Vicomtesse de Valday waved her hand airily, winking at Lady Matlock as the two of them entered the room and crossed to the sofa. “Of course, Frédéric,” his mother said with exaggerated conviction, sitting onto the cushion before answering her daughters. “I do not know if there shall be dozens of English men or women for you three to charm. Nevertheless, I am sure there shall be dozens and dozens of eligible French dance partners since the Marcovs never celebrate by halves.”

“Pish!” Yvette pouted, lower lip protruding becomingly. “We have charmed all the available men in Lyon. None are remotely interesting, are they, Zoë?” Her twin nodded, curls bobbing and pout as adorable. “We must travel to Paris or Vienna or London for fresh conquests.”

Zoë fell in a graceful heap at her mother’s feet. “Oh yes, Mama. Lyon is so dreadfully dull! Surely you saw hundreds of gorgeous Englishmen when you lived in England?”

“Perhaps,” Lady de Valday responded with a secretive smile, “but if you remember, silly girl, I met your father while dwelling in England, at Lady Matlock’s home, in fact, soother handsome men vanished from my memories.”

“Oh yes!” Yvette joined her sister in a pool of skirts at their mother’s feet. “Tell us the story of how you and Papa met and fell so desperately in love!”

“Oh so romantic!” Zoë added with a dramatic clutch to her heart and a feigned swoon.

The vicomtesse laughed and shook her head. “You have heard the tale a million times and yet still add your own flourishes to a mundane meeting. Silly girls!”

The chorus of pleases rose to the gilded ceiling, but it was Georgiana’s softly spoken reminder that she had not heard the story that prompted the two older women to jointly recount how they first met.

“It was in the years prior to the Revolution,” Lady de Valday began, her voice serious and sad. “My father was a loyal royalist and refused to leave as the terror grew. It would prove to be an unwise choice as there was no halting the blood thirst of the masses and his efforts to spread rationality only earned him an appointment with the guillotine.”

She paused, wiping a tear from her eye before able to put aside the endless grief. “He was not, however, completely foolish or trusting. He secured our wealth, secreting the bulk of our family heirlooms, and then he sent us away to England. My mother cried and refused to leave him, but he insisted. It saved us all.”

Her voice broke, the memories still raw. Lady Matlock squeezed her friend’s hand and took up the tale. “I was a young wife then, living at Rivallain with my husband, and we opened our home to French refugees. Inès and her family came to us, her mother and mine related distantly. They dwelt with us for nearly four years, Inès and I growing close.”

She smiled affectionately at Lady de Valday, who smiled back as long ago memories washed over them. “It was a wonderful experience,” Lady Matlock resumed, gazing at her friend. “I perfected my French, learned many new musical techniques and compositions as well as artistic talents since Inès is brilliantly accomplished. We became dearest friends.”

“What Madeline does not say is that she is an incredible painter who could never teach me to hold a brush the correct way, let alone actually create an image of worth, and that she soundly beat me at every sport we engaged in! Her archery skills are incomparable.”

“I shall concede the truth of that, although we were equal equestrians and a generous portion of our days were spent exploring on horseback. But of course the most memorable time was when Césaire, your father, came with his family.”

Inès blushed, much like an adolescent with her first crush, and took up the narrative. “He was so handsome. He still is, of course, but then? Ah, magnifique! His grandfather knew the previous Lord Matlock, I cannot quite recollect how the connection originated, but it did not matter. My heart was instantly captivated.”

“And Papa? Was he as captivated?” Yvette asked breathlessly, as if she had never heard the story.

“Alas, no. He was intrigued, but far too capricious to willingly settle based on a summer acquaintance.”

“But you were persistence, oui, Mama?”

“A huntress determined to capture the man of your dreams! Your will firmly set to acquire what your heart needed to survive!”

Lady de Valday laughed at her girls’ exclamations, shaking her head as she replied, “To a point, I suppose. We females can be quite tenacious. But in truth, it was our parents who finagled matters. Unbeknownst to us, they agreed the match was to be. All your father and I knew was that once the war ended, with Napoleon restoring a semblance of order so we could return to France, our families were suddenly the best of friends!”

“It took nearly a year, Inès’s letters to me filled with her romantic machinations.”

“Poor Papa never had a chance,” Frédéric declared. “How could he resist your charms, Mama?”

“How could he indeed!” Yvette agreed. “He merely needed time as all men are pathetically obtuse in matters of amour.”

Frédéric huffed derisively, Zoë speaking before he could counter that assertion. “It is a wonderful story. So full of love and longing, romance and drama.” She sighed. “And because of your friendship with Madame Countess de Matlock, forged via the fires of war and heartbreak, we now have our own refugee to harbor…”

“I am not a ref–” Georgiana began, Yvette’s breathless oui interrupting her protest.

“Oui! Thus it is our sworn duty to entertain our lost friend, and, as fate is destined to be repeated, lead her to finding her true love!”

“Oh, how delicious a tale it will be,” Zoë squealed, her curls bouncing with her emphatic nodding. “Mademoiselle Darcy’s heart succumbs to deep, passionate love while dancing in Lyon, or” –she suddenly gasped– “better yet, Paris!”

“Please!” Georgiana laughed. “I assure you my heart is perfectly safe and not intending to succumb to anyone, in Lyon or Paris.”

Frédéric groaned, pantomiming a dagger to the heart, his death taking a dreadfully long time as he staggered about the room. Georgiana merely shook her head at the dramatic display.

“Surely you do not mean you will not dance or flirt?” Yvette asked, her eyes wide with astonishment at such a bizarre concept.

“I will dance, yes, but I do not flirt.”

Yvette remained incredulous, but Zoë waved her hand dismissively. “Every girl flirts. It is natural. As is falling in love, especially in Paris where love is tangible in the very air you breathe.”

“Well, I did not fall in love while in Paris last summer, nor have I become even remotely smitten while in Austria or Italy, so I fear I shall disappoint, my dear Zoë.”

Zoë shrugged, clearly not convinced. In fact, she wore a rather devious expression that caused Georgiana no small amount of alarm!

Yvette recovered from her amazement, springing up from her knees. “I certainly shall flirt. Flirt and dance, dance, dance! We shall teach you how it is done, my friend.” She grabbed her “dead” brother, where he laid draped over a chair, and the heartbroken lover was instantly resurrected and began gaily waltzing with his sister.

Georgiana was yanked from her chair by Zoë, the latter apparently deciding that the woefully ignorant Georgiana needed lessons in coquettish behavior begun immediately. Within minutes all three de Valdays encircled their protégé, the eyelash fluttering, simpering smiles, and seductive gazes only causing Georgiana to laugh.

Lady Matlock and Lady de Valday shared a glance, the unspoken communication inherent in most long-term relationships easily comprehended. With nods of silent agreement it was decided not to share what they knew of Lord de Marcov’s fiancé, his “English Rose” as he called the lovely Lady Vivienne.

Indeed, it would be much more fun to have the connections discovered at the ball.

I have been a fan of Helen Scott Taylor since reading the first book in her wonderful and magical series, The Magic Knot. I knew then we have something special in this author, one who weaves spells to pull a reader into her characters’ world and entertains them on every page – good, bad, happy, evil, lusty, loving, romantic, and everything in between.

With this third book in the series, The Ruby Kiss, she surpasses all of that, bringing her writing to a new level, pulling on the heartstrings more than ever, showing us wishes and dreams do indeed come true, faith in others is necessary, family is where your heart is, and to never give up what you know is right.

Nightshade and Ruby discover all of this in stages as their world is turned upside and torn apart. But what comes to them in the end just may be worth a wee bit of heartache.

Summary:

A Powerful Nightstalker: Nightshade hungers to bring the strong and beautiful to their knees beneath the ecstasy of his bite, but he has never known sexual lust–not until he meets Ruby McDonald. The curvy redhead wields attitude and strength like an ax and she would be the perfect mother of his children. Caught in a clash between the Seelie and Unseelie courts, he battles not only for her survival but also for her heart.

A Mortal with a Secret: Plagued by magic inherited from a father she never knew, Ruby wants answers. Nightshade has them. But when he crashes into her bedroom late one night, the Fairy’s silvery eyes, dark intensity, and striking black wings tempt her with a whole lot more: a mysterious world waiting to be explored, a dangerous love that binds her in body, mind, and spirit, and the children she thought she could never have. The future offers her a choice between freedom and a power some would kill to possess. Should she deny her desires, or succumb to the seduction of…THE RUBY KISS

Now take a wild ride with Nightshade and Ruby:

Chapter One

Ruby Macdonald woke to a frightful bang and the rattle of roof tiles. Something crashed onto the skylight above her bed, knocking the window wide. She instinctively ducked beneath her bedcovers, and a huge heavy object thudded down on the mattress beside her, making the bedsprings bounce and strain under the impact. Downstairs her two dogs started barking.

After a second’s shock, Ruby yanked the covers away from her face. A dark figure crouched on the comforter near her feet. She recoiled against the headboard, a scream searing her throat. The streak of light coming through the bedroom doorway from the hall silhouetted the creature’s naked, heavily muscled chest and widespread black wings.

Her mother had carted her all over the place, searching for supernatural creatures. Ruby had met many strange beings, including tiny leprechauns in Ireland and beautiful people who could breathe underwater, but after everything she had gone through back then and her mother’s horrible death, she had tried to forget. She hadn’t wanted to believe her mother’s claim that Ruby was the result of a nocturnal seduction by a beautiful winged angel, even though she knew she wasn’t like other people.

Ruby’s blood thundered in her ears. Was her father really an angel? And was history about to repeat itself? Although the intruder’s gleaming black skin and leathery wings suggested he was more demon than angel. She had never seen anything like him in her travels, but she vaguely remembered seeing his likeness in a book.

The creature spat white stuff at her. Ruby dove to the floor and grabbed out from under her bed the baseball bat she’d hoped never to have to use. She jumped up, getting a firm two-handed grip on its wooden handle.

“Keep away from me or you’re dog food.”

Instead of pursuing her, the winged man clambered off the other side of the bed and dragged a hand over his mouth.

“Bloody bird,” he bit out in a deep British accent. “Closed my eyes for half a second and the damn thing hit me in the face.” He spat out something else that Ruby realized was a feather. At over six feet tall, his powerful body dominated the room. Yet his cultured voice was so at odds with his appearance that Ruby had the crazy urge to laugh. Without taking her eyes off him, she bent to snap on the bedside light.

She had wondered if he was completely naked, having noticed his bare chest, but he wore black jeans and boots. His eyes shone an unnerving silver in a savagely beautiful face. He swept aside his long black hair with a careless hand and folded his wings against his back.

“Who are you?” he demanded, his head angled arrogantly as he pinned her with his gaze.

“Oh no, laddie.” She pointed at him with the bat. “You’re going to tell me who you are first.”

He ruffled his wings against his back, looking disgruntled. “I’m Nightshade.”

In her experience, these supernatural beings usually had strange names. “What are you?” Ruby demanded.

His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. “I don’t appreciate that tone of voice.”

Despite his fierce expression, she didn’t sense any real malice in him, and she had always been very perceptive about the nature of “supernaturals,” as her mother had called them. “Tough. You land on my bed in the middle of the night; you answer my questions.”

He narrowed his eyes. Ruby held his gaze and tightened her grip on the bat. As they stared each other down, a tingle of excitement ran up her spine. She had thought she never wanted to see another supernatural after what happened to her mother, but there was something about this one’s vibrant male energy that set her nerves singing.

He gave a hiss of reluctant surrender. “I’m a nightstalker.”

Yes, that did ring a bell. She wished now she hadn’t burned all her mother’s supernatural books. “Is that some type of demon?”

He bristled. “I’m not a bloody shadow elemental, woman. I’m a fairy.”

“A what?” The bat sagged in Ruby’s hands while her brain scrambled to process. She had thought fairies were tiny with translucent wings. A slightly hysterical giggle burst from her lips.

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“I thought fairies were small.” At his scowl, she had to stop herself from grinning. He was so easy to get a rise out of. “Don’t fairies wear sparkly dresses and have bells on their slippers?”

A growl broke from the back of his throat. She raised her bat again, wondering if she’d pushed him too far. Time to change the subject.

“To answer your first question, I’m Ruby Macdonald.”

He grunted, his gaze tracking down her body, then back to her face. “And this place is?”

“Glenskelly Lodge. I suppose you realize you’re in Scotland?” She watched him take stock of his surroundings, absently ruffling his wings against his back. Ruby stabbed a finger toward the ceiling and added, “It sounded as though you damaged my roof.”

The nightstalker glanced up, his nostrils flaring. “It wasn’t my fault. The damn bird should have looked where it was going.” He flexed his shoulders before raising a hand to rub one. “Bathroom?” he demanded.

“You use bathroom facilities?” The leprechauns who had helped her and her mother when she was small had lived in caves. But, come to think of it, some of the others supernaturals they’d met had seemed very civilized. Still, she couldn’t imagine a man with wings sitting on the toilet

or lying in a bath.

“Of course, woman. This is the twenty-first century.” He tapped the cell phone on his belt. “Where I come from we make use of modern technology and live among humans. Although most do not know what we are.”

Ruby pointed the bat at the door of her en suite. Nightshade strode inside, leaving the door open. He washed his hands and face, then wiped himself dry on her towel before dropping it over the side of the bath.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” Ruby said under her breath.

The nightstalker wandered back into the room, blinked, and rubbed his eyes. His hand went to his shoulder again, and he looked exhausted. With a sigh, he glanced at the open skylight. “Sorry about the intrusion,” he offered reluctantly. “Don’t often get birds flying at night.”

“Looks to me like you were asleep at the wheel,” Ruby retorted. “So to speak.”

He pinned her with a belligerent gaze but didn’t deny the accusation. His gaze roamed more slowly over her body, as if he were really noticing it. The tension between them shifted subtly. The annoyance melted from his face and he licked his lips.

A prickle of awareness skittered across her skin, making her nipples peak beneath the tight jersey tank top, which she belatedly realized left little to the imagination. And her pajama shorts made her thighs look fat. She tossed the bat on the bed, hurried across the room to grab her dressing gown off the back of the door, and put it on.

She considered him for a moment and remembered the kindness of many supernaturals whom her mother had intruded upon in her relentless search for Ruby’s father. Although the last thing she wanted to do was get tangled up in that weird world again, she strongly believed that what goes around comes around and it was time to reciprocate. “When it’s lighter out, you can check my roof’s not damaged where you hit it. First I think you need to sleep. Before you fall over.”

Winged ebony brows rose in surprise. “You’ll let me stay in your house?”

“You can go outside and sleep in the dog kennel if you’d rather, but I think you’re too big.”

He scowled—an expression with which Ruby was fast becoming familiar. She’d always been good at sensing the energy of people and animals, she’d been told it was a gift, and she was certain this stranger didn’t pose any danger to her. He was exhausted and he could hardly check into the nearest hotel. And, now he had dropped in on her, she might as well take the opportunity to question him. She was determined to rid herself of the annoying power she’d inherited from her supernatural father. Perhaps Nightshade could help.

***

Nightshade narrowed his eyes on the woman’s back while she made up the bed in her spare room. He couldn’t pick up her psychic signature in the way he would expect if she carried fairy blood, yet she wasn’t completely human. The house resonated with strange energy. It was as though he could feel her in the wood beneath his feet.

She turned and bent over the bed to tuck in the sheets, and her breasts swung forward and made the dressing gown gape. All thought of psychic signatures disappeared from his brain. Excitement raced through him at the thought of standing behind her and catching those breasts in his hands. She was no slender creature like the Cornish pisky women from the troop with whom he lived; she was only just over five feet tall but with buxom curves. He’d never seen a full-bodied woman like her. And although his fangs burned within his gums with the desire to taste the sweetness of her blood, they did not slide out over his lower lip. Instead, the tight heaviness in his groin dominated his awareness. For the first time in his life, his instinct to mate was stronger than his desire to bite.

“One bed ready for occupation.” She straightened and put her hands on her shapely hips with a long exhalation of breath, then flashed him a quick smile, her hazel eyes twinkling. The small diamond stud in her nose glinted in the overhead light. She was so different from other females he knew, with her short spiky red hair and the many piercings in her ears.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, uncomfortable with being in her debt. He wouldn’t have blamed her for tossing him out after he’d crashed onto her bed in the middle of the night. She had a sharp tongue, yet she must have a kind nature to have offered him a place to rest.

“Would you like a cuppa before you turn in?” Then, without waiting for his answer, she bustled past, leaving a trail of sweet floral fragrance in her wake.

This healthy well-built woman would produce big strong babies. Could she be the right woman to give him the son he longed for?

***

“Come on. You’re dead on your feet,” Ruby said, beckoning Nightshade into the guest room after he’d silently drunk his cup of tea. She’d been hoping he’d be chattier. As she stood aside to let him pass, she noticed scratches marring the smooth skin of the shoulder he’d been favoring. The impact with her roof must have injured him, but his black skin hid the damage.

He slanted her a sideways glance through his hair as he sat on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots. “Thanks.”

“Want me to look at your shoulder?”

“No.” He made to lie down.

Ruby hurried across to the bed and caught his wrist. “Yes, you do.”

Sinews flexed beneath her hand like tensile steel cables, and a shock of response burst through her at contact with the leashed power of his body. Drawing an uneven breath she released him and leaned over to examine his injured shoulder. A sticky trail of blood had seeped from a nasty gash to run down his back beneath one of his wings. He must be in pain but she would never have guessed. The smell of blood mingled with the unusual scent of almonds and the musky male fragrance of his skin.

“Leave me be, woman. Let me get some rest.”

He turned his head toward her, and she stared into the brilliance of his silver gaze, looked so close she could see every hair in his dense ebony lashes. His face was a study of masculine beauty, his strong jaw and brows giving a rugged cast to his otherwise fine features. For a moment she couldn’t breathe, then she pulled back and rested her hands on her hips, determined not to show he affected her.

“Sit tight for a few minutes. I’m going to dress that wound or you’ll ruin my sheets.”

Ruby grabbed the first-aid kit from the bathroom and returned to find Nightshade sitting with his head in his hands. To see this huge über macho creature looking vulnerable did something strange to her insides.

“I’ll be quick,” she assured him.

She climbed onto the bed behind him and started wiping the blood off his skin. When she eased aside his wing, the stretchy skin was strong and soft as kid gloves. She had a crazy urge to rub her cheek against it and decided she must be lightheaded with tiredness. She smoothed away the thick silk of his hair before she cleaned up his wound and covered it with gauze.

“There you go,” she said in a brightly efficient voice. “Ready for bed.”

He didn’t move. She went around in front of him and squatted down. His eyelids were lowered, his lashes thick ebony crescents against his cheeks.

“Nightshade,” she whispered, and silver slivers appeared beneath those lashes. “Lie down, laddie.”

He eased onto his side, and she threw a duvet over him, then watched while he went back to sleep. His guarded expression relaxed and he looked even more beautiful. His lean dark fingers gripped the edge of the pillow, and she clenched her hand as she imagined running her fingertips up his sinewy forearm to the bulge of his biceps. He must be casting some kind of magic over her; she could hardly tear her eyes away. She had thought that only a mad and irresponsible woman like her mother would succumb to a supernatural man who appeared in her bedroom in the middle of the night.

Perhaps she had inherited the same madness.

***

Nightshade woke to stillness. For a moment he wondered where he was. Then he recognized Ruby’s light floral fragrance on the air.

He stared at the clock beside the bed and puzzled over the fact that, although he felt well rested, he’d apparently slept for only fifteen minutes. After more thought, he worked out that he’d slept round the clock. As it would soon be dawn and he couldn’t be seen flying during daylight, he would have to wait another day before he went on to the fairy Gathering of Kith and Kin in the Scottish Highlands. At least that meant he would have time to check Ruby’s roof for damage.

He listened for her, heard the steady beating of her heart on the other side of the wall. Guilt flickered within him at how he’d dropped in and frightened her; he should never have flown all the way from one end of the country to the other when he was out of practice. Normal nightstalkers who lived a solitary life got used to flying all the time. But he’d grown soft living his comfortable life in Cornwall, with the modern-thinking pisky troop, being driven around in cars.

Longing ticked in his chest. Only two days away from home and he already missed his brother. He imagined Rhys sleeping peacefully in the nursery at Trevelion Manor with the Cornish pisky king and queen’s children. His beloved baby half brother. To protect Rhys, he would find their evil father Dragon and make him swear a blood oath to give up all rights to the boy. He would never let Dragon injure the child again, as he had in the past.

Nightshade’s stomach rumbled in protest. Heaving himself out of bed, he ripped the dressing off his healing shoulder and went downstairs to find the kitchen. When he snapped on the lights, they gleamed off the contemporary white-fronted units. The house was a strange combination of rustic wooden hunting lodge and modern styling. He preferred old houses, like Trevelion Manor where he lived, that breathed history from every seasoned-oak beam and floorboard.

He opened cupboards at random until he found a loaf of bread, then dropped two slices into the toaster before making a cup of tea. That would have to tide him over until Ruby prepared him a proper breakfast.

While he ate, he sat at the pine kitchen table, scrolling through the photos of Rhys saved on his cell phone. The Gathering of Kith and Kin where he hoped to find his father would last five nights, and he had already missed the first. He must arrive tonight in order to get his bearings and plan his strategy.

After he finished eating, Nightshade looked for a calendar to check his dates. One hung beside the fridge, each full moon highlighted in orange. The Cornish pisky wise woman kept just such a moon calendar in her room at Trevelion Manor, but Nightshade couldn’t understand why Ruby would be interested in lunar cycles. Maybe she was a wise woman or witch. That would explain the strange power he’d sensed in the house. He stared at the calendar for a few seconds, frowning, then noticed the wall clock showed it was getting-up time. So he went upstairs, impatient for Ruby to wake and cook for him.

Her bedroom door stood ajar, the bed visible through the gap. Early sunlight glowed through the thin white curtains, illuminating her. She lay in a state of abandon, arms flung above her head, one leg protruding from beneath the covers. Without him making a conscious decision to go inside, his feet carried him to the foot of her bed.

He had never noticed how women smelled before. Her floral scent mingled with an enticingly musky feminine fragrance that stirred an unfamiliar hunger. The covers rode lower as she moved, revealing the ripe swells of her breasts. Nightshade clenched his teeth to hold in his fangs.

This woman did things to him he’d never experienced. He might be a vampire, but for him taking blood was a pleasure rather than a necessity. He’d only ever wanted to bite men, and the idea of mating rarely entered his head. Now his body ached to mate with Ruby’s while he sank his fangs into her soft pink curves and formed a blood bond so that he could control her. He would only be able to take blood from her a couple of times a week, assuming he didn’t want to hurt her, but that could be enough to satisfy him. She was the woman he needed to complete his life. He would make her scream with pleasure and start his baby growing in her belly. Then, after he’d secured the blood oath from his father, he would collect Ruby and bring her home with him to Cornwall.

***

The sound of her name dragged Ruby up from the depths of sleep. She groaned when shafts of early morning sunlight fell on her face, then blinked sleepily and met determined silver eyes.

“Hey, shut the damn curtains and get out of my bedroom.”

“It’s time to get up,” Nightshade replied.

“Go away.”

“I’m hungry,” he announced, as though that was a momentous statement.

“I’m not surprised. You were comatose for a day. Was I supposed to drip-feed you while you slept?”

Ruby watched his gaze cruise slowly down her body beneath the sheet, and that made her heart do a funny little jig. For a moment she imagined that his hunger was for something other than food, but then she dismissed the thought. He was a spectacular example of masculine beauty. There wasn’t much chance he’d be attracted to a short and overweight human. He probably only went for lady nightstalkers, whatever they were.

“Kitchen’s downstairs,” she said.

“I’ve already had toast. I need something more substantial, please.”

When he tapped impatient fingers on the footboard, Ruby gave him a threatening look. “You touch my bed once more and all you’ll get is dog food.”

He ruffled his wings against his back, disgruntled. “I need to replenish the energy I used flying up here!”

“You’ll have to wait till seven-thirty. That’s when I get up.” Ruby glanced meaningfully at her alarm clock, which read six fifty-four.

With a sigh Nightshade turned to stare out the window. The rising sun hung over the glen. “You get used to early starts when there are small children in the house.”

Small children? Ruby stared at his neatly folded wings. Did that mean he had a Mrs. Nightshade at home? What sort of a house did he live in? And why did she even care?

“Okay, I’m getting up.” She was already too wide awake to go back to sleep. Climbing out of bed, she trudged over to fetch her dressing gown off the door. Then she realized: “Are you telling me you can’t cook anything but toast?”

His chin hitched up. “The kitchen is a female’s place.”

Ruby’s step faltered. “Your wife must be tolerant to put up with an attitude like that.”

“I don’t have a wife.”

“But you’ve got kids?”

“A three-year-old brother,” he replied.

“Ah.” Ruby stared at him, unmoving, an unwanted flash of relief tingling through her.

Fifteen minutes later, a full Scottish breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausage, black pudding, haggis, and oatcakes was in preparation, while Nightshade paced back and forth across the kitchen speaking into his cell phone. He was questioning someone about a little boy called Rhys—presumably his brother, although Nightshade sounded more like a concerned father. When Ruby imagined a tiny version of him with small wings, she found herself smiling.

She placed two plates on the table, and Nightshade snapped his phone shut and sat down. He mumbled a thank-you before tucking in as though he hadn’t eaten for a week. Ruby picked at her scrambled eggs. She didn’t feel hungry this early, but she’d wanted to sit with him. He cleared half his plate in record time.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“Eloise, my brother’s mother.”

“Not your mother?”

He shook his head, forking food into his mouth. She so rarely cooked for anyone that it was gratifying to see him enjoy what she’d prepared.

“Eloise is human, but my mother was a Cornish pisky. That’s why I live with them.”

“A Cornish pisky?” She remembered them from her mother’s books. “Aren’t they small?”

“No. Our size.”

Ruby’s heart rate doubled as she realized this was the ideal moment to ask about her father. “Do you know any angels?”

He wiped his mouth and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “They don’t exist. Humans probably muddle them up with some sort of fairy.”

Could her father be a fairy? The idea made her snort with disbelief. She was about as unfairylike as it was possible to get. “So, there are beautiful glowing fairies with wings?”

Nightshade sniggered. “The only beautiful glowing individual I know doesn’t have wings, and he definitely isn’t angelic…but I suppose a human might think he was an angel.”

Disappointed, Ruby sagged back in her seat. Even if he didn’t know her father, he might know something about the strange magical affliction that had plagued her at full moon since puberty. “Have you ever heard of anyone who makes plants grow when they touch them?”

“You mean a nature spirit? You don’t want to mess with them. They’re strange. I met a dryad once and his skin looked like leaves.”

“So none of them look like angels?”

“Not that I know of, but the Cornish piskies keep to themselves and live an almost human life because the pisky queen is half human. There are different fairy courts in different parts of the country, but I’ve only visited a few. If you ever go to Ireland, steer clear of the Wicklow Mountains. The Irish fairy queen has her court there, and she’s a psycho.”

Ruby didn’t need that advice. She’d discovered the Irish fairies were dangerous years ago when her mother was searching for Ruby’s father. If not for the leprechauns’ help, she and her mother probably wouldn’t have escaped alive. And, as usual, her mother had blamed Ruby for not sensing the Irish fairies were dangerous. Whenever things went wrong it was always her fault, just because she had the stupid power.

Nightshade patted his stomach. “That breakfast was good, Ruby.”

She ignored the ridiculous flash of pleasure his words gave her. “So, does your father live in Cornwall?”

“No!” His expression darkened and his jaw clenched. “I would not allow Dragon within ten miles of Rhys.” For the first time she saw the threat of violence in his eyes. With his cell phone and his love of her cooking, Nightshade had lulled her into a false sense of normality, but his civilized veneer only thinly disguised the powerful male beneath. She would do well to remember that he wasn’t human. Whatever he said about living a human-style life, the rules and conventions nightstalkers lived by were likely different from her own.

Ruby busied herself loading the dishwasher before washing up the griddle. Yet, while she worked, Nightshade’s potent presence dominated her senses. She’d dated a few men she met at art exhibitions, but no human man emanated such raw masculine power. She would definitely paint a picture of his energy if she got the chance.

She tensed when she felt him approach behind her. His hands landed on her upper arms in a firm but gentle touch that sent tingles racing across her skin, and she tried to concentrate on the dishes as he bent close to her ear.

“You’re a strong and beautiful female, Ruby,” he whispered in a velvet voice. He made a little noise in his throat that sounded like a growl. Then his lips brushed the side of her neck.

The griddle slipped from Ruby’s hands, splashing greasy water up the front of her dressing gown. Where had his sudden interest in her sprung from? She cast a sideways glance at his strong black fingers gripping her arm, and her knees felt weak.

“I want you, Ruby,” he whispered. The tip of his tongue stroked her skin, and a pulsing knot of heat tied low in her belly. “You taste so good.”

She should pull away from him, but her feet were glued to the floor. The tiniest scrape of teeth against her skin nearly made her legs give way. His hands gripped her waist to steady her as if he sensed her weakness.

“I’ve never met a female who makes me feel like this,” he said in a low sexy growl. “I want to mate with you.”

Ruby should say no and push him away. She’d only known him for two days, and she knew supernaturals could be trouble. Yet there was something about Nightshade that resonated with her.

Actually, it was an advantage that he would be a one-night stand. The guys she dated were rarely invited home, in case they discovered her secret affliction. Such a discovery wouldn’t be a problem with Nightshade. And, this way, she would never become obsessed with him like her mother had been with her father. When darkness fell that night, he’d just leave. She had a chance for passion with no strings.

Even as the idea pleased her, it also made Ruby sad. She felt a natural affinity with him that she couldn’t explain. He might be the one man who wouldn’t be freaked out by her affliction.

Before she had the chance to make a decision, Nightshade turned her to face him. Although he didn’t hurt her, his grip was so assured and controlling that she realized how much stronger he was. If he forced himself on her, she couldn’t resist. His arms slid around her, pulling her flat against his hard chest while his mouth came down on hers, and by the time he broke that claiming kiss, she was disoriented and gasping for breath. He swept her up into his arms and heat rushed to her face. She struggled to get down before he noticed how much she weighed.

“Stop wriggling, woman,” he said as he carried her upstairs. Then, with a satisfied male smile, he deposited her in the center of her bed.

He flicked open the button on his jeans. Languorous heat flooded Ruby’s body as he lowered the zipper. Hard, sleek muscles rippled with every movement, and when he pushed his jeans down over his hips, every other thought fled her mind. Little flickers of heat raced through her, making her so hot she thought she might melt.

“Strewth,” she whispered. “That’s one for the record books.”

Nightshade had a tadger the size of a rolling pin.

“Ruby, you’re special,” he whispered.

He eased down onto the bed at her side, then leaned over and stroked his fingers across her cheek. He pressed his lips against her neck, and the scrape of his teeth made her tremble with a deep primeval excitement that had an edge of fear. A tiny voice in the back of her mind told her she shouldn’t be doing this; her mother had come to a terrible end over her dalliance with a powerful supernatural. But, heck, Ruby was a woman with needs. And this was a one-time deal. When would she ever get a chance like this again? Her hands went to Nightshade’s chest. For a moment she paused; then her fingers slipped over the firm contours of his pectorals to his shoulders and dragged him close.

His hand swept up her body to cup a breast through her dressing gown. He gave a little grunt of displeasure at the clothing in his way, reared back and untied the belt of her robe before pulling the offending garment off her and tossing it away. Then he buried his face in her breasts. Ruby’s eyelids closed on a burning wave of sensation.

She ran her hands over his back to the hard ridge where his wings joined his body and let her fingers play over that unfamiliar structure. His breath hissed in and he raised his head to stare at her.

“I love being touched there,” he whispered.

He threw a leg over her, and the impressive length of his arousal pressed against her thigh, sending wicked little whirls of heat swirling through her. His mouth came down on hers again, hot and hard, almost desperate. He trailed kisses along her jaw. His teeth nipped her neck and spikes of pleasure pierced her.

“You’re my ideal woman,” he whispered in a sizzling purr. “We’ll make a beautiful son together.”

His words shattered Ruby’s rapturous haze like a hand grenade. “What!” She turned her face away and pushed at his shoulders.

Nightshade raised his head, his smooth ebony brows drawing together in confusion. “We’ll have a beautiful son,” he repeated, in a tone that suggested he was paying her a huge compliment.

“Are you freaking mad?” Little slivers of pain sliced through her: He didn’t want her at all. He wanted a baby. She shoved at his shoulders, raised one leg and managed to wedge a foot against his thigh. She should have known it was a mistake to even think about getting mixed up with a supernatural, especially when her father had done the exact same thing, left her mother with a baby.

“Oomph.” Nightshade rolled away. With a snap of his wings, he retreated from the battlefield the bed had become. “What is wrong with you, woman?”

“What’s wrong with me?” Ruby grabbed the covers and pulled them over herself. “I’m not having a baby with you.” The fact the doctors said she was infertile and couldn’t have a baby was irrelevant. He’d already ruined the mood.

He blinked, looking genuinely puzzled. “But you were happy to mate with me.”

“That doesn’t have to mean a baby,” she shouted.

A frown creased his forehead. “Why else should we want to mate?”

Ruby let her head drop back on the pillow with a thump and threw an arm over her face. They’d obviously hit a major cultural difference. She fought to control her fractured breathing and calm down. The fact he’d called it mating should have warned her that something was off. It wasn’t his fault if nightstalkers only made love when they wanted children; she was human, he was not.

“There’s been a misunderstanding,” she said, striving for a level tone. “I am not having a baby.”

His lip curled with disdain. “You mean you don’t want to bear a nightstalker boy.”

“No. That’s not what I mean. Well, it is, but…” Blast. Now she’d hurt his feelings, although why she cared after this fiasco she didn’t know. “Listen, Nightshade. I’m not prejudiced against nightstalkers, if that’s something you’re worried about. I won’t have any man’s baby.”

He stared at her as though she blasphemed. “I thought females wanted babies. My friends’ women all have babies.”

“Two misunderstandings there: I’m not your woman, and I definitely do not want a baby right now. Surely you’ve had other lovers who didn’t want babies?”

He stared at her blankly for a moment, managing to look intimidating even in the nude. “The situation has never arisen. I usually prefer men.”

Ruby’s mouth dropped open. For long seconds she couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Then blood rushed to her head. “Get out of my bedroom. Now!”

“What have I done to anger you?” he demanded. He looked even more confused.

“Do you want a bloody list?” she screeched, the last shreds of her self-control shot to pieces. “Get out!”

With a grunt of disgust, he snatched up his jeans and headed for the door.

When he’d left the room, Ruby closed her eyes and dragged in steadying breaths. How the hell had she gotten herself into such a mess? With a slight twinge of regret, she realized she had probably been unfair to him, but babies were a sensitive subject and her emotions had flared out of control.

Downstairs, her dogs barked like mad and the back door slammed. He was gone. An ache of missed opportunity hit her. Too late she feared she might have ruined something special.

If you’ve been reading Grace Burrowe‘s Duke’s Obsession series, you know how much the youngest son, Valentine, loves his music. It moves through him in every aspect of his life; he uses it to help those around him when needed, and it does help tremendously, as evidenced by his brother Devlin and his post-traumatic issues after his stint in the war. Music is everything to Val.

In The Virtuoso, he soon learns, however, that everything can altered and silenced in the blink of an eye. Suddenly Val can no longer play the piano, no longer enjoy his passion whenever the mood strikes. But what he learns and receives in return, he finds, is better than music, by far.

So take a few minutes to go on a short trek with Val. Then pick up his book and go the distance with him on his life-changing journey.

Summary:

Ellen Markham tells herself she’s happy raising flowers and living in near penury in the Oxfordshire countryside, but when Valentine Windham moves in just on the other side of the wood, Ellen’s longing for things she can never have threatens to overcome her good sense. Valentine’s artistic soul, tender loving, and ducal determination tempt Ellen to trust and confide in a man who can only be endangered, should he learn of her past. For Valentine, regaining his musical skill becomes far less urgent than winning Ellen’s heart.

Now join Valentine and Ellen:

As evening falls on Valentine Windham’s recently acquired aging manor house, Valentine, his companion Darius Lindsay, and Ellen Markham exchange pleasantries in the lengthening shadows…

…Valentine Windham continued to smile at Ellen, an expression of concentrated regard that formed a substantial part of Ellen’s pleasurable memories of him.

“Mrs. Ellen FitzEngle.” Mr. Windham’s gaze—and his smile—remained directed at her. “May I make known to you the Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey, late of Kent, come to assist me in the assessment of damages on my newly acquired property.”

Lindsey fell in with the introductions with the smooth manners sported by any well-bred fellow.

“You’ve bought this place?” Ellen kept both the hope and the dread from her voice, but just barely.

“I have acquired it, and apparently just in the nick of time. Do you often have to shoo away thieves and vandals?”

Ellen glanced at the scythe in her hand. “It’s worse in the summer. Boys wander around in packs and have not enough to keep them busy. There’s a very pleasant pond in the first meadow beyond the wood and it draws them on hot days.”

“No doubt they are responsible for my broken windows. Perhaps they’ll be willing to help with the repairs.”

“You’re going to restore the house?” Ellen asked, though it was none of her business.

“Very likely. It will take a good deal of time.”

“Where are my manners? May I offer you a pot of tea, gentlemen, or a mug of cider, perhaps?”

“Cider.” His just-for-you smile broadened. “An ambrosial thought.”

“I take it you live near here, Mrs. FitzEngle?” Mr. Lindsey interjected as they left the carriage house.

Ellen gestured vaguely. “Through the wood.”

“Well, darkness approaches,” Mr. Windham said. “Darius, if you’ll bring the horses along down the track, I’ll escort Mrs. FitzEngle through the wood.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ellen replied. “I know the woods blindfolded.”

“You wound me.” His smile—and worse—his green eyes put a hint of sincerity in the words, leaving Ellen to feel a little flip of excitement in her vitals. Oh, God help her, her tame, tired memories of his single previous visit did not do him justice. Either that, or Mr. Windham had become even more intensely attractive in the year of his absence. Dark hair slightly longer than was fashionable went with those green eyes, and if anything, in the year since she’d seen him, he’d grown leaner, taller, and better looking than was decent.

“Despite the fact that periodic wounding keeps him humble,” Mr. Lindsey spoke up, “I must ask you to humor my friend’s suggestion, Mrs. FitzEngle. He will only want to inspect his wood come morning in any case, so you are the ideal guide.” He spun on his heel and strode off toward the front of the house.

“You are looking well,” Ellen said, dusting off her long unused skills with small talk.

“I’m tired. Road weary, dusty, and probably scented accordingly. You, however, look to be blooming.”

“You mustn’t flatter me, Mr. Windham,” Ellen replied, not meeting his gaze. He offered his arm as he had once long ago and she took it gingerly. “I did steal a nap after my supper.”

“Did a handsome prince come kiss you awake?” he asked, matching his steps to hers. “Darius is convinced we’ve fallen into the land of the fairy, what with the rhododendrons, the bats in the attic, and the air of neglect.”

“You’re less than three miles from that thriving enclave of modern civilization, Little Weldon. I will disabuse your friend of his wayward notions.”

“Oh, please don’t. He’s having great fun at my expense, and the summer is likely to try his patience if he bides with me for any length of time.”

“You can’t think to live at the manor.” Ellen frowned as she spoke. She didn’t want him so nearby, or rather, she did, and it was a stupid, foolish idea.

“We’ll put up in the carriage house. It’s clean and serviceable. There’s a small stove upstairs for tea and warmth, and the quarters are well ventilated.”

“And the roof is still functioning,” Ellen added. They were passing through the woods on one of the more worn bridle paths. Nobody maintained the paths, but game used them, and Ellen did.

And nasty little boys did, as well.

She walked more quickly, all too aware that in these woods the man beside her had kissed her, only once, but endlessly, until she was a standing puddle of desire and anticipation. With nothing more than his mouth on hers, he’d stripped her of dignity, self-restraint, and common sense, probably without a backward thought when he’d gone on his way.

“Are we in a hurry?” her escort inquired.

“I would not want to leave Mr.…” Ellen searched frantically for his name. Good lord, she’d just been introduced to the man.

“The Honorable Darius Lindsey,” Mr. Windham supplied as they walked along. “His papa is the Earl of Wilton, with the primary estate over in Hampshire.”

“I see.”

Mr. Windham must have heard the cooling in her tone at the mention of a title, because as he and Mr. Lindsey sipped cold cider on Ellen’s back porch, he quizzed her on the tenants, the neighbors, the availability of various services in the area, and the likelihood of finding competent laborers in the immediate future, keeping well away from any remotely social topic.

“You’ll have to wait until the hay is in,” Ellen said as the shadows lengthened across her yard. “There’s help to be had for coin. Tomorrow is market day, so you can start getting the word out among the locals and they’ll spread it quickly enough. How are you fixed for provisions?”

“For provisions?” Mr. Lindsey echoed. “We rode out from Town with saddlebags bulging, but that’s about it.”

“I can keep you in butter, milk, cheese, and eggs. Mable presented me with a little heifer calf not a month past. I was giving the extra to Bathsheba, since she’s nursing eight piglets, but she can make shift without cream and eggs every day. I’ve also been working on a smoke-cured ham but not making much progress.”

“You were feeding your sow cream and eggs?”

“Eight piglets, Mr. Lindsey, would take a lot out of any lady. It was either that or much of it would go to waste.”

“We’ll be happy to enjoy your surplus,” Mr. Windham cut in, “though you must allow us compensate you somehow.”

“I will not take coin for being neighborly.”

“I didn’t mean to offend, merely to suggest when the opportunity presents itself, I would like to be neighborly, as well. I’m sure there’s some effort a pair of strong-backed fellows might turn themselves to that would be useful to you, Mrs. FitzEngle.”

His voice was a melody of good breeding and better intentions, an aural embodiment of kindness and politesse. Just to hear him speaking left Ellen a little dazed, a little… wanting.

“We’ll see,” she said briskly. “For now, enjoy your cider. Moonrise will be early this evening, and if you’re staying in town for now, you’ll want to get back to The Tired Rooster before the darts start flying.”

“Tame gentlemen such as ourselves will need to be up early tomorrow,” Mr. Windham said, rising. “We’ll be on our way, but thank you for the cider and the hospitality.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” Ellen rose, as well, pretending to ignore the hand Mr. Windham extended toward her.

“Tomorrow?” Mr. Lindsey frowned. “Here I was hoping to malinger at the Rooster for a couple weeks waiting for building materials to come in from London, or darkest Peru.”

“Lazy sot.” Mr. Windham smiled at his friend. “I think the lady meant she’d be in town for market day and we might be fortunate enough to see her then.”

“Until tomorrow.” Mr. Lindsey bowed over her hand and went to collect the horses, leaving Ellen standing in the gathering darkness with Valentine Windham.

“I am glad to have renewed our acquaintance,” Mr. Windham said, his gaze traveling around the colorful borders of her yard. “Your flowers make an impression.”

“I am glad to see you again, as well.” Ellen used the most cordially unremarkable tones she could muster. “One is always pleased to know one’s gardening efforts are memorable.”

“Until tomorrow.” Mr. Windham took her hand and bowed over it, but he also kissed her knuckles…a soft, fleeting contact of his mouth on the back of her hand, accompanied by a slight squeeze of his fingers around hers. And then he was swinging up on a big chestnut, saluting with his crop, and cantering off into the darkness, Mr. Lindsey at his side.

Ellen sat, her left hand closed over the knuckles of her right, and tried to think whether it was a good thing her flowers had left an impression on Mr. Windham.

It was a bad thing, she decided, for Mr. Windham was a scamp, and a scamp as a neighbor was trouble enough, particularly when she liked him, and his every touch and glance had her insides in a compete muddle. And while he might recall her flowers, she recalled quite clearly their one, very thorough and far beyond neighborly kiss.

Isn’t it wonderful when a book and its cover actually mesh perfectly? IMHO, I think that’s happened with Amanda Forester‘s latest, The Highlander’s Heart.

And when an author entertains you with a sassy heroine and a very patient hero, with some humor thrown in and an adventure to liven up things even further, you just have to sit up and take notice. Ms. Forester has done that and then some.

So have some fun with Isabelle and David this evening. Pull up a chair, a cup of hot chocolate with a Snickers bar, and enjoy! And leave a meaningful comment or question for Amanda and we’ll toss your name into the hat for a copy of The Highlander’s Heart. Not a bad way to pass the evening, is it?

Summary:

Lady Isabelle escapes her murderous English husband only to be abducted by a Highland warrior and held for ransom.  Her determination to break free from captivity is exceeded only by the passion growing between her and the Highland Laird.  David Campbell plans to hold Isabelle for ransom as an easy way to line his pockets and return her back where she belongs, but he is unprepared for a feisty English lass with a penchant for finding trouble.  Caught between rival clans bent on claiming the throne of Scotland, Campbell must choose a side, and a bride.  Standing on the brink of war, Isabelle may be his only hope to save his clan, and his heart.

Here they are:

Scottish border, 1355

Isabelle stared at the barbarian before her. These would surely be her final moments on Earth. She tried to think of something worthy of her last thoughts. I can see his knees. Isabelle groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. This would never do. Thoughts like that would send her straight to purgatory. She put her hands over her eyes and tried to think of something pious. Nothing but a mental vision of his thighs came to mind.

“No, no, no.” She looked up pleading. “Do not kill me yet, I am not ready.”

“Sassenach,” said the shadowy figure with disgust. “Get up English, I will no’ be killing ye.”

He lifted his sword over his head. Isabelle cringed, but the man only re-sheathed it in the harness he wore on his back. The action should have been comforting, but she could not overcome the shock of his appearance.

He was a tall man with a muscular body, around which he wore some kind of woven blanket. It was belted around his waist and thrown over one shoulder, pinned to a thick shirt. He wore large black leather boots but between the top of his boots and the edge of his blanket he was naked. She stared at his bare legs. Strong, hairy, man legs. She had never seen the like. She swallowed hard.

“I…you…perhaps you require time to finishing dressing?” She cringed at her inane babbling.

The stranger sighed and glanced toward the heavens. “I am fully dressed.” It was more of a growl than a statement.

“But I can see your legs,” she blurted, wishing she had held her tongue.

“And I can see yers,” he retorted.

“Oh, merciful heavens!” Isabelle realized her gown had been rucked up to her thighs. She pushed down her skirts and struggled to stand. Her face burned from being caught in such a compromising position and from the memory of what had almost happened.

“I should thank you,” Isabelle stammered, focusing on smoothing her ruined gown.

The stranger shook his head. “I kenned ye were a Douglas lass or I woud’na troubled myself. Well, good day to ye English.”

“Wait! If you please, where am I?”

“You are in Ettrick forest and the land of Sir William Douglas.”

“The Douglas?” Isabelle gasped. She had been raised in fear of the Black Douglas. She could still hear the hushed voice of her nurse threatening the Black Douglas would come for her if she did not go to sleep or eat her porridge.

“Aye.” The man frowned at her, his eyes piercing into hers until his face softened. He looked away and shook his head. Muttering something to himself, he turned and walked down the road from where he had emerged.

“Wait!” called Isabelle, hobbling after him on sore feet. She did not wish to be left alone again. “I am a bit lost. I…please sir, could you help me?”

Struggling around the bend in the road, Isabelle saw that the man had reached his horse, which, unlike her own, was standing still, placidly waiting for his master to return.

“Go back to your men folk, English. And tell them to get off Douglas land. I have no time for trouble today but if I come across them, they shall no’ be spared my blade.”

Isabelle stammered, trying to find the right words, unsure what to do. He was a Scot. Worse yet, she strongly suspected him of being one of those Highlanders, a wild race of barbarian warriors. Yet he was also the only human being she had seen all day that was not trying to return her to her husband or molest her. She was hungry, lost, and the sun was low on the horizon.

“I have become separated from my party and have walked all day. I would greatly appreciate your assistance.”

He pointed toward the dark forest. “England is that way.”

“Would you consent to escorting me home?”

“Ye would have me set foot on English soil?” He snorted. “Nay, I winna be throwing away my life just because ye got yerself lost.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Och, come on then. I’ll see ye to the next burgh.”

“But, please sir, I wish to be returned home. I assure ye that ye will be well compensated for your time and effort if you would but consent to see me safely home to… um that is to Bewcastle.”

“Have ye a husband in Bewcastle?”

“No!” It was spoken with a bit too much emphasis, but she certainly hoped she would not find her husband there.

“Yer father then?”

“No.”

The man sighed as if trying to maintain his patience. “Where is yer father?”

“Resting with the Lord.”

“Have you any man to care for ye?”

It was a question she had never been asked. Standing lost in a strange forest before a strange man she realized how alone she truly was. She shook her head. “My uncle recently passed away and…” Her voice broke and she pressed her lips together trying to get control of her emotions.

The man’s face grew softer. He stepped toward her, assessing her person. His gaze traveled down her body and back up, lingering on her face, his eyes catching hers and holding them. He stepped closer until he stood directly before her. Isabelle’s mouth went dry.

He was a large solid man, with a sword as long as she was tall. He reached out to touch her shoulder, stroking his hand down the length of her arm, her skin burning at his touch. “Let me hazard a guess. Ye were distraught. Ye had no one to care for ye. Some ne’er-do-well came along, made a lot of promises, gave ye this hand-me-down gown, and ye took up wi’ him, but it dinna go well.”

“No!” Isabelle recoiled with indignation. “I am not… I would never…”  I am the Countess of Tynsdale!

Isabelle held her tongue to consider the outcome of her confession. First, he would probably not believe it, considering her state. Second, if he did believe her, he would most likely do what any Scot would do, hold her for ransom and return her to her… husband.

“I did not…” Isabelle struggled to find some explanation for her being in the woods alone that did not make her a countess or a woman of ill repute. “Whilst I was traveling, my horse bolted, and I got lost.”

“Where is yer horse?” He folded his arms in front of him, clearly not believing her.

Isabelle focused on smoothing her ruined velvet riding gown once more. It had been a beautiful deep wine red; it wasn’t any more. “I lost that too.” She dared to glance up at the stranger once more and found him staring at her intently.

“I want the truth. Who waits for ye in Bewcastle?”

Isabelle tried to think of a suitable answer. “I… my…er….”

“Stop wi’ yer lies, Sassenach.”

“I have an aunt in Bewcastle! I am going to see my aunt!” exclaimed Isabelle, relieved to have blurted out something sensible.

He leaned closer, forcing her to crane her neck to look up at him. “Tell me the truth for I will ken if ye speak to me false.”

Isabelle nodded, her heart thumping hard. What was he going to do?

“Ye dinna have an aunt in Bewcastle, do ye?”

Isabelle hesitated for a moment and shook her head, fearful of what he might do if he knew she was lying.

“Ye are here because of the wrong doing o’ some man.”

Isabelle nodded furiously. “’Tis all his fault!”

“I am sure it is. Come wi’ ye then, I will drop ye at the next burgh. Mayhap they can find a suitable arrangement for ye.”

Isabelle was not sure what kind of ‘arrangement’ he had in mind, but she was certain she did not wish to discover it for herself. “No! Please, I must get to Bewcastle. Someone awaits me there.”

“Going from one man to another?” The man shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. “I can take ye to the next burgh, but I winna a stand here all night. Ye can come wi’ me or take yer chances on the road, English.”

“I must return to England!”

“Sorry, but I dinna care to have my neck stretched.”

 

“But it is imperative I get to Bewcastle!”

The man shrugged. “Good luck to ye then. I’m sure yer next conquest will enjoy ye.”

Isabelle put her hands on her hips, a hot wave of righteous indignation washing over her. Did he not know that a knight should always help a damsel in distress? He was devoid of all proper feeling. This is what she got for asking a barbarian for help.

“I thank thee for your kind offer to find me an ‘arrangement’ – is that the word you used?” Her tone was hardly polite but she gave herself some latitude considering the circumstances. “But I prefer to walk back on my own.” With as much dignity and poise as she could possibly muster, she walked past him into the forest.

“England is the other way.”

Isabelle stopped short. She balled her hands into fists and slowly turned around. Her tall, not so heroic Highlander had the audacity to look amused. She hated this man. Clenching her jaw, she walked with false confidence to the other side of the road. She held her head high, her back straight, but feared her cheeks burned in evidence to her embarrassment.

“’Tis getting dark, lassie. Night will be upon ye soon.”

Without looking back, Isabelle walked with determined defiance into the forest. She had made it this far, she could make it back.

“There be all sorts of beasties in this forest at night,” he called after her.

Now that did make her pause, but the thought of being taken further into Scotland to be settled in an ‘arrangement’ got her feet moving again. She had wished to escape her husband, not the whole of England. True, she had evaded her husband’s guards, but being dragged into Scotland by a half-dressed barbarian was little improvement. Even if he did have  striking green eyes and long eyelashes. Not, of course, that she’d noticed.

A rustling sound in the brush ahead of her gained her attention. She froze, hoping whatever it was would go away, but luck had utterly abandoned her this day. Concealed by the dense foliage, something snorted and pawed the ground. With a high pitched squeal, a wild boar emerged from the brush.

Isabelle gaped at the beast, her heart pounding in her chest. The beast was covered with coarse black bristles and had two sharp tusks curving out of its pointy snout. Prior to this unfortunate day, the only boar she had ever seen had been as God intended, dead and roasted with an apple in its mouth.

Isabelle swallowed hard, as if some of those sharp bristles were lodged in her throat. This angry pig was far from being supper. The beast pawed the ground and snorted, steam rising from its warm breath in the cool dusk. Isabelle stood as still as a statue, hoping it would not notice her. Those sharp tusks could tear a person to shreds. The boar grunted again, lifting its snout to the wind.

Suddenly the beast squealed, lowered his head, and charged.

A hero who thinks he has no gentleness in him. He saves lives with no thought to his own.  No mission is too dangerous. He does what it takes, no matter what. When he meets his heroine, Becca, all those things he knows about himself change – completely. His emotions churn as never before. That is the storm known as Sterling.

Now Sterling has to fight his inner storm on two fronts – his feelings for this woman and everything else. Especially the evil that’s gunning for Becca. More than ever, Sterling is determined to win to keep her safe.

Sterling is one of those heroes who just whirls into your life with word and deed of his own, and you’re as surprised as he is when the changes happen. That just makes him all the more appealing.

Summary:

He may be invincible to everyone else…

Sterling Jeter has remarkable powers and has shown himself to be just about indestructible. But beautiful, brilliant Rebecca Burns knows that even a Super Soldier needs comfort, and so much more…

But she can see that deep down, he’s just a man…

Sterling and Rebecca’s teenage romance was interrupted, but years later the heat between them flares back to life. Even though it endangers everything they’re fighting for, it’s impossible to resist picking up right where they left off…

Now just a teaser for you to meet Sterling.

His cheek brushed hers, whiskers erotically scraping against her skin, his breath warm against her ear as he whispered, “If I instinctively know something so simple as how to order your dinner, think what else I might know about you. What we might know about each other. How to tease each other… How to please each other.”

There was an emptiness inside her that shuddered with hope, with a plea that he would drive it away, fill it with something that wasn’t icy and cold.

He pulled back and looked at her, his eyes dark, passionate. Compelling. “No regrets, Becca,” he vowed, and she knew he’d found those words in her head. Words she’d sworn to live by when she’d left that German hospital without a cure. Words she’d spoken in her head in the lab earlier with him there.

She rolled them around inside her and let them take root, rewarded herself with a deep inhalation of Sterling’s addictive, masculine scent. “No regrets,” she said softly.

A slow smile formed on his lips. “I love it when you agree with me,” he teased.

Becca laughed. “You’re crazy.”

“About you,” he said huskily.

She felt a little schoolgirl rush from that. In the past, she would have felt like the geeky bookworm with the quarterback, uncomfortable and out of her league, but not with Sterling. Never before had a man taken her from such dark emotions to laughter. A place she might just find real escape.

She pressed her hands to his face, her lips to his. Absorbing him. Breathing him in like a little piece of life. They lingered that way, heat simmering between them. Expanding… drawing them in closer to one another without ever moving

His tongue flickered against her lips, pressed past her teeth as he slid it against hers for a long, sensual taste. “Your kisses taste like honey,” he murmured. “What does the rest of you taste like?”

She shivered at the erotic comment—the promise he was going to find out. He kissed her again. Crazy-wild, hot-kissed her, and she loved every second of it. Loved his tongue, his lips, and his hands sliding through her hair, over her face.

Becca ran her fingers through his thick, blond hair. She loved his hair—a little wild like him. Hot like him too. With each stroke of his tongue, each touch of his lips, she felt liberated.

Her palms traveled over his chest—warm, hard muscle, her reward. She was extremely, intensely interested in those muscles, like the best science project in the world that had to be studied. She explored his arms, his biceps, how they felt beneath her palms. Inching forward in her chair, she arched into him, for research purposes, of course. To explore how he would feel pressed close to her. Her breasts ached for his touch, her nipples tight and swollen, in need of his mouth. God. Had she really just had that brazen thought? She was a good girl; she always had been.

His hands slid over her breasts, fingers teased the stiff peaks of her nipples. Her hands covered his, silently telling him she wanted more, because she couldn’t ask or demand. Because she was still that “good girl” at heart and couldn’t seem to let it go.

But she didn’t want to be a good girl. If anyone knew the meaning of “life is short,” she did. Becca ran her lips over his jaw, hid her face in his neck, and nibbled as she said, “You know what I want?”

He slid his hands around her waist. “If you say Chinese food, I’m going to object.”

“I’ll give you a choice then,” she said, feeling braver with his jest. “Feed me, or take off your clothes.”

“I’m all for getting naked, if you are,” he quickly agreed.

“You first,” she bargained.

And while the idea of standing in front of him naked, him fully clothed, would make her feel vulnerable, exposed, it apparently had none of those effects on him.

“Okay,” he said, unaffected by the idea as he pushed to his feet and started undressing. And only seconds later, he stood there in all his naked glory, and she sat there, fully clothed.

Dinca’s review of The Gunfighter and the Heiress by Carol Finch
Historical Romance published by Harlequin Historical 19 Jul 11

A delightful, fast-paced trip through the bad lands of Texas, you will not find a dull moment in this book. The characters are strong and independent and butt heads as well as lips along their wild journey.

Donovan Crow has completed his last assignment and all he wants to do now is sleep. When he receives a telegram telling him his fiancé is arriving, he thinks it is a trap to kill him. What woman in her right mind would want to marry a half-breed Indian gunslinger/bounty hunter? After having a look at the sassy, determined women with the most spunk he’s ever seen, he decides this might be the easiest money he has ever made.

Natalie  Robedeaux Blair is determined to save her family fortune from her greedy stepfather who is trying to marry her off to his handpicked pawn. After her mother’s death she devises a plan too and finds her own handpicked husband and bodyguard. When Bart, Crow’s business manager, is shot, she realizes that anyone who tries to help her is put in harm’s way, so she rethinks her plan and tries to go it on her own so no one else gets hurt because of her.

Marsh, Natalie’s stepfather, adds another name to his list of people in his way to get his hands on the Robedeaux-Blair fortune – Donovan Crow. He will still make her a widow and carry on with his plan to marry her off to the simpering wimp with gambling debts that he’s found. As soon as the Robedeaux-Blair fortune is signed over to him, neither Crow nor Natalie will be left alive, so his secret is safe.

There are a whole slew of bad guys, too many to mention here without going on and on. Bad guys that should be good guys and Indians being bad to do good and Texas Rangers, I am sure, who will, in turn, have stories of their own. If you don’t have this book, get it. If you have it on your TBR list, put it at the top. You will not be disappointed.

Grade: A

Summary:

From hired gun to hired groom…

Money can’t buy love…but it can buy marriage for on-the-run shipping heiress Natalie Blair. Her vicious stepfather’s scheming ways have the Louisiana beauty fleeing to Texas to seek out legendary contract gunfighter Donovan Crow. He is dark, dangerous, and marrying him would be the perfect protection…

For Van, the price is right and the spirited woman is impossible to resist. Soon the hardened bachelor can’t tell what’s more challenging—keeping their
legions of enemies at bay or keeping his hands off his fake wife!

Read an excerpt.

Family. Hope. Faith. Survival. Love in the most unexpected places. Heart-warming romance with strong characters who carry on despite whatever the harshness of the old west throws at them, who grab happiness with both hands when life looks bleak.  If you’ve not read one of Caroline Fyffe’s historical westerns, you’re really missing something special.

Texas Twilight is Caroline’s current release in her McCutcheon Family series. You will fall in love with John and Lily from the moment they meet on a stagecoach, work together to fight off Comancheros who attack the coach, and fall in love against all the odds against them from every corner.

This is the old west, and those who live it, survive it, come out stronger on the other side. John and Lily find that out very quickly in Texas Twilight.

Here’s the summary:

Fresh out of medical school, John McCutcheon finds his stagecoach under attack by brutal outlaws.  With the help of a feisty acquaintance, Lily Anthony, he manages to fend off the assault. Lily is attracted to the charming cowboy-doctor, with his chiseled good looks and teasing ways, then heartbroken to learn he’s engaged to be married.

Once settled in Rio Wells, Texas, John tries to ignore the fact that his cousin has taken a shine to Lily.  When a bounty hunter shows up looking for a priceless jewel that Lily has found stashed away in her aunt’s belongings, Lily fears her dreams of owning her own shop–and of finding true love–are about to go up in flames…or, could that just be the glow of a beautiful … Texas Twilight?

Now ride along with John and Lily…

Chapter One

Texas Badlands, 1886

The stagecoach lurched.  John Jake McCutcheon opened his eyes and saw the young woman next to him grasp the leather loop that hung from the coach’s ceiling to keep from being tossed around.  She tipped precariously to the right, then left, bumping forcefully into his shoulder.  With an apologetic glance she moved away, then dabbed at her brow with a folded handkerchief.  She looked at her elderly aunt.
“Tante Harriet? Are you all right?” she asked in a soft German accent.  She opened the fan she held and swished it back and forth in front of the tiny woman. “Your face is extremely red.”
“Of course, Lily,” Harriet Schmidt said in a raspy voice laced with exhaustion.  The old woman’s hair was swept up atop her head and fastened in a bun, but after the miles and miles traveled on the dusty, sun-baked road, it looked more like a weather blown tumbleweed after a storm.  She patted her niece on the knee.  “Thank heavens we’re almost there.  Just one more day and we’ll be out of this oven.”
John glanced away, not wanting to seem impolite.  He’d met both Harriet Schmidt and her niece, Lily Anthony, when they’d boarded the stage together in Concepción.  He’d seen them on the train from Boston, too, but they’d kept to themselves, never speaking with anyone else.
John gazed out the window, thinking. He was finally finished with his medical training and heading to West Texas.  Anticipation coursed though him.
Rio Wells was a long way from his family ranch in Montana, but he’d get used to it.  His plan to return to Y Knot after graduation hadn’t panned out.  His hometown already supported two full-time physicians. If he really wanted to make a difference in people’s lives as a doctor and surgeon, he had to strike out in a place where the townsfolk were in need.  At least he wouldn’t be a complete stranger in Rio Wells. Uncle Winston and his family were there. And his fiancée, Emmeline Jordan, would be joining him this fall.
John closed his eyes, recalling Emmeline’s elegant profile and dark, alluring eyes. In his mind’s eye, her mouth drew down into a seductive little pout, a manipulation he knew all too well, but one that, all the same, fueled his blood.  She was like a beautiful, exotic bird, needing care and affection.
“Oh, just to take this corset off,” Harriett said to no one in particular, then chortled softly at her niece’s shocked expression at her bluntness.  “It pinches horribly.  I think I’ll throw it away for good.” She paused, thinking.  “No…”  Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “Actually, I’ll burn it.”
Cyrus and Jeremiah Post and Abigail Smith, the other passengers cramped uncomfortably on the opposite seat, just smiled, now used to the old woman’s antics.  Miss Smith, a teacher, had been hired by the same town council that had hired John, and he felt a small kinship with her.
“You know, Doctor McCutcheon,” Harriett Schmidt went on, trying to catch his eye, “my Lily doesn’t need a corset.  Her waist is eighteen inches without one.”
“Tante Harriett.  Please.”
John chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.  He’d tried not to notice something like that, but it had been difficult, if not impossible.  The girl had practically been snuggled to his side for several days.
Without warning, the driver called out sharply to the horses and the coach picked up speed.  The two guards riding on top of the stage scuffled around and one shouted something unintelligible.  John glanced out the window.
A shot rang out.  One second later, one of the guards fell from the top of the stage, past the window, landing with a thunk as the stage rolled on.  Lily gasped and threw her arms protectively around her aunt.  Abigail screamed and then fainted, flopping over onto Cyrus’s shoulder.
The driver bellowed to the horses again and the stagecoach heaved forward as the six-horse team was propelled instantly into an all-out gallop.  Three more shots were fired, and the sound of horses’ hooves thundered from behind.
John looked back through the dust to see a number of riders racing toward the stagecoach, eating up the distance between the two.  What the hell was he supposed to do now?  He was a doctor.  He’d taken the Hippocratic Oath to heal not three weeks before.  His job was taking bullets out, not putting them in.  But then, he’d also been raised on a rugged Montana ranch, where the unwavering reality was hard.  Sometimes staying alive meant killing someone else.  Besides, everyone’s lives were on the line, not just his.  It would be especially bad for the women aboard. These hills were a common hiding place for Comancheros.  They used women in the worst ways and then sold them into prostitution in Mexico. As pretty as she was, Lily Anthony would fetch top price.  Hell, they’d sell the skinny teacher and the old woman, too.
Smoke and dust filled the coach.  Pop. Pop. Pop. Lily covered her ears.  Her elderly aunt coughed as she struggled to hang on.  Abigail, now fully awake again, filled the small space with one shrill scream after the other, never even pausing to take a breath.  John reached for his satchel under the seat, withdrew a Colt 45, and strapped on his holster.  Carrying his guns was a habit he hadn’t been able to break even after his years at school.  With hands nimble from experience, he loaded and fired several shots out the window.  Two riders fell.
“You have another gun?”
John was surprised to see old Harriet Schmidt eyeing him expectantly. One hand was outstretched while the other grasped the windowsill as the coach careened down the road, jerking violently this way and that.  “I’m not letting those filthy dogs take my Lily!”
“Can you shoot?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t.  My derringer’s not worth diddly.”
John squeezed off three more shots, then pulled another gun from his bag, handing it to Harriet.  He pushed the bag toward Lily. “Bullets.”
Cyrus Post fired out the other side of the coach just as a bullet hit Cyrus’s brother in the chest, slamming Jeremiah violently against the back of the seat.  Jeremiah gasped several times as he tried to hold back a rush of crimson that spurted through his splayed fingers, soaking his clothes.  With just a glance, John could see he wasn’t long for this world.  Abigail’s eyes grew round as she took in the blood.  With a gasp, she fainted again, blessedly putting an end to her screams.
“Son of a bitch! “ Cyrus cried out.  “There’s too many. Prepare to meet your maker.”
“Hush your mouth, you old coot,” Harriet shouted as she hefted the heavy gun and shot out the window. “I have more faith in God than that.”
The coach rounded a corner dangerously fast and then slowed up a bit as it began an uphill climb.  One side of the road dropped off, falling some forty feet to a bed of jagged rocks.
Seizing the moment, John holstered his gun and opened the narrow door.  He climbed the side of the rocking coach using the window as a step, and grasping the luggage rack, pulled himself up.  He flopped onto his stomach, facing the oncoming killers and picked up the fallen guard’s Winchester.  He took aim.
He was able to shoot, cocked the rifle and pick off three Comancheros.  One thing about a McCutcheon was that their father took great pride in teaching them all how to shoot well.  Even his sister Charity was a sharpshooter.
Two bullets whizzed by John’s head so close he felt a trail of heat.  He hunkered lower behind the cargo and steeled his nerves.  A third shot took the life of the driver, forcing the remaining guard to jump into the driver’s box and grab for the multiple reins before they were lost completely.  The man scooped them up and slapped the leather across the backs of the charging horses, demanding more speed.
John paused to reload.  He wasn’t ready to die, dammit!  He’d worked his tail off to get into Harvard and get his medical degree.  And now this?  Angry at the turn of events, he unloaded his chambers, bringing down two more outlaws.
“Help me up,” a female voice shouted over the ruckus.
Lily Anthony dangled from the side of the stage, her white knuckles grasping the iron rod of the luggage rack to keep from falling under the steel-rimmed wheels.  Her dress swished around her legs as she struggled to secure footing.  John reached down and took a firm hold under her arms and pulled her up next to him.  “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled over the sound of gun shots and galloping horses.
“Helping you,” she shouted back as she scanned the area.  She picked up the abandoned Winchester, reloaded it from a bag of ammunition, and handed it over to John.  He grunted his understanding, took aim and fired three times, sending more outlaws into the dirt.
As the coach slowed, the seven remaining desperados prepared to come aboard.  John grabbed for his Colt and brought down the two closest.  Taking aim on a third, he squeezed the trigger, only to have the chamber click empty.   The rest of the ammunition was inside with Harriet.  At this range the Winchester was nearly useless.
He swung to his left as a man leapt from his mount and began climbing up.  With his empty gun, John bashed him in the face, knocking him off.  Lily hefted the Winchester to her shoulder and fired, taking down a rider who was bringing up the rear.
Lily screamed and again grasped the luggage bar.  One of the Comancheros had her by the ankle, pulling her toward the side of the rocking coach.   John fought to keep his balance as he swung around.  Grabbing the Winchester, he struck the outlaw’s face several times, but the man was mad with evil intent, and hung on relentlessly.
The coach lurched as the hind right wheel spun off the road.  John scrambled to keep from being pitched off the top.  The outlaw faltered.  Quickly dropping the rifle, he grasped Lily’s upper body and heaved.  She bucked and kicked, finding the outlaw with her boot, the kick glancing off his temple, but still he clung fast. Again the careening coach swayed violently, almost toppling all three.
A volley of shots sounded from within the coach and from the corner of his eye he saw one of the remaining two mounted riders fell.  The final rider fired once, then pulled up and stopped, abandoning his companion who still rode the stage.
John yanked Lily behind him as the Comanchero stood and pulled out a knife.  With the agility of a cat, the man slashed out and John dodged to the side.  Emboldened, the outlaw sprung forward, catching John around the middle.  The two fell to the roof, wrestling for the weapon.  John reached for his empty Colt and brought it down on the man’s head, but not before a searing heat flashed down his face from temple to earlobe.  Hefting the unconscious man up, John threw him off the cliff side of the rollicking coach then slumped down, pressing his palm to his face.

I wonder if anyone, especially the women, at the Texas Department of Transportation has secretly read Christie Craig‘s latest book, after the hullabaloo they generated with their crazy lawsuit over the title of the book.  I mean, most of those employees have to be curious. I know I would be!

And now I’m a happy reader after having finished reading all about Dallas and Nikki and their extended families, their hurtful pasts, and the murder mystery and their vulnerabilities that are mucking up their future together.

We wanted you to enjoy a little bit of a teaser from Don’t Mess with Texas, so here’s an excerpt just for y’all today.

Summary:

Nikki Hunt thought her night couldn’t get worse when her no-good, cheating ex ditched her at dinner, sticking her with the bill. Then she found his body stuffed in the trunk of her car and lost her two-hundred-dollar meal all over his three-thousand-dollar suit. Now not only is Nikki nearly broke, she’s a murder suspect.

Former cop turned PI, Dallas O’Connor knows what it’s like to be unjustly accused. But one look at the sexy-though skittish-suspect tells him she couldn’t hurt anyone. The lead detective, Dallas’s own brother, has the wrong woman and Dallas hopes a little late-night “undercover” work will help him prove it . . .

Enjoy!

“I’m killing him,” Nikki muttered again fifteen minutes later as she pulled out her already over-drawn debit card again.

The grocery cashier scanned the Pepto-Bismol, Tums, Rolaids, and anti-diarrhea meds before looking at Nikki.  “Kill who?”

Why did people think just because she was talking, she was speaking to them?  Was she the only one who talked to herself?  Nevertheless, with the cashier’s curious stare, Nikki felt obligated to answer.  “My ex.”  She placed a palm on her stomach as it roiled.

Holding her purchases in a plastic bag, Nikki couldn’t escape quickly enough.  She darted out the door.  The ball of orange sun hung low in the pre-dusk sky.  Her eyes stung.  She almost got to the car when the smell of grilled burgers from the hamburger joint next door washed over her and the full wave of nausea hit.  A woman with two kids dancing around her came right at Nikki.  Not wanting to upchuck on an innocent child, she swung around in the opposite direction, opened her bag and heaved as quietly as she could inside it.

Realizing she’d just puked on her medicine, she lost her backbone, and tears filled her eyes.  Only the weak cry. The words filled her head, but damn it, right now she was weak.

She rushed to her car, wanting only to get home.  Tying a knot in the bag, she grabbed her keys, hit the clicker to unlock the doors and then popped open the trunk.

Tears rolled down her cheeks.  Her stomach cramped so hard her breath caught.

She got to her bumper, was just about to drop the contaminated bag into the trunk when she saw . . .  She blinked the tears from her eyes as if that alone would make the image go away.

It didn’t.

There, stuffed in the back of her car, was a body.

She recognized the Armani suit first.  Then she saw his face.  His eyes were wide open, but something was missing.

Life.

Jack was dead.

Jack was dead in the trunk of her car.

Her vision started to swirl.

She tried to scream.  Nausea hit harder.  Unable to stop herself, she lost the rest of her two hundred dollar meal all over her dead ex-husband’s three thousand dollar suit.

To add to the fun of this day, we’re going to be giving away some copies of Entangled. So if you’ve been following our posts throughout the day, you’ve made it this far to find out how to win!

A meaningful comment or question left on Liz Kreger’s guest blog is what will put you in the running. Now, remember, this is an e-copy only, not a print book. And right now it looks like it’s going to be a Kindle ebook. If we can figure out ways to get other versions for you, we will.  So get your Kindle ready, and there’s always the Kindle desktop application you can download for free! So please keep that little tidbit in mind if you decide to enter the contest.

In the meantime, it’s time for a look at Edie Ramer‘s addition to this amazing anthology. Who doesn’t love a good kitty story?

She pulled up in front of the castle. One of the two oversized double doors opened.

A man marched out, head high, back straight. She was unimpressed. As a former actress, Tory immediately knew what he was doing. Making an entrance. The lights from the iron lampposts outside the entrance, along with the moonlight shining down on him, were his theater lights. She was his audience.

She opened the car door and got out. Keeping the car between them, she peered over the roof at him.

Her breath sucked in. She hadn’t expected him to look like a prince out of a fairy tale. Golden brown hair, pale gold complexion. Black jeans covered long legs and lean hips. A black turtleneck clung to broad shoulders, a great chest, a flat belly. And his face…every angle sculpted, every feature yummy.

She didn’t have to look at his lower parts to know they were in pretty good shape, too.

“Mreeooow.”

She turned her gaze from him and opened the door wider to let Samson jump out.

Bad, Samson scolded her. Bad.

“You’re late.” Damon’s voice wasn’t warm and happy, either.

“Where’s Nikki?” She shut the door but stayed on her side of the car.

He stared at her, and she felt the power of his gaze on her face.

“Come closer,” he said. “Where I can see you.”

She braced her feet. “Where’s Nikki?”

“Inside.”

“Bring her outside.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Distrustful.”

“Paranoid,” he said.

She shrugged. “I must be. I emailed my brothers, telling them where I was.”

“Would they come after me?”

“If I went missing, count on it.”

His teeth flashed and he laughed, exultation coming off of him in waves. Instead of making him angry or concerned, her words amused him. Gave him power.

He wouldn’t laugh after he saw them. But Sorcha was the one he really needed to worry about. Sorcha was…unusual. She didn’t have the same respect for laws as her brothers. She said men created them, and she wasn’t a man. She did what she felt was right, and the hell with anyone who got in her way.

Right now, Tory wanted to be more like Sorcha than her brothers.

“Either you bring Nikki outside, or I’m outta here.”

His laughter shut off. The air changed. Becoming denser, heavier, darker.

She forced herself to hold her spine straight, her chin up. Breathe, she reminded herself. Breathe.

Are you hooked yet? Can’t wait to get this anthology on your ereader? I can help out! Here’s the link to purchase your very own copy!

Entangled

What better way to spend the day reading some terrific supernatural stories after contributing to a very worthy cause? I’m glad you agree!

How about a look at Michelle Miles‘ offering? I just know you’re going to love this…

When Chloe bakes a little magic into her pastries, she attracts the attention of Edward, the sexy half-demon, half-witch, who’s come to warn her that those who murdered her sister are now after her.

Glancing at her watch, closing time neared. Only ten minutes left in the day. The no-show sexy man let all the wind out of her sails completely. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable, she thought, as she headed to the front door. Her hand was on the lock, ready to flip it when…there he was walking toward the bakery.

Her heart skipped a beat. Chloe resisted the urge to smooth back her hair. Instead she licked her suddenly parched lips. There were no other customers in the shop and she would be…all…alone…with him.

A giant knot formed in her throat. She tried to swallow around it but it wouldn’t go away. She was tempted to reach out to him again, to try and touch him with her mind but she was afraid what would happen. Last time he’d nearly fried her.

Chloe swung open the door as he walked in, a scent of musk and danger wafting in after him. Was that the acrid smell of sweat? She shook her head to clear it. She was being silly.

“Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?” she asked, closing the door and walking behind the counter.

“I was…detained.” His gaze raked over her from head to toe, as though he could picture her naked.

Even though she wanted him to picture her naked, she couldn’t help but notice the dust on his black t-shirt or the smudge of dirt on his left cheek. The way his face looked damp. His hair stood in spikes, like he’d been raking his hand through it repeatedly. And he looked like he hadn’t shaved in three days, which seemed an odd occurrence to her. Not that she would complain. She liked her men rough and ready.

With a small smile to mask her terror, she used her sense to reach out again. She probably shouldn’t, judging by what happened yesterday, but she had to know who or what he was.

The moment she reached for him, it was like he snagged her, dragged her to him, and planted a kiss so sensual, so erotic she lost track of who and what she was. He projected an image to her, showing her all the naughty things he wanted to do to her. Most of them included her on her back, covered in cream cheese icing while he licked it off all the delicate parts of her body.

Chloe gasped, pulled away from him and stumbled backward.

“You’re a…you’re…” She couldn’t get the words out.

“A witch. Yes.” He leaned his hands on the counter and slanted toward her. “I thought you figured that out yesterday when you tried to poke me. Would you like me to prove it to you?”

The door lock clicked into place. All the blinds closed with a flourish.

“Now you’re just showing off,” Chloe snapped. Despite her bravado, fear clawed her throat. “Are you going to take me back to the coven?”

“No,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I’m going to take you in the back, strip you, and fuck you.”

“Who are you?” Her voice was stronger then, though she couldn’t mistake the quiver of her words. She didn’t want to acknowledge that it was from heightened anticipation.

“You can call me Edward.” His eyes landed on her lips again.

“That’s not your real name, is it?”

“You don’t need to know my real name.” His gaze raked over her. “Yet.”

Fear trickled over her in a cold sweat. “Are you from the coven?”

“Yes. I’ve been sent to…” He paused, cocked his head to one side before smiling and showing off those dimples. “…retrieve something that belongs to them.”

Chloe swallowed hard. Damn. She knew exactly what thing he wanted to retrieve and he would have to do it over her dead body. Which is probably the idea.

She never should have run and she’d been stupid to think she could hide here in the human world, under the guise of a baker. Who was she fooling?

She could admit now that her baking had gotten out of hand. That she had this drive and determination to be the best there ever was. That’s why she started putting a little magic in her cupcakes, a little enchantment in her scones and using a little witchery on her cookies. She was the best in town. She had succeeded. She had also succeeded in not staying anonymous.

Her use of magic had, no doubt, called attention to her.

She could run but he’d catch her. And she certainly couldn’t get around him to get to the door. Chloe straightened her back and steeled herself against the coming onslaught. She wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Edward chuckled, a deep rumble in his throat. “Oh, come now. Surely you must know. You took something you shouldn’t have, didn’t you? You also saw something you shouldn’t have.”

Damn. Chloe thought for sure she had escaped from that horrible world. Apparently changing her name and her appearance hadn’t done a bit of good. She’d convinced herself over the last year she really was Chloe O’Shea, baker extraordinaire instead of Sadie Steele, witch who saw something she really wished she’d never seen.

“Sadie.”

Edward let her name roll of his tongue in a dark, dangerous baritone dripping with sex and lust and dark promises.

Chloe swallowed hard, that lump still there. “What do you want?”

He leaned a hip on the counter, his musky scent drifting over her, tantalizing her. He certainly didn’t smell of fear. Instead, he smelled of eroticism and awesomeness. He glanced over his cuticles, examining his perfectly trimmed nails.

“It seems a have another rather pressing problem at the moment. What I want is you.” He gave her a pointed look. One that said he knew what she’d done last night, all alone, with thoughts of him racing through her mind. “It’s the only way to cure me.”

“Cure you?” Fear mingled with uncertainty as it flooded through her. Clearly, he knew who and what she was—a healer. “What do you mean?”

“Can’t you see what you’ve done to me?” He leaned toward her, his lips parted. “You put magic in your cupcakes, didn’t you?”

“I…” She faltered. She had and he knew it. And maybe subconsciously she’d put a little something extra in his. A big mistake, clearly.

“You did. That’s why I’m here.” He twined a blond lock around his forefinger. “Once I took that first bite, the magic in them awoke the demon inside me.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Demon? I thought you were a witch.”

“I’m half-witch, half-incubus. Lucky for you. I take what I need, when I need it.” He winked and leaned toward to her, his lips close to hers as he whispered against them. “And there is one of two ways you can give me the release I need.”

“Dare I ask?” Her heart thrummed in her chest. Her traitorous body reacted to the way his warm breath lingered over her mouth, teasing her. Tempting her.

“Have sex with me for the next twelve hours. It will sate my thirst for you and break the spell.”

Edward’s lips brushed hers ever-so-softly, rich with promise and vows of ecstasy. Slick heat exploded between her legs, begging for release. Instead, she jerked away, out of his reach.

“Do you expect me to surrender to you that easily?”

“Oh, I expect you will surrender.” Again, that pointed sultry look. “You’ll beg to surrender to me.”

Chloe propped her hands on her hips. “I will never surrender to you.” Yes, you will, you liar. You know you will. Her inner voice taunted her.

“You want me, too, don’t you?” His grin showed off the dimples around his mouth.

“What’s my other option?” she asked, ignoring his question. Of course she wanted him. Her body shook with desire.

“Perform a spell to break the magic that’s holding me.”

Well, that was certainly out of the question. If she did, it would be like sending up a giant neon sign pointing at her saying, Here I am! Come get me! The coven would definitely know where she was if she used that much magic. She told herself the little bit she used in her baked goods would go unnoticed. That she could remain incognito. Perhaps she had been wrong about that, too, if he’d found her so easily.

Edward had to realize that using a spell like that would make the coven aware. That’s why he tried to coerce her into having sex with him. Like that was such a bad thing.

It’s werewolf time!

Hmmm. Werewolves and Cynthia Eden. I think I’m missing out not having read this ebook yet. So are you! I can guarantee that, if you’ve never read Cynthia’s books before.

And I’m going to prove that to you right now. Read on so I can make my point!

“Would you really shoot me, baby?” Doubt cloaked his whisper.

Ava risked a fast glance at the deputy. Right. Figured Ken hadn’t even heard the wolf’s approach. He was too busy talking on his phone and trying to keep his lunch down. “Don’t test me,” she snapped back to the wolf. Sure, they might have been lovers once—once—but that was over. She had a job to do.

She’d do it. A sexy werewolf wouldn’t stop her.

Julian cocked a dark brow, but he also stepped back. Good.

“Now put your hands up,” she ordered him.

Smiling a bit, he raised his hands. In the early light, she didn’t see any blood beneath his nails. Nails, not claws. The claws would only come out when he shifted.

“Want to tell me what you’re doing here?” Ava asked.

He shrugged but kept his hands up. “I just followed the scent of blood.”

Supernaturals enjoyed the scent of blood far too much.

So she had a dead human, one who’d had his throat ripped open, and a werewolf, right at the scene of the crime. She also knew for a fact that said dead human had been planning to interview Julian last night.

Things weren’t looking good for the wolf right then.

And it wasn’t like she had a whole lot of options. Sighing, Ava pulled out her cuffs. “These are gonna sting,” she warned him. Silver cuffs. Because of their enhanced strength, werewolves could break free of almost anything else instantly.

He dropped his hands. “You aren’t serious.”

She was. Did it look like she was joking? “I need you to come to the station with me. You can either come willingly…” Then she’d leave the cuffs off, at least for the time being. “Or I can take you in the same way I do other paranormal suspects.” She had a little more freedom than the sheriffs who only patrolled human counties and captured mortal criminals.

When the monsters you hunted could kill with claws and fangs, new rules had to be made.

The blood had drawn out a werewolf, but, even though the smell was like pure ambrosia to a vampire, she knew none of the undead would be coming to join their little party. Everyone knew vamps and sunlight didn’t mix.

She’d get to them, though, soon enough.

Julian glanced toward her patrol car. “You don’t want to make a mistake here, Sheriff.”

Oh, wait, she wasn’t “baby” anymore? If the big wolf wasn’t careful, he’d hurt her feelings. “I know claw marks when I see ‘em,” she told him, still holding tight to her cuffs. “As far as I know, there’s only one wolf pack in Mississippi.” Nothing happened in that pack without his approval.Nothing.

His gaze, bright blue, came back to her.

“Now, Alpha,” if he was gonna be all formal, then she could be, too. “Will you play nice and get in the car, or do I have to cuff you?”

Sirens wailed in the distance. Had to be her back-up racing toward them. The deputies always responded quickly when it was a supernatural call. Humans had to stick together.

“When have I ever played nice?” Julian growled the words.

Right. Of course, the guy wouldn’t make this easy.

She locked one cuff around his wrist. There was a slight sizzle as the silver burned his flesh. His gaze held hers. “You don’t want me as an enemy,” he warned.

She reached for his right hand. She wouldn’t put the cuffs behind him. Ava figured she owed him that much. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter what we want.” Since that night they’d shared, she’d learned that bitter lesson. Her hand curled around his wrist. Staring into his eyes, she snapped the other cuff onto his wrist. “Alpha Julian Kasey,” she’d do the legal bit to make sure she covered her ass, “you’re a paranormal person of interest in a murder investigation and, as such, you’re now in supervised custody.”

His lips curled in a very slow, wicked smile. A smile that showed the sharp edge of his canines. “Later, when you look back, this is the moment you’ll regret.”

Maybe.

But… “Right now, looking back,” she shouldn’t say this, she shouldn’t, but the words and anger couldn’t be held back, “the moment I regret was hooking up with you at that godforsaken bar.”

The faint lines around his eyes tightened.

“And if I find out that you’re behind these killings…” She shook her head. “Then what happened between us won’t matter at all. I’ll still lock you up.” She had a job to do. People who counted on her. A hard case of lust and need for a dangerous werewolf couldn’t distract her.

Not when human lives were on the line.

If you’re a paranormal fan like me, you have to be anticipating reading this anthology as much as I am right now.

There have been a number of such anthologies released over the last few years, but none have gone the extra distance this particular one is designed for: to help cure breast cancer.

So while you’re enjoying these very talented authors’ stories in Entangled (you can’t beat the $2.99 price!), you have the satisfaction of knowing you’re helping not only yourself but women everywhere. As a woman, there’s not too many other things better than that.

Now enjoy a quick sneak peak into Nancy Haddock‘s contribution in this extra-special book:

Ghost seer Colleen Cotton and Brickman A. Frasier, the hot by-the-book paranormal investigator of her dreams and nightmares, must team up to locate the one ghost who can save St. Augustine’s specters.

“My ghost investigation team ran into a wall tonight.”

“And that should mean squat to me?”

“It means something to the client. Martha Harrison. She told us you’d done one of your interventions with her ghost last month, and she wants you on site for our investigation.”

I frowned at Brick’s neutral expression. Clearly he didn’t want to lay all his cards on the table, but then he didn’t have to explain Martha Harrison to me. Elderly even by senior citizen standards and a legend in St. Augustine, she’d taught history to generations of students, fought for civil rights, and won her bout with breast cancer and lymphoma both. Far more steel than magnolia, her will was a force of nature. So much so, that I’d quaked in my sandals when Mrs. Harrison called me to do an intervention with her own home ghost, Zavier.

“Listen, Colleen,” Brick said, his voice placating, his energy set to sooth instead of confront. “I admit we got off to a bad start.”

I snorted and crossed my arms. “Brick, you called me a scam artist.”

“I conceded you might be a legitimate sensitive.”

“Only after you told certain people I’d bilk them out of thousands.”

“I apologized for that.”

“Yeah, when one of my clients divulged to you what I actually charge.”

“Okay, I had some bad information. I misjudged you, slandered you, and was an all-around ass, but that was months ago. Give me another chance. Come to Mrs. Harrison’s house with me. She won’t let us set up one piece of equipment until she talks with you.”

I rubbed my forehead and thought about his request. Much as I was attracted to Brick, I didn’t want to make his life one whit easier. However, if I ignored a command appearance from Martha Harrison, I might as well take down my therapist shingle and go flip burgers. Plus I was itching to know what had the local ghosts acting so goosey, and curious as to whether I could help them regain peace.

“Exactly what kind of problems is Mrs. Harrison reporting?”

“Knocks all over the house, bangs and thuds in the attic, shadows moving. And she’s not the only one who’s called about paranormal disturbances. I’ve fielded more calls in the last two weeks than I have for two months.”

I recalled my own uncharacteristically full calendar of clients. Ghostly activity on the rise. No leap of logic to figure something out of the ordinary was afoot.

“Please, Colleen,” Brick said. “I won’t ask anything of you again.”

I gave Brick the evil eye. “If I go, I’ll do it for Martha, not for you and your team.”

“Understood.”

“One crack from any of you, and I’m outta there.”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine. Do you have a digital recorder on you?”

“Uh, yeah.” Brick blinked in puzzlement, but thrust a hand in his windbreaker pocket and pulled out a voice-activated recorder smaller than my dinky old cell phone.

“I don’t suppose you had that running while you were, um—”

“Forcibly restrained by your ghost? No.”

“Too bad. I’ll bet Da had plenty to say.”

“Anything I’d want to hear?” Brick teased.

I waved away his attempt at levity. “Just turn the recorder on now, please.” He pushed a button and nodded. “Da, front and center. I need to ask you about the town ghosts.”

“What about them?”

Da answered even as he materialized between Brick and me. Brick put his hand out to feel the cold spot Da brought with him, and nearly stuck his hand through the middle of my great grand-ghost’s back. With a violent shiver, Brick wisely stepped back.

“The spirits in town seem to be stirred up. Even afraid. Do you know what’s wrong with them?”

Brick frowned, but I kept my focus on Da’s craggy, semi-transparent face.

Da poked a thumb over his shoulder. “Do you want me to answer so he’ll hear me on that gadget?”

For the sake of the gadget, I responded in full. “Yes, speak into the recorder.”

Da half turned. Considering he hadn’t been a tall man but Brick was easily six-five, that put Da’s mouth right about at recorder level.

“All I’ve heard,” he said, carefully enunciating, “is that there’s a raid afoot. An attack, girl. An attack targeting spirits.”

“What could possibly hurt ghosts?”

“There are dead who feed on earthbound souls. Not many of the dastards, but this one must be a doozey.”

I have to admit that I don’t read a lot of young adult. Even romance. As much as I love romance. But there’s always the exception to the rule. I love Harry Potter, but the Twilight Saga is only so-so for me. But now with Helen Scott Taylor writing in the YA genre, I’m going to definitely be reading more and more of it.

Her characters come alive in a city that is delineated by three circles, each ring denoting a class of people, from poor to rich. Her hero and heroine are poles apart, just like their city. One regards duty as most important, while the other reaches for companionship, friendship, and love. They both learn to eventually follow their heart, the only thing left to them that is true and will never lead them astray.

Take the time to read this book, the first in Helen’s new series. Your amazement will abound with each turn of the page.

Summary:

A rags to riches fairytale about a lost princess and a maverick young spymaster who must foil the plans of an evil magician bent on stealing her throne. Full of pickpockets, top hats, tiaras, clockwork doodads, danger and romance.

Seventeen-year-old Melba was raised like a boy to pick pockets and run messages in the poor outer circles of Royal Malverne Isle, but she longs to be a spy. When she meets nineteen-year-old Turk, a notorious spymaster, she thinks the Great Earth Jinn has heard her prayer. With his exotic, dark southern looks and posh lifestyle in the inner circle, Turk fascinates her. Yet he is not what he seems. He has secret plans for her that will tear them apart, just when they discover they love each other. But he is not the only one with plans for her. The evil Royal Victualler has his eye on the throne and he uses foul magic to eliminate competition and Melba is in his way.

Prepare to be amazed……

Prologue

Silver-veined marble columns flanked the portal to the temple of the Silver Jinn. The woman mounted the three steps to the entrance, treading lightly in satin slippers. Silver bracelets on her wrists and ankles jangled while a rare breeze tugged at the pink and turquoise silk sheathing her body.

She sighed with relief as she entered the relative cool of the marble temple and escaped the searing heat of the midday sun. Neat rows of embroidered kneelers filled the space, ready for the devout at dusk prayers. Her eyes rose to the magnificent silver pillar at the far end of the central aisle. Four times as thick as her body, the gleaming column soared high into the domed roof of the temple.

When her toes met the raised ridge of floor tiles that marked the place where devotees must wait, she crouched dutifully. Ticking and whirring sounds broke the still heat of the afternoon as the embossed design on the pillar started to move. Viewing the column from one side, it was not immediately clear what was represented by the intricate pattern that covered the silver. But as the woman watched, the column opened out before her into a huge silver serpent. First the Jinn’s head emerged from the metal, the millions of tiny joints and plates of silver unfolding in a miracle of engineering, the lethal spiked crest on its neck rising like a row of blades. The whirring of spinning cogs reached a crescendo that vibrated through the floor into her feet as the Silver Jinn’s head dipped to the ground and its thick sinuous body followed. Millions upon millions of minute silver scales tinkled across the marble floor as the serpent slid along the aisle toward her.

Every piece of silver in the city contained the spirit of the Silver Jinn and could be fashioned into mechanical devices animated by the spirit, but nothing else in the city was of anywhere near this size or complexity. Sorcerers and silversmiths far more skilled than any alive today had fashioned this magnificent mechanism and summoned the divine Jinn from the silver to automate it millennia ago.

After years of daily visits, she stood patiently, unafraid of the creature’s huge hooked fangs and deadly poison. Hissing, the silver serpent reared up in front of her and peered at her with unblinking eyes. With a click of mechanical jaws parting, the woven silver rope of its tongue flicked out to taste her skin. Satisfied she was one of its own, the Jinn drew back and began to refold its body into the pillar.

The first part of her daily ritual over, she went to a red silk cushion in the back row and kneeled. She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Great Silver Jinn, son of our mother the moon, take pity on your humble servant and deliver home my husband and son from the infidels in the north who worship the Earth Jinn.” She had first whispered this prayer fourteen years ago when her husband’s merchant brig failed to return after sailing the trade route to the north. She had pleaded with the Great Silver Jinn to return her husband and son safely, to no avail. Now her daily prayer was little more than a habit. But deep in her heart, a tiny spark of hope still burned.

She rose but instead of heading out, she went to the tower on the north corner of the temple. Entering through the door used by the priests who rang the tower bell at dusk, she mounted the spiral steps.

At the top, pinpricks of heat rained down on her where shafts of sunlight spiked through the silver filigree cupola. The woman went to a small window facing north and stared across the gleaming gold and silver roofs of the city of Arco toward the harbor. Seagoing merchant vessels swayed at anchor, while nearby the cloudless sky was as bright as an artist’s palette with the multicolored silk envelopes of airships, half of them emblazoned with her family’s Silver Serpent emblem and the other half with that of their rivals in power the Golden Dragon sorcerers. Her gaze tracked the horizon. Somewhere, far away over the turquoise waters of the ocean, could her beloved husband and precious little boy still be alive? Or had the dark seas of the north stolen the Stars from their hearts?

Chapter One

If the Great Earth Jinn warns you something is wicked, do it quick before you change your mind. –Master Maddox

Master Maddox had taught Melba to keep her cap pulled down and her face dirty. The port area of Royal Malverne Isle was a dangerous place at night and if someone recognized her as a girl, she’d be done for.

She avoided the area if possible, but tonight Maddox had sent her there with an urgent message for a smuggler. As she made her way home by moonlight, a tavern door burst open in front of her. Raucous laughter and light spilled into the narrow alley. Three men stumbled out, cursing and shoving each other. She pressed back against the damp stonework of the brothel opposite. If the Great Earth Jinn were on her side, the men would turn the other way.

On the shoulder of the tallest man’s coat, the gold insignia of the Royal Fleet caught the light. A chill curled in her belly and her fingers sought the handle of the dagger wedged in her boot. Bluejackets would doubtless head for the brothel—straight toward her.

The shortest man carried a staff with an unlit lantern swinging from the hook on top. He paused by the tavern lamp, lit a twist of hay, and touched it to the wick of his lantern.

“Get your arse moving or we’ll not finish with the tarts before the tide turns,” the tall man said.

Melba sidled away from the brothel door, praying they were too drunk to notice her.

The short one stumbled against his fat friend causing the lantern to swing wildly, flashing light around the alley.

“Ha! A boy,” Fatty shouted.

Melba’s grip tightened on her knife.

“Up to no good, I’ll wager.” The short one raised his lantern and Melba squinted against the glare. “Extra rations for a week if we take the lad back to the cap’n.” The men spread out and advanced.

Life on board ship was dismal for a boy pressed into service, unthinkable for a girl. Melba darted a few steps one way, then the other, testing their reactions. They paused, arms spread to block her escape. They might be drunk but their wits were still sharp.

The tall sailor lunged for her. She jumped aside only to crash into the fat one, who had moved to flank her. She stumbled to her knees, dropping her dagger in the gutter. Before she could scramble away, a hand grabbed the back of her jacket and hauled her off the ground.

“Nothing of ’im.” The stench of rotten teeth and ale curdled her guts. She jabbed her elbow back and connected with soft flesh. Breath whooshed out behind her, but the grip on her collar held.

“Bleedin’ tyke.” A fist thumped her side, knocking the wind from her lungs. She hung limp and helpless, gasping for air, while her hands were yanked behind her. Eyes watering with pain, she tried to think how to escape. Whatever happened, she must get away from the sailors before they reached the ship.

A dull thud echoed off the surrounding walls. The hand holding her let go suddenly and she landed awkwardly, skinning her knees on the gritty dirt through the holes in her breeches. She had no idea why she’d been released and she didn’t wait to find out. Shaking the half-tied twine from her wrists, she lunged forward to snatch up her knife and then hid in the shadows by the wall.

Another man had entered the fray and he seemed to be on her side. The tall dark stranger kicked out at head height, the buckle on the side of his boot glinting in the light as his foot connected with the fat sailor’s chin. With a grunt, Fatty crumpled to the ground. The stranger had worked fast. The tall sailor was already lying in the gutter beside the tavern door. At the sight of his fallen comrades, the short sailor threw down his lantern and scarpered.

Melba’s heart thudded and she flexed her fingers on her dagger as she assessed the stranger. Just because he had dispatched the three lowlifes didn’t mean he was her friend. Many people on Malverne Isle had cause to hate the sailors of the Royal Fleet. Had she evaded capture by the bluejackets only to fall into the hands of someone worse?

The man turned toward her, his black garb relieved only by a glint of silver at his throat. “Come, boy. Mustn’t be caught with sailors of the Royal Fleet at our feet or it’ll be The Well for both of us.”

Melba swallowed back bile, fear of the man temporarily forgotten at the thought of something worse. She’d heard the screams of men tossed down The Well. If you were lucky, the bluejackets threw you down at high tide and the sea took you right away. If you were unlucky, you lay broken on the rocks at the bottom for hours before the water flowed in and put you out of your misery.

Her rescuer strode away into the shadows and she hesitated a moment longer, but she had to follow or risk being caught. She raced after him as the tavern door opened behind her and shouts of alarm chased her along the alley.

As she caught up to him, her rescuer glanced over his shoulder at her. “Ever traveled the skyways?”

Melba shook her head. Runners and thieves like her took the waterways, escaping through the drains and flood defense pipes crisscrossing beneath the city.

Only spies traveled with the birds.

That meant, Sweet Earth Jinn, he must be a spy. Excitement bubbled inside her.

He stepped back and, with a soft grunt, leaped onto a wall as tall as she was. Then he held down a hand and whispered, “Put your foot up—”

“I know.” She’d played at spies with the boys often enough. She put her scuffed boot against the wall, leaned back so he took her weight, and walked up as he pulled.

Shouts echoed along the alley below. Her rescuer glanced down. “Time to disappear.”

He darted up the sloped wall to roof level, his soft leather boots near silent on the rough-hewn stone. Melba tugged her cap down, sucked in a breath, and ran after him. Balancing took all her concentration as her tight boots pinched her toes.

He waited for her at the end of the wall where the row houses finished. As soon as she caught up, he leaped across an alley. His jacket flapped up behind him to reveal four silver stars on his belt.

Melba’s breath froze halfway in. Only one man carried lethal spiked throwing stars. Her rescuer was far more than a spy, he was a legend. Poor people of the outer circles thought he was a benevolent Earth Jinn stealing from the nobs to give to the poor. Thieves spoke of him in reverential whispers as Master Turk, spymaster extraordinaire. Old Maddox had told her that Master Turk even had spies on the top of Nob Hill in the Royal Palace.

She’d prayed for the opportunity to catch a spymaster’s interest and have the chance to better herself.

Shouts of alarm from below pierced her thoughts.

“Jump,” Master Turk urged. “Two more streets and you’ll be safe in the third circle.”

Melba was used to crawling through dirty pipes and squeezing through holes, but jumping gaps twenty feet in the air…. She peered over the parapet to the street below.

“It’ll be easier if you take off those clodhoppers,” he said, pointing at her feet.

She looked down at her boots and shook her head. All her life Master Maddox had drummed into her one vital lesson, keep your boots and breeches on. His other boys often went barefoot, but he always made her wear boots, so people wouldn’t see her strange feet and breeches, so no one discovered she was a girl.

She took two steps back and hauled in a breath. She must make a clean jump and clear the gap. If she impressed Master Turk, he’d be more likely to accept her pledge. She belted forward, leaped, and landed in a clattering heap at his feet. Bruises throbbed and grazes stung, sending tears to her eyes, but she kept her face down so he wouldn’t see her embarrassment. She must be tough if she wanted to do well.

Without a word, he pulled her up by an arm and set off at a trot along the valley gutter between two rows of terraced cottages. After they had leaped another alley, he led her behind a thick brick chimney that shielded them from the street below.

He turned to face her and rested a shoulder against the brickwork. “You should be safe now.” He pointed to the right where a sloping wall led down to the back of a shop. “That’s your best way down. Not much of a drop.”

Melba pressed her tongue on the back of her teeth and gathered her courage. “You’re Master Turk.”

“Observant, lad.” He angled his head to examine her. Moonlight glistened on the dark strands of his hair, sculpted his profile with light and shadow. He had dark eyes and golden skin like the foreign sailors up from the south. Her heart gave a strange little bump. She had never met a master so young and handsome. But how would she persuade him to take her on?

“Let me pledge to you. I’m a superior runner and thief. I’ll be a great spy. I see stuff all the time. Pledge me, sir, please.”

“Superior, huh?” He smiled. “What are you, thirteen?”

She nodded vigorously. Although she was seventeen, she was small and skinny and passed for a lad of thirteen easily.

In the roof beside them, a lamp sputtered to life behind a small skylight. Master Turk put his finger to his lips and peered through the window. After scrutinizing the room for a few seconds, he relaxed and leaned back against the chimney.

The light revealed the fine fabric of his jacket, the stitching almost invisible. The five small circles of a tiny silver Earth Blessing gleamed against his dark neck cloth. Black jewels glittered on his ears. He dressed like a nob.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Mel.”

“Well, Mel, if you’re such a good runner and thief, won’t your current master miss you?”

Her hand went to the tin disk stamped with Master Maddox’s symbol on a length of twine around her neck. His baker’s shop in the third circle was the only home she’d known. She’d been happy there, but lately things had changed. Since she’d turned sixteen, he’d stopped her bunking with the boys in the warm storeroom behind the bakery oven and made her sleep alone in the loft. And he never let her fill her belly anymore, telling her it was best she stay skinny.

“He won’t miss me,” she said, hating the catch in her voice. She couldn’t afford to be soft like a girl or she’d get found out and end up in a whorehouse or as skivvy in a tavern.

“Give me your hand.” Master Turk leaned closer, bringing with him the tang of lemon spice. He even smelled like a nob.

Don’t give anyone your hand unless you’d give them your blade. Maddox’s lesson echoed in her mind. Why did Master Turk want to touch her? She thought about refusing, but then he might turn down her pledge. She inhaled deeply, tasting the lemony scent of him on her tongue, and held out her hand.

His fingers closed around hers, his grip firm and warm. Melba held her breath, risked a glance up at his face, and found him watching her, dark eyes narrowed. A strange shivery feeling washed through her that made her squirm inside her clothes.

He dropped her hand, pressed his lips together, and scrutinized her from head to foot.

With a flare of horror, she thought he’d sensed she was female.

“Mayhap I’ll give you a chance. What will you pledge me?”

On a sigh of relief, she looked down at the three carved wooden toggles on her jacket and slid her fingers behind her favorite. “Carved this meself from a sliver of ironwood I found on the shore.”

He raised his eyebrows and ran a finger over the pattern. “That’ll suffice.”

She grabbed the knife from her boot and sliced off the toggle before dropping it in his outstretched palm. He tucked her pledge inside his jacket and felt in his pocket. “Hold out your hand.”

When she did, he dropped something smooth, black, and oval into her palm. She stared at it aghast. Poor masters gave their boys tin disks, the more prosperous used carved bone or wooden tokens. She’d never seen the likes of this pledge before.

“It’s a starlight stone,” he said in answer to her quizzical expression. “Hold it up to the moonlight.”

She turned the warm weight of the stone over in her hand and then angled it toward the moon. Tiny sparks of light danced across the stone’s surface as silver, purple, and green streaked through its crystalline depths. For a moment, she forgot where she was, entranced by the colors.

“Take another look tomorrow,” he said. “It contains different colors under the sun.”

“Oh.” Melba curled her fingers around the treasure. Nobody had ever given her something this pretty before. A little fizz of excitement went through her. Perhaps he liked her. She glanced up at his darkly handsome face. “Do you give this type of pledge to all your boys?”

He nodded.

She ignored the sting of disappointment and jammed the stone deep in the secret loot pocket in her breeches where it couldn’t fall out. All that mattered was that Master Turk had accepted her pledge. As long as he didn’t discover she was a girl, she had a chance to become a spy and make something of her life.

“You stink as bad as an alley cat,” he said with a grimace. “When we reach the bunkhouse, first order of business is to get you out of those filthy clothes and into a bath.”

***

Turk stopped at the top of a set of brick steps that were little more than foot and handholds, invisible unless you were in the know. He glanced over his shoulder at Mel. The boy had been silent since he’d accepted his pledge. Yet Turk was keenly aware of the boy behind him, his vibrant, energetic presence extraordinarily strong for a boy untrained in Earth Magic.

They were now only a few streets from the bunkhouse he kept for his boys, and he had to make a decision on what to do with him. He had planned to pass Mel on to his friend and fellow spy Steptoe for training, but something about this boy niggled at his awareness, something more than the boy’s latent magical ability.

Although Mel had initially seemed eager to tag along, he now had a sour look on his face, his shoulders slumped. “Spit it out, lad,” Turk said. “What’s troubling you?”

Mel shrugged and stared down at his cumbersome boots. Those would have to go. How the lad had managed to walk the skyways wearing such boots was a miracle. At least it proved Mel had balance and courage.

At length, the boy raised his intelligent blue eyes and wrinkled his nose. “I don’t need no bath, sir. I’ll scrub off me face and hands under the pump in the yard. Don’t do to smell too clean.” As if to emphasize the point, he spat on his hands and rubbed them against his breeches.

Turk groaned inwardly. He couldn’t understand why all his boys detested soap and water. When he was a boy, he’d hated being filthy, his skin sore from the dirt.

Mel blinked in the moonlight. Even his dirty face couldn’t hide his jewel-bright blue eyes. Turk rubbed the back of his neck thoughtfully. Mel was unusual. Only a boy trained by the Shining Brotherhood should be capable of shielding his thoughts from an Earth Magic adept like Turk, yet he could read nothing from him but vague emotions. Even the tiny Earth Jinn inside the starlight stone had failed to magnify Mel’s thoughts enough for Turk to read him.

It would be a waste to have Steptoe train the boy as a regular spy and ignore his fledgling power. He needed to be trained by the Shining Brotherhood, or perhaps Turk could bring him home and undertake his training himself. Mel’s small, even features would likely scrub up well enough to make him acceptable in the highest circles. If he proved skillful, the boy had potential to spy on Nob Hill, even in the Royal Palace. Turk’s only problem would be persuading his housekeeper Gwinnie to accept the boy.

“Come.” Turk indicated a change of direction and set off toward the inner circle.

“So I don’t need a bath?” the boy asked hopefully.

“I’ve decided not to take you to the bunkhouse.”

Mel’s boots clattered and Turk spun around in time to see Mel scramble up from where he’d slipped on the tiles. “I’m still pledged, ain’t I, sir? If it’s that important, I’ll bathe.”

“Aye, you will bathe. I’m taking you to my home and I’ll not allow a grimy tyke inside. For all I know you’ve got lice.”

“I keep me hair short so’s I don’t get no lice. Master Maddox brushed me hair with pepper dust only last week.” Mel pulled off his cap revealing a short fuzz of what was undoubtedly grubby hair.

“My housekeeper Gwinnie will make sure you’re clean.” And she wouldn’t use pepper dust. The back of Turk’s throat stung at the memory of that vile dust in his eyes and up his nose.

“You mean a woman will clean me?” Mel asked wide-eyed.

“Yes, a woman.”

“Oh.”

Turk jumped another alley and turned to watch Mel back up a few steps before he hurled himself over the gap like a rat leaving a sinking ship. The boy scrabbled on the edge and pulled himself up, breathing hard. Mel had guts; he’d give him that. He was observant, brave, strong for his size, and bright as a flare: all qualities that could potentially make him an excellent spy.

Mel stood up and looked around. “We’re heading to the inner circle, Master Turk.”

“Aye.” Turk pointed to the row of tall, narrow palaces fronting the canal that ran around the inner circle. “The one decorated with flower mosaics and green metal balconies is Waterberry House. It’s mine.”

Mel gasped. “You are a nob.”

Turk glanced at Waterberry House with a twinge of regret. He loved the place and it felt like his own even though it wasn’t. But he was as far from nobility as it was possible to get. “A good spy knows that looks can be deceiving.”

He set off again and thought Mel would wake his neighbors with his clodhopper boots on the palace roofs, but no one stirred to raise the alarm.

When they reached Waterberry House, he opened the small gate into his roof garden and led Mel along the winding path between the plants. The boy stared around open-mouthed. “I ain’t never seen a place like this before.” He ran his fingers along the thin brass pipes of the irrigation system and sniffed the flowers in a way that reminded Turk of himself when the monks of the Shining Brotherhood first took him in and he discovered the garden at the Seminary. “’Tis so beautiful, it looks like you summoned an Earth Jinn.”

Turk examined Mel’s face, wondering if he could sense the presence of the Jinn that tended the plants, but the boy had obviously just used the term as an expression of praise.

“Here,” Turk cupped a pink rose in his hand and angled the bloom toward the boy. “My favorite fragrance.” The spirits of the roses could be turned into mischievous little Flower Jinns that held a special place in Turk’s heart. The first Jinn the Brothers had taught him to summon had come from a pink rose.

Mel sniffed and his bright blue eyes widened. “That smells lovely.”

“Get out your knife. We’ll cut a few stems for my housekeeper, Gwinnie.” Flowers might put her in a good mood.

He took Mel’s blade, grimacing at the dirty handle, and demonstrated how to cut a rose and trim away the thorns. Then he watched while Mel cut and prepared four more stems.

Mel tucked his knife back in his boot and held the roses out before him reverentially. Turk led him through the small tower door and they descended the narrow winding steps. When they reached the third floor, they took the hall to the main staircase and made their way down to ground level. The mouth-watering smell of baking dinner rolls flavored the air as they approached the kitchen.

Gwinnie turned from the polished brass range when they entered and her brows snapped down. “What’s this ragamuffin doing in me kitchen? Send him to the bunkhouse.”

Turk nudged Mel in the back and he shuffled forward and presented the roses. Gwinnie scowled down at Mel before taking the gift. “He smells like a sack o’ dung.”

“I’m training this one myself.”

Gwinnie huffed and puffed as she clattered around finding a vase and then filling it with water. “Don’t want no filthy tykes in me kitchen.”

Turk walked across to the bathhouse door and pushed it open. The white china tub sat in the center of the room, cold and empty. “Fill the tub with warm water and find the lad some clean togs. His name’s Mel.”

Gwinnie scowled at the boy again. Mel stood sucking his lip and staring at his feet. He’d removed his cap and held it clasped before him. In this light, the boy’s hair was unusually pale, even coated with a layer of grime. His head looked small, his features delicate. Luckily, the lad was a lot tougher than he appeared.

“I ain’t scrubbing the filth off him,” Gwinnie snapped.

Mel looked up, his blue eyes sharp and defensive. “I can bathe meself.”

Mel and Gwinnie glared at each other. Turk grabbed a fresh bread roll from the baking sheet and decided not to bother with butter. Retreat seemed the best course of action. Mel and Gwinnie would reach an understanding far sooner if he didn’t interfere.

***

The old woman narrowed her pale brown eyes and pinned Melba with a fierce look. Melba knew nothing about housekeepers. The only women she had dealings with were the whorehouse madams she ran messages to and the skivvies who trudged around the markets first thing in the morning. The old woman’s face was as wrinkled as her droopy stockings, and one of her cheeks was pitted with scars from the Scab. Her gray hair was pinned up beneath a lace cap with ribbons dangling down her cheeks like a proper lady. At Melba’s scrutiny, Gwinnie jammed her hands on her wide hips and puckered her lips.

“What you looking at, boy?”

“Nothing.” Melba dropped her gaze to the woman’s faded layers of gauzy lace skirts.

“Get yourself over here then and help me shift this water.”

Melba rounded the table, but got distracted by the silky pink petals of the roses arranged in a blue jug on the table. She’d never guessed that such beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers existed. They seemed to tickle the edges of her mind as though they called to her. While Gwinnie poured hot water into a bucket, Melba leaned forward and breathed in the fragrance of the flowers. If she was a lady, she’d keep roses in every room so she could sniff them whenever she wanted.

“Oy, lad, you leave them roses be. They ain’t for the likes of you,” Gwinnie said.

Melba couldn’t resist inhaling a last deep breath of fragrance before she stepped back.

“Take this through to the bathhouse.” Gwinnie tapped her shoe against the tin bucket she’d filled.

Melba heaved it up, careful not to slosh water down her clothes. After carrying six more buckets, Melba’s arms were aching fit to drop off and the bath was half-full. Gwinnie appeared at the bathhouse doorway and put her hands on her hips. “Get them clothes off, then, and get in the tub. Looking at it ain’t going to wash that grime off you.”

A flash of panic tore through Melba. “I ain’t taking off me togs with you watching.”

Gwinnie flapped her hand dismissively. “Great Earth Jinn, I ain’t interested in seeing your skinny hide.” She turned away, pulling the door almost closed behind her. Melba slipped off her boots and waited a few seconds before tiptoeing to the door. She peered out and saw Gwinnie busy at the range, humming to herself. Melba pushed the door closed the last inch, then returned to the bath. She needed to be quick so Gwinnie didn’t return and catch her unclothed.

As she unfastened her jacket, she touched the space left by the toggle she’d pledged to Master Turk. Gwinnie wasn’t very friendly, but Melba had put up with worse than a carping old hag. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and Melba was determined to be the best spy trainee Master Turk had ever had.

She slipped off her jacket, pulled her shirt over her head, and yanked down her breeches. Dipping one foot in the bath, then the other, she gradually got used to the temperature. She sat down and slid beneath the water, wallowing in the blissful heat. In the summer, she and the other three lads pledged to Maddox played with cold water at the pump, but bathing in hot water was a whole new experience.

Brown dirt swirled in the water when she rubbed her legs and she couldn’t believe how white her skin was underneath. At the sound of footsteps, she hugged her knees to her chest and stared at the door.

Gwinnie came in and glanced at her. “You’ll be needing this.” She tossed a small black block and a scrap of cloth into the bathwater. Then she picked up Melba’s clothes between two fingers as though they were dead rats and headed for the door.

“Oy, me clothes.” Melba started to rise, then remembered her nakedness and plopped back down with a splash. “You can’t take me clothes.”

Gwinnie paused in the doorway and pursed her lips. “You’ll not be wearing this filthy tat in Turk’s house. I’ll bring you something more fitting.”

“No!” Melba’s cry echoed off the blank walls of the bathhouse as Gwinnie pulled the door closed. Panic welled inside her. She had nothing to cover herself. Then she remembered that the pledge stone Turk had given her was in the secret pocket in her breeches. “Bring back me pants,” she yelled.

Silence greeted her call. Gwinnie would have to bring her something to dry herself with and some clean clothes. She would ask about the pledge stone then. She took a calming breath. Get yourself clean, then you can get out and cover up.

Melba scrabbled in the bottom of the bath and found the cloth and a black slab that she recognized as a cake of seaweed soap. She lathered the cloth and rubbed it over her body and head before dunking herself again. A brown, scummy crust covered the water. She wrinkled her nose. Had all that dirt really come off her? Maybe Master Turk was right and she had needed a bath.

She scrubbed her feet until the skin was red, but she couldn’t clean all the dirt from the creases around her toes. Gwinnie came in so quietly Melba didn’t hear her arrive. “Scrub that mug of yours too, boy. Want me to do it?”

Melba hugged her knees and shrank away from the old woman. “Leave me be.”

Gwinnie laughed and dropped a large white cloth on the wooden chair in the far corner of the room. “Dry yourself with this. I’m going to find you some clean clothes.”

Three times Melba soaped the cloth and scrubbed her face and head to make sure she would be clean enough to please Master Turk. Then she sat still and listened. When she was sure it was quiet outside, she climbed from the tub and darted across the room. Her wet feet skidded on the shiny tiles and she barreled into the chair, landing in a tangled heap with the towel over her head. Cursing, she scrambled up from the cold floor. As she pulled the towel off her head, an earsplitting cry came from the doorway.

“You miserable little dollymop.” Gwinnie charged at her.

Melba just had time to throw up an arm before Gwinnie started slapping at her face.

“If you think you can entice Turk to take you into his bed, you’re wrong. He don’t want the likes of you.”

Ducking, Melba escaped and dashed around to the opposite side of the bath. “I ain’t a dollymop. I want to be a spy.”

“You miserable, conniving, scabby tart.”

Melba pulled the towel around herself as best she could, but it wasn’t quite big enough to cover top and bottom. Gwinnie lunged around the bath and Melba ran to the other end, keeping the obstacle between them. “Bring me some clothes.”

“I ain’t taking orders from a tart who’s after lying her way into me master’s bed.”

“I do not want to get into Master Turk’s bed,” Melba shouted in desperation.

“What’s this about my bed?” Master Turk appeared at the bathhouse door, his tall dark figure in stark contrast to the white walls.

“This dollymop is after you,” Gwinnie spluttered.

Master Turk frowned, his brown eyes focusing on Melba. She struggled to pull the towel up and down at the same time, which proved a wasted effort as Gwinnie darted forward and yanked the fabric out of her hands. Melba froze beneath Master Turk’s uncomprehending dark gaze. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Rather belatedly, he turned his back.

“Give the girl her towel, Gwinnie, and fetch her some clothes,” he commanded in a clipped tone.

A dark pall of desperation closed over Melba. He’d throw her out now for sure.

Gwinnie smiled slyly, threw the towel at Melba, and bustled away. Melba covered herself, and hurried to the door. Master Turk had moved into the kitchen, his back to her, his fist clenched at his side.

“I can still be a spy,” Melba pleaded. “I’m still pledged. I’m good. I’ll show you.”

He shook his head. “No, Mel, if that’s your real name. I cannot train a girl to spy. It’s not done.”

“Nobody needs to know I’m a girl. You didn’t guess.” At her words, his breath hissed in sharply and she winced, knowing she’d angered him even more.

“You’ll have to leave,” he said tightly.

“Master Turk.” The whining note in her voice sent heat racing up her neck into her face. No master liked a whiner. She cleared her throat and tried for a calm voice. “Pretend I’m a boy. Please.”

“I cannot pretend you’re a boy when I know you’re a girl. This changes everything.”

Her heart thundered as she stared at his stiff back, the width of his shoulders in his fine wool jacket, his gleaming black hair trimmed neatly over his collar. She couldn’t appeal to his back. She stepped past him and looked up into his face. He kept his gaze fixed on the far wall, his lips tight, his nostrils slightly flared.

“Look at me, Master Turk. I don’t really look like a girl, do I?”

Slowly, he lowered his eyes. His gaze flicked across her features, up to her hair, down to her lips. “You do.”

“I don’t!” She stamped her foot with frustration.

“You most certainly do. I cannot imagine how I didn’t notice before.”

Gwinnie chose that moment to reappear with a faded brown dress draped over her arm.

“I ain’t wearing that,” Melba shouted.

Gwinnie threw the dress on the floor at Melba’s feet. In all the commotion, Melba had forgotten about her toes. After years of covering them up, how could they have slipped her mind? Master Maddox had told her that if anyone saw she had twelve toes they would tie her down and cut the extra ones off. Now Master Turk would see her deformity and have even more reason to throw her out.

She looked up at Master Turk, frightened of what she’d see on his face. His forehead was furrowed, his silky black eyebrows drawn together. Her last hope of being a spy trickled away. Slowly, he raised his narrowed eyes and scrutinized her features. “What’s your proper name?”

“Melba.”

“How old are you? The truth, please.”

“Seventeen.”

He dropped his gaze to her feet again. Melba curled her twelve toes against the cold flagstones. Surely Master Turk wouldn’t cut her stupid extra little toes off.

Abruptly, he turned away and headed for the door to the hall. “Supply her with clothes she’s happy to wear, Gwinnie. I don’t care what she wears—just cover her up. Then feed her and find her somewhere to sleep. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

Melba stared at the doorway long after Master Turk had gone. Finally, she blinked and turned to Gwinnie. “What does that mean?”

The old woman glared at her. “You’re in for it is what that means. One thing Turk don’t like is having his boys lie to him.” She looked Melba up and down meaningfully. “You’ve done so much lying, I reckon he’ll truss you up and toss you down The Well.”

Are you ready to have a blast and laugh till you hurt? If not, get in the mood! If you are, you’ve come to the right place.

Whichever mood you’re in, you have to pick up Tawna Fenske‘s debut novel, Making Waves. If you’re in a funk, you won’t be for long, and if you’re happy and carefree at the moment, this book will only add to your current happiness. It’s that much fun.

Ms. Fenkse’s humor is first rate, giving an extra layer to her characters, especially Juli and Alex. She’s the one who supplies the fun and he’s the one who revels in it, even though it’s a low point in his life. And you get to go along for the ride, wave after wave of laughter and sexual tension, leaving you in one of those exhausted but great feelings of giddiness.

Here’s the summary:

When Alex Bradshaw’s unscrupulous boss kicks him to the curb after 20 faithful years as an executive with the world’s largest shipping company, he sets out to reclaim his dignity and his pension. Assembling a team of fellow corporate castoffs, he sails to the Caribbean to intercept an illegal diamond shipment. None of them counted on quirky blonde stowaway Juli Flynn, who has a perplexing array of talents, a few big secrets, and an intoxicating romantic chemistry with Alex…

And now for some of that fun…

Chapter 1

“I’m sorry, he wants me to do what?”

Juli Flynn didn’t think to hide the incredulity in her voice. She did, however, think of hiding beneath her mother’s kitchen table. If it weren’t for the memory of her brother wiping boogers there thirty years ago, she probably would have crawled right under.

Juli stared at her mother. Tina Flynn was chopping carrots for a Jell-O salad that would, in all likelihood, hold as much culinary appeal for the funeral guests as the actual corpse.

“You know you were always Uncle Frank’s favorite,” Tina said in the same voice she’d used to suggest her children not stick lima beans up their noses. “I think you should be flattered.”

“Mom. I’d be flattered if he asked me to read a poem at the funeral or look after his cat or take his clothes to Goodwill. But this—this is just weird.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Juli.”

“Dramatic? Dramatic is making a deathbed request that your niece travel to the freakin’ Virgin Islands to dump your ashes over the edge of a boat near St. John—that’s dramatic. Why not spread them off the Oregon coast or on Mount Hood or something?”

Tina finished with the carrots and began chopping beets, her knife making neat little slivers of purple that scattered over the green countertop. Juli sighed and began hunting in the cupboard for sesame seeds to add to the Jell-O.

“Frank had fond memories of his years sailing over there,” Juli’s mother said.

“He had fond memories of the Polish hooker he traveled with while he was fleeing that federal indictment.”

Tina smiled and set her knife down. “That’s right—what was her name? Olga or Helga or something like that?”

“Oksana,” said Juli, thinking this was so not the point.

Juli closed her eyes, hating the fact that at age 37, she felt like a petulant toddler. She had a sudden urge to stomp her feet and bang her fists on the counter in a full-blown tantrum.

It’s not like she and Uncle Frank had been that close. She’d been living in Seattle for the past six years, coming home to Portland for the occasional holiday. Until last week, she hadn’t even seen Uncle Frank since her birthday party a year ago when he’d gotten drunk on a quart of vanilla extract from Tina’s baking cupboard and spent the evening pretending to be a stegosaurus. The rest of the family had been embarrassed. Juli had been delighted that, for once, she wasn’t the oddest member of the family. That common bond was the reason she and Uncle Frank had always enjoyed a special relationship.

Well, that, and the fact that advanced dementia had led him to believe his niece was Celine Dion.

“You didn’t happen to tell Uncle Frank that I’m—”

“Terrified of the ocean? No, I didn’t have the heart to mention that.”

Juli nodded and watched her mother consult her handwritten recipe before reaching for the Worcestershire sauce.

“Did Uncle Frank say when I need to complete this mission?” Juli asked, grabbing three packets of orange Jell-O and her mother’s fish-shaped Jell-O mold. “Do cremated remains have—um—a shelf life or anything?”

“He didn’t really say. He was choking on his tongue a lot there at the end, so it was hard to understand him. Could you hand me that feta cheese?”

Juli gave her the container and scooted a knife out of the way, aware of her mother’s tendency to drop sharp objects on her bare feet.

“So maybe you didn’t understand him right?” Juli asked hopefully. “Maybe instead of ‘throw my ashes off a fishing boat,’ he said, ‘roll my ass over, you stupid whore?’”

“Those bedsores were sure something! Hand me those Junior Mints?”

Juli sighed, sensing the conversation was going nowhere. Maybe she was arguing the wrong point.

“I can’t just pack up and go to St. John. I have a life.”

Tina beamed at her daughter. “Are you dating someone new, sweetie?”

Juli scowled. “That’s not what I meant. I haven’t dated anyone since—well, for a long time.”

“Oh. Well, you know it can be a little bit intimidating for some men to date a woman with your particular—”

“Mom, can we not talk about this now?”

“Sweetie, I don’t know why you’re always so embarrassed about your special—”

“Please, Mom,” Juli said weakly, feeling her ears flame the way they always did when someone drew attention to the fact that she was—well, different. She touched her fingers to her lobes, trying to cool them. “Could we just stick with the subject of Uncle Frank?” she pleaded.

“Of course, dear. Can you hand me the dill?”

Juli spun the spice rack and located the appropriate jar. “I have a job, Mom. I have a bank account that can’t exactly handle the strain of a Caribbean vacation.”

“Well, Uncle Frank left a little bit of money in his will to cover some of the cost of your travels.”

“OK. That’s half the equation. What about my job?”

“Didn’t you say they asked for people in your department to volunteer to take a little time off? That sounds so nice.”

That sounds like a layoff, Juli thought, biting into a carrot as she watched her mother mix the Jell-O.

Not that the idea didn’t hold some appeal. She’d worked in the marketing department of a software company for less than a year and already she was so bored her skin itched. She’d hardly bothered to hide her delight the week before when the vice president had stood at the center of their cube-farm, running his fingers through his comb-over, asking if anyone was interested in a severance package of three weeks’ salary and a scone-of-the-month club membership in exchange for, “taking a little time off. Indefinitely.”

Later that day, Juli had flung herself onto the sofa in her therapist’s office and sighed. “I feel like my career is going nowhere,” she told Dr. Gordon.

“What makes you say that?” he’d asked, looking wise and vaguely constipated on the edge of his orange armchair.

“The fact that my boss told me yesterday, ‘Juli, your career is going nowhere.’”

“Right,” Dr. Gordon said, nodding. “And how does that make you feel?”

Juli shot him a look. “Terrific.”

Dr. Gordon was not amused. Dr. Gordon was seldom amused. Juli had fantasies about pinning him down on the carpet and tickling him until he peed.

“Juli, we’ve spoken before about the social oddities you’ve developed as a coping mechanism to deal with your self-consciousness and your lack of a sense of belonging, which is the direct result of  the attention you’ve generated in the scientific community and the media for your—” he stopped and stared at her, then shook his head. “Are you covering your ears so you don’t have to listen, or are you cooling them like you always do when you’re embarrassed?”

“A little of both,” she admitted, lowering her hands.

“I see,” Dr. Gordon said, looking morose. “You’re uncomfortable with this subject. Let’s talk about your career. What did you want to be when you were a child?”

“The Bionic Woman.”

Dr. Gordon didn’t smile. “What was your first job after college?”

“I was a newspaper reporter for three months before an on-the-job injury forced me to change careers.”

“Injury?”

“I fell asleep in a City Council meeting and stabbed myself between the ribs with a pencil.” She lifted the hem of her shirt. “Check it out, five stitches right here—”

Dr. Gordon sighed and began to flip through his notes. “Let’s go back over some of the other jobs you’ve held. After you were a reporter, you spent some time as a data analyst?”

Juli lowered her shirttail and sat up straighter. “Oh. Sure, there was that. And marketing, of course. And I got my helicopter pilot license about seven years ago, and there was that stint as a pet store manager, and four months as a scout for forest fires, six months working in that hat shop and—”

“Juli, your employment history leaves something to be desired.”

She nodded, pleased to be understood. “You’re right. I’ve never been a brain surgeon.”

“It’s very typical for someone with your IQ level to—”

“Are those new drapes? I like the little tassels.”

Dr. Gordon sighed again. “Juli, if you’re ever going to have close, intimate relationships with people, you’re going to need to work on grounding yourself a bit more.”

“My mother never believed in grounding—always thought time-out was a much more effective method of punishment.”

“Juli—”

“I know. I know. I was making a joke.”

He didn’t smile. “Why don’t you start by taking a step back and reevaluating your career and life choices? Gain some new perspective.”

Perspective. That’s what she needed.

She’d raced home to Portland from Seattle the day she’d heard about Uncle Frank. Now here she was, chopping steak for her mother’s Jell-O salad on the afternoon of her uncle’s funeral, wondering if a spur-of-the-moment jaunt to St. John might not be the best thing for her. Or maybe the worst.

“Honey, could you hand me those Garbanzos?”

No. Not the worst. Not quite the worst.

***

The post-funeral reception was still going strong back in the house, but Juli was hiding out in the backseat of the limo, listening to the thrum of raindrops on the roof as she lay back against the plush seat. Her eyes were closed, and she was trying not to notice the smell of Old Spice on the upholstery or the shrill memory of her cousins’ voices demanding to know why she was still single.

The limo door creaked open, and someone jumped into the front seat, slamming the door behind him. Juli didn’t have to open her eyes to know who it was. She wrinkled her nose as the smell hit her.

“Sorry my Aunt Gretchen dumped the apple cider vinegar over your head,” Juli said. “It’s a family tradition.”

“Family,” Brian repeated with obvious intrigue. “Family like kinfolk, or family like Godfather?”

Juli sat up and straightened her black wrap dress. She looked at the back of Brian’s head, wondering if he knew he was developing a bald patch the exact shape of Zimbabwe.

“Thank you for volunteering your limo service for Uncle Frank’s funeral,” Juli said, giving Brian’s shoulder a squeeze. “And thank you for letting me hide out in here while my family holds the leg-wrestling tournament in the dining room.”

Brian loosened his tie and leaned back against the driver’s seat. “No problem. Anything for my favorite ex-girlfriend.”

Juli gritted her teeth. “You know, we split up seven years ago. I think your wife would appreciate it if you stopped calling me that.”

“Nah.”

“And if you stopped patting me on the butt when we run into each other.”

“Mandy says she doesn’t mind that,” Brian mused, tugging his tie all the way off and setting it on the dashboard. “She says she’s never considered you a threat.”

Juli pressed her lips together and tried not to be annoyed by that. “Anyway, thanks for staying late,” she said finally, shoving her feet into her black patent leather Via Spigas and smoothing her hair. “I’ll get out of here so you can be on your way.”

“No rush, actually. The limo’s stuck in park, and I can’t get a mechanic out to look at it until after Wheel of Fortune. You can sit here all evening if you want.”

Juli sighed and held out her hand. “Give me the manual.”

Brian reached over to the glove box to dig out a leather-bound book the size of a dictionary. He dropped it into her lap and grinned. “You’re the best,” he said, sliding around on the front seat to look at her. “Why did we break up, anyway?”

Juli flipped the book open to the first page and tried to ignore him. She began to read, starting with the history of the car and progressing quickly to the recommended octane ratings. She felt his eyes on her, knew he was still awaiting a response. She planted her index finger on page 242 and looked up at him.

“You threw my Scrabble board out the bedroom window and yelled that board games weren’t considered foreplay even if I spelled dirty words.”

“Right,” Brian said. “I forgot.”

“The neighbor didn’t. He’s still mad about the vowels in his pond.”

“Sorry about that.”

Juli returned her attention to the manual, reading faster now that she had reached the section on oil viscosity. “Anyway, it’s fine. We weren’t right for each other.”

Brian chuckled. “You’re too much woman for most men to handle,” he said. “But there’s someone out there for you, Jules, I know it.”

Juli gritted her teeth, focusing hard on being pissed off instead of wounded. She did that a lot these days. Sometimes she even believed it.

She got to the end of the book and slammed it shut. She leaned over the seat and handed it back to him.

“The electronic release for the transmission is controlled by the same fuse as your backup lights,” she said as she picked up the little black clutch she’d carried to the funeral. “It’s a safety feature that disables the transmission if those lights aren’t working. Check the fuse.”

Brian grinned and set the manual on the seat beside him, his expression amused. Amused, but not aroused, Juli thought, knowing she didn’t care about his arousal anymore, but feeling stung just the same. It wasn’t like she’d had a future with him. It wasn’t like she’d had a future with anyone she’d dated.

The story of my life, she thought.

She watched him reach beneath the dash and pry the panel off the fuse box, poking around inside as the rain sputtered against the windshield outside.

“I’ll be damned,” he said as he pulled out the dead fuse and held it up for her to see.

Juli popped the door open and stepped out into the rain. “Thanks again, Brian,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself as she turned away. “Give my love to Mandy.”

***

3,400 miles away, Alex Bradshaw stared at the yellow piece of paper in his hand. Beyond the stuffy, peanut-scented air of the barroom, the Key West sun bathed an army of sailboats bobbing merrily in the bay.

For once, Alex didn’t care about the boats.

“It’s not pink,” Jake Grinshaw muttered beside him, holding an identical piece of yellow paper as the bar lights glinted off his bald spot. “That asshole in Human Resources pointed out the color at least three times. He said yellow is more soothing.”

Alex crumpled his own yellow pink-slip and took another sip of beer. “I feel soothed.”

Over the top of his mug, he watched as Jake wadded his own yellow pink-slip and stuffed it in his pocket. Alex tried not to notice the way his friend’s hand shook as he hoisted his beer. Even 20 years ago, Jake had been doughy and awkward when the two of them had started work the same day at Kranston Shipping Enterprises. Over the years, Jake had risen to the top of the accounting department, while Alex had become one of the chief executives for what was now the largest shipping firm in the world.

For all the good it had done them.

On the other side of Jake, Phyllis Prescott sat looking like a startled albino rabbit with great biceps. Catching Alex’s eye, she held up an envelope. “Did everyone else get the gift certificate to Sir Loins Steakhouse?”

Alex nodded and took another sip of beer. “I think $25 in bad steak is fair compensation for 19 years with the company.”

Phyllis frowned down at her amber ale, her silver-blonde hair falling over one eye. A former Olympic record holder in the steeplechase, Phyllis’s 50-something physique had never surrendered to the squishy curves and motherly bosom of most women her age. Hard-edged and steely, Phyllis looked like she could tear off a grown man’s leg with her bare hands if the need arose.

Her perpetual scowl suggested the thought had crossed her mind more than once.

“Sir Loins makes their own croutons,” offered Cody Wilkins from the other side of Alex. “They’re really good.”

Cody’s expression was so earnest, Alex’s spleen hurt. He patted Cody’s massive shoulder. It felt like slapping a ham.

“You’re right, Cody, they are,” Alex said as he watched Cody dip a cherry in and out of his Roy Rogers.

Looking pleased, Cody lifted his drink. At six-foot-five and 275 pounds, he looked exactly like an NFL tight end. Not surprising, since he’d been one for three years before a shoulder injury forced him to leave the Seahawks for a safe desk job managing accounts for Kranston Shipping. The irony of it wasn’t lost on Alex.

Cody would have been safer getting his head stepped on by linebackers.

“So what are we going to do, Alex?” Jake asked, his voice wilted with desperation. “Did you talk to your lawyer about our pensions?”

Alex nodded and tried to wash down the lump in his throat with a swallow of beer.

“We all signed the same clause saying we’d take the stock options for the bulk of our retirement funds,” Alex said. “And we aren’t fully vested in the remainder of our pensions until we’ve worked at Kranston for 20 years.”

“Convenient,” Jake muttered. “Since we’re two months from the 20 year mark, and those stock options went belly-up last week.”

“But Alex, that can’t be right,” Phyllis protested. “I mean, surely it’s obvious to anyone that we signed those forms when we were too young to know better. It was almost 20 years ago! And they were supposed to be rewritten during that reorganization in ’03, but then—”

“We still signed the forms, Phyllis,” Alex said. “That’s binding. And besides, they cut a wide swath so it wasn’t obvious they were gunning for people closing in on retirement. They took out younger employees, too, like Jim in Sales, and Sarah in Marketing and Cody here.”

“But there has to be something we can do,” Phyllis said, sounding as close to tears as she had since she’d dropped a Buick on her foot during a power-lifting competition. “Without our retirement savings, what are we supposed to do?”

No one said anything for a minute. Alex returned his attention to his beer, wondering if it had been a wise idea to invite the others to join him. Maybe he’d be better off alone drinking whiskey in his underwear in the kitchen of his air-conditioned condo. Certainly he’d feel better staring out the window at the ocean instead of at a broken neon bar sign advertising cold, refreshing Bu Ligh.

He wished like hell he could do something to fix this. Not the sign, his life. His colleagues’ lives. These guys had been more than just his co-workers. They’d been friends. Good ones.

“I just can’t believe it,” Jake said, shaking his head as he sipped his beer and wobbled a little on his barstool. Alex put a hand out, ready to catch his chubby pal if he had to. Phyllis patted Jake on the arm, the first time in 19 years that Alex had seen her display any sort of maternal gesture besides slapping a Hershey bar out of Jake’s hand and yelling that it would give him zits.

“I’m real sorry about this, guys,” Cody said at last, dropping his cherry into his soda.

Alex turned and looked at the hulking figure on his left.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I dunno. I feel like it’s my fault. I was walking in from the parking lot this morning and I saw a penny on the asphalt. I just left it there.”

Alex stared at him, waiting for the rest of the story. When none was forthcoming, he tried gentle prompting.

“What does that have to do with the layoff, Cody?”

“You know the saying. See a penny, pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck. See a penny, leave it lay, bad luck you’ll have all day. Only I was in a hurry this morning, so I didn’t pick up the penny. It’s all my fault.”

Alex felt the lump welling in his throat again. “It’s not your fault, Cody,” he told him. “It’s not anyone’s fault except fucking Tom Portelli.”

“You think the owner of the company ordered the layoffs?” Phyllis asked.

“Of course he did,” Alex said. “Portelli’s always bitching about the bottom line. This time, we were it.”

They all sat in silence for another minute, listening to Jimmy Buffett on the jukebox. Someone had picked “A Pirate Looks at 40” and Alex listened to Jimmy croon about being drunk for over two weeks. Alex could see the appeal. He was 42 years old, unemployed, unmarried, and without the pension he’d counted on to keep him in sailboats and cheap beer in his old age.

Between the money he’d just sunk into his boat and the recent market crash, he was pretty much wiped out.

Alone and broke.

Isn’t that what his ex-fiancé had said 20 years ago? You’re going to die alone and broke if you don’t learn some goddamn provider instinct! That’s exactly what Jenny had yelled as she’d walked out the door and into the arms of her dentist. Apparently that guy had provider instinct. As Alex had learned later, the dentist had been providing a lot more than root canals long before Jenny had actually walked out.

Not that he was still bitter. And not that he had trust issues, despite what his last three girlfriends had suggested.

The sound of Jake clearing his throat brought Alex back to the present. “Can you guys keep a secret?” Jake asked.

“No,” Alex said and took another sip of beer.

“Don’t listen to him, Jake,” Phyllis said, turning toward Jake. “You say whatever you need to get off your chest.”

Jake eyed Alex dubiously. Alex stared back.

“What?” Alex asked finally. “You going to tell us you knew this was coming all along?”

“No, no,” Jake said, shaking his head so furiously Alex thought his double-chin might catch fire rubbing the starched collar of his shirt. “It’s just—I know something about a little side project Tom Portelli has going on. A personal one.”

Alex raised an eyebrow and took another swig of beer. “You’re privy to a lot of the company owner’s private business?”

“This one’s not exactly on the books,” Jake said, grabbing a fistful of peanuts from a dish on the bar. “This one’s not even entirely legal.”

Phyllis leaned closer, her interest piqued by the prospect of hearing gossip about the man who’d just bitch-slapped the whole lot of them.

“We’re listening,” she said. “Go on.”

“Well, besides all the legitimate shipping operations at Kranston, Tom Portelli has a few side jobs he likes to keep on the down-low.”

“Down-low?” Alex snorted. “You make him sound like a gangster instead of an aging executive with bad taste in ties.”

“He is!” Jake insisted, almost knocking his beer over as he flung his hands up. Alex made a grab for the beer, setting it safely in front of Cody, who would sooner drink turpentine than Budweiser.

Jake kept going with his story. “Once a year, Tom Portelli sends a cargo ship out of Monaco loaded down with Krugerrand. They head across the Atlantic, through the Panama Canal, and over to the Galapagos Islands where they rendezvous with some guys who illegally export exotic animals. They swap the Krugerrand for the animals—”

“What’s Krugerrand?” asked Cody, looking confused.

“Gold coins,” Alex answered. “South African, but they’re valuable worldwide since they’re made of actual gold.”

“Anyway,” Jake continued, “they swap the Krugerrand for the animals and then head over to Japan, where they trade the animals for a whole lot more Krugerrand than they started out with. Then they proceed to South Africa and swap the Krugerrand for diamonds—tons of them, about $48 million in all.”

Alex stared at him. “That’s the most fucked up money laundering scheme I’ve ever heard. No one bothers to say, ‘hey, fellas, where’d you get the crates of gold coins?’”

“Or the Komodo Dragons?” Phyllis added.

Jake shrugged. “You can pay off a lot of people with a boatload of gold coins. People are willing not to notice things. Besides, they fill the ship with legitimate cargo and they have the paperwork for that. It’s a pretty smooth operation, really.”

They all sat digesting the information. Phyllis looked distressed. Jake looked drunk. Cody looked blank. Alex ordered another beer.

“Do you think we should call the police?” Phyllis asked.

“And say what?” Jake asked. “Hi, I’m a disgruntled employee who got laid off this afternoon. Just wanted to let you know that the owner of our company is running gold coins and diamonds and illegal tortoises all over the globe.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Phyllis argued.

“Who the hell is going to believe it?” Jake shot back.

Jake and Phyllis continued bickering, but Alex had stopped listening. An idea had begun to form in the back of his mind. A crazy, juvenile, dangerous idea.

The idea of a desperate man.

Alex leaned back on his barstool and surveyed his former co-workers. One by one, they looked up at him, their eyes unfocused and a little shell-shocked. Alex took a sip of beer.

“You guys know anything about boating?”

Phyllis rolled her eyes. “Until two hours ago, we were all employees of the world’s largest shipping company. I think we know about boats.”

Alex shook his head. “Maybe not like this.”

I know that if you take the time to truly read this excerpt of The Lady of the Storm, the second book in Kathryne Kennedy‘s Elven Lords series, you will be caught up in the magic, the charm, the characters and their world, and the imagination of an author who writes from the heart for romance readers.

We’re posting the entire first chapter for you today to get to know Giles and Cecily and what they are up against in this magical England that its citizens are trying to win back from bored elven lords. Their journey is full of the incredible nearly every step of the way.

So go ahead. Prepare to be amazed and spellbound.

Summary:

Giles is bound to protect her…

In a kingdom viciously ruled by warlike elven lords, village blacksmith Giles Beaumont reluctantly swears to protect the half-elf, half-human Cecily Sutton, never dreaming that he will fall under her enchanting spell.

But duty soon turns to desire…

When Cecily’s father disappears, Cecily and Giles set out to find him. But, as their journey unfolds, duty is quickly replaced by desire–and the search for Cecily’s father leads to a magical destiny that could end the rule of the elven lords forever …

The link between the world of man and Elfhame had sundered long ago, the elven people and their magic fading to legend. Tall beings of extraordinary beauty, the fae preferred a world of peace. But seven elves–considered mad by their own people–longed for power and war. They stole sacred magical scepters, created their dragon-steeds, and opened the gate to the realm of man again and flew through.
Each elf carved a sovereign land within England, replacing the baronies that had so recently been formed by William the Conqueror. They acquired willing and unwilling slaves to serve in their palaces and till their lands. And fight their wars. Like mythical gods they set armies of humans against each other, battling for the right to win the king, who’d become nothing more than a trophy. They bred with their human slaves, producing children to become champions of their war games.
The elven lords maintained a unified pact, using the scepters in a united will to place a barrier around England, with only a few guarded borders open to commerce. Elven magic provided unique goods and the world turned a blind eye to the plight of the people, persuaded by greed to leave England to its own, as long as the elven did not seek to expand their rule into neighboring lands.
But many of the English people formed a secret rebellion to fight their oppressors. Some of the elven’s children considered themselves human despite their foreign blood and joined the cause. And over the centuries these half-breeds became their only hope.

Devon, England 1734
Chapter 1

Giles Beaumont heard the sound of battle coming from beyond the rocks in the direction of the village at the same moment Cecily emerged from the waves of the English Channel. His magically cursed sword flew from its scabbard, smacked the palm of his hand, and it took every ounce of Giles’s considerable strength to shove it back into the leather sheath. As much as his blade longed to be finally used, the years of training to protect the young woman held firm and he ran away from the village to the beach.
He’d removed his stockings and half jackboots after the first hour of waiting for Cecily, and now his toes dug through the hot sand while broken seashells stabbed his heels. But the elven blood that ran through his veins allowed him to reach the tide line soon enough, his feet now slapping on wet sand, the spray of the crashing waves cooling his face, the ocean breeze billowing open his half-buttoned shirt with even more welcome relief.
He kept his gaze fixed on naught but her.
Cecily Sutton, half-breed daughter of the Imperial Lord Breden, elven lord of the sovereignty of Dewhame, did not look like a direct descendant of the elven royal line. At least, not at the moment. She had one arm wrapped around the fin of a dolphin, the creature propelling her through the water at wicked speed. Her black hair gleamed in the sunlight, her luscious mouth hung wide open with laughter, and she’d half-closed her eyes against the spray of flight.
A wild magical woman, indeed. A mysterious creature that he’d been assigned to protect since she was nine years old, and Giles himself only fifteen, in hopes that she would be of use to the Rebellion some day. But a daughter of those cold, reserved elven lords? No, she did not fit that mold.
She swam by herself the rest of the way to the shore, with a wave and a last caress for her dolphin-steed. Her magical affinity for the water made her look one with it, her swimming near effortless as she crossed the final distance to the beach.  Giles waited for her, waves lapping about his ankles, watching as her eyes grew round with surprise when she recognized him. With those large inhuman eyes, he could not deny her birthright to the elven lord. They glittered in the sunshine, twin jewels of blue, with a crystalline depth that bespoke of the enormous power that the young woman could summon.
Although she’d managed to keep that power well hidden through the years.
“What are you doing here?” she said, her eyes flicking away from him to stare at her abandoned clothing on the beach. Cecily kept her body hidden in the water, but the motion of the waves occasionally revealed the swell of her breasts. Giles made sure his gaze stayed fixed on her face, but despite his efforts to appear unaffected by her nudity, the warmth of a flush crept over his cheeks.
For he’d been ordered to protect her but keep his distance. Thomas had warned him that the girl was destined to marry a great lord. And in more subtle terms, that Giles would never be good enough for her. So by necessity he had spied upon her from a distance for years. Many times he had damned her for her magical affinity to water, for scarcely a day went by without her sneaking off to this private cove where she stripped and flung herself into the ocean. Perforce he’d watched her body develop from skinny youth into the full curvature of womanhood.
Now her curves rivaled those of any woman he’d bedded; indeed, once she’d matured, he would often dream of those perfect features while he made love to one girl after another.
Many times he had fancied himself in love with one of the village maidens. For a time he would feel relieved that he had been able to put the forbidden girl from his thoughts. But thoughts of Cecily would always intrude yet again. He would find himself comparing those vivid blue eyes, that heart-shaped brow, the lilt of her laughter, with whatever poor girl he tried to forget her with. And would find himself dreaming of her once again, chiding himself for a fool.
“There’s something wrong in the village,” he managed to say. “I want you to stay hidden in the water until I return.”
As usual, she avoided looking into his eyes, her gaze fixed somewhere around his nose. “How did you know I’d be here? How did you manage to climb the rocks? No one knows about my secret place–” A more urgent question suddenly halted her flow of indignation. “Has Thomas returned?”
He shook his head. “No, but I fear that your father may have something to do with it.”
“With what? What is happening?”
“I’m not sure, and I don’t have time for this. Just stay here!”
Giles spun, raced back to his hiding place, struggling damp skin into woolen hose, sandy cloth into leather boots. He pulled his sword from the scabbard, the greedy thing ringing with delight, eager for the taste of the blood that Giles had denied it for so many years.
A thrill went through him from hilt to hand and he fought it with a clench of his muscles.  “You devil,” he murmured. “If I could have gotten rid of you, I would have. Father’s gift or no.”
The sword answered him with a tug in the direction of the village, where the sounds of battle had grown louder. Giles took one last glance over his shoulder…
The little hoyden had ignored him. Cecily stood next to her clothing, her net with her day’s catch abandoned in shallow water, flopping fish and scuttling crabs quickly making their way back to ocean. Giles would have cursed if he’d had the wits to, but the sight of her bending over to pick up her chemise near knocked the power of speech completely from his head.
He sprinted back to the water, his sword resisting him all the way. Giles should have known she wouldn’t listen to him. She treated him like all the villagers did, as if he had nothing between his muscled shoulders but his fine elven features. He’d carefully cultivated that impression of course, assuming the quiet manner of a humble blacksmith, in spite of how much he despised the role. But Cecily’s  attitude had surpassed his assumed disguise. After the night she offered herself to him and he had gallantly refused her, she’d avoided him with a disdain that bordered on contempt.
By the time he reached her side Cecily had pulled on her chemise, struggled into her stays. Her fingers fastened up the front-lacing stays that most workingwomen wore, and she pulled on her jacket and skirt without benefit of her quilted petticoat.
Giles found it easier to speak once she’d covered that glorious body. “I told you to stay in the water.”
She ignored him, pulling on stockings and shoes.
Not for the first time, he mentally cursed the task of having to protect this young woman.
“I cannot keep you safe while fighting.”
She straightened, her eyes widening at that. “Why would you care–what in heaven’s name is wrong with your sword?”
The damned blade kept twisting his arm around, pointing at the village like a dog scenting a hare.    Giles’s boots began to slide across the sand, little furrows left in his wake. “It smells blood–”
She flew past him in a blur of black hair and linsey-woolsey skirts. Giles blinked then followed. He’d forgotten that she shared the speed elven blood could provide; indeed, it ran even stronger through her veins than his. But his eager sword aided his flight and he managed to catch up with her at the top of the rise. He threw an arm about her waist, managed to drag her and his sword behind an outcropping of rock.
Despite years of watching over her, he’d never dared touched her before and the shock of it took him by surprise. A thrill ran through him, not unlike that which his sword often staggered him with, and for a moment he could only stare speechlessly at her.
Before he lost himself completely in the crystal blue of her eyes, she lowered her gaze. “Let me go.”
“Not until you promise me you that you’ll stay here.”
The sound of gunfire drifted up to their perch and Giles fought against more than just his sword arm to seek out the source.
“I do not know why you have this sudden concern for me, sir, but I assure you–”
“How many more will die while you argue with me?”
Her mouth snapped shut, those eyes sparkling with uncanny brilliance. “I will stay.”
“This time you will promise.”
“I promise. Now go!”
Giles leapt to his feet, racing down the other side of the rise toward the village. He kept his attention on the scene before him, praying that he judged her rightly, that the lady would keep her word, for he knew her life held more value than a village of peasants and leaving her alone to fend for herself went against everything he’d been sworn to do. But the villagers had become his friends, and in good conscience he could not forsake them.
Smoke curled up from beyond the trees. The sound of steel ringing against steel grew louder until the way opened up before him, revealing the village clearing. Soldiers wearing the blue livery of the Imperial Lord fought against peasants in their coarse wool clothing. But Giles had made sure every man had a blade from his forge, and despite their ragged appearance, the villager’s weapons had a quality that surpassed the common soldiers’. They held their own.
The devil-blade sang in his hand and plunged him into the fray.
For the next few moments Giles could do naught but concentrate on keeping the hilt in his fist. One blue uniform went down, then another, warm blood splattering his face, gore dripping down the front of his chest. Giles had always longed for battle but he did not relish death like his sword did. It thirstily sought out one enemy after another until nothing but dead bodies surrounded him.
Fortunately, the villagers stayed clear of his blade.
It appeared that most of the soldiers had discharged their muskets and probably hadn’t the time to reload them before the villagers fell upon them, because no shots rang out as they had earlier. But the back of his neck suddenly itched. Giles turned to meet the furious glare of a uniformed man across the clearing. The soldier raised his gun and took aim at Giles–the village blacksmith that had taken down so many of his fellows.
He heard Old Man Hugh cry out a warning, saw the fisherman lunge for the soldier, but the shot rang out before his friend could reach the musket. And time slowed. With a curse Giles wrested control of his sword, which had now drunk enough blood to allow such impudence, and thrust the weapon in front of him, catching the edge of the bullet with the slightly wider bottom of the blade, diverting it away from him.
If Giles had ever doubted the enchantment of his sword, the lack of any nick in the steel now confirmed it. He did not credit his blade for saving his life–his elven blood gave him more than a handsome face and pointed ears. His strength and speed rivaled that of a mere projectile.
Hugh plunged his blade into the soldier who had fired his musket. The officer didn’t even appear to notice at first, his ruddy face frozen in sheer incredulity at Giles.
But fall he did, joining the rest of his fellows. Giles regained his breath while he wiped his blade on the uniform of the last enemy, and returned Hugh’s sad smile of victory.
A sudden quiet descended on the once pretty little village, broken only by the crackling of burning thatch, the sobs of grieving women. Dead bodies defiled the town fountain; had turned the water a sickly pinkish hue. Giles winced at the number of villagers that lay alongside the soldiers that littered the clearing, but many more of them still stood. They had won. Blood-spattered and weary, the fighters gathered together around Giles, slapping each other’s backs. Celebrating the fact that they still lived.
But Giles suddenly hushed them, his pointed ears cocked toward a faint rumble of sound. Soon the few other villagers who possessed a bit of elven blood–and therefore a keener sense of hearing–joined him in quieting the rest.
Up the road that led inland came a cloud of dust, the pounding of hooves. Giles did not need to see their uniforms to know that more soldiers were coming. Hugh gave him a look of surprise while several of the younger men cursed in dismay. He knew what they were thinking. For years upon years Imperial Lord Breden of Dewhame had left this village alone. While other towns had lost their young men to the raising of Breden’s new army, they had been left in peace to farm, raise families, and grow old.
“Why have they suddenly come for us?” asked William the shepherd.
Giles already knew the answer to that. Thomas had been gone too long. The Rebellion’s most skilled spy had crafted a spell about the village to hide it, and the enchantment must have faded in his prolonged absence. Although the villagers had benefited from it, Thomas had cast it to protect his adopted daughter, to hide her from her true father, Breden, the Imperial Lord of Dewhame. And Giles could not speak of it. “What started this skirmish? You know what happens to villages that refuse the draft–have you become so arrogant, then?”
“Damn it, Giles!” sputtered William, his freckled face near purple. “Ye know I’ve been longing to join the wars, as stupid as they be! ‘Tis the only way a lad can gain some glory, leastways.” Several of the younger men grunted in agreement. “We woulda’ gone with ‘em with nary a fuss, but they took it upon their brutish hides to feel up the skirts of our women. Are ye thinking we shoulda’ let them?”
“No, you did right,” replied Giles, knowing that the soldiers had gotten much more than they’d bargained for. Most villages had already been stripped of their fighting men for the wars; only children or old men were usually left to protect their families. “But I’m thinking that when the rest of the troops get here, we allow Old Hugh to explain what happened to avoid more bloodshed–”
The fountain suddenly erupted, pink arcs of water splashing against the still smoldering thatch of the roofs and the timbers of the cottages.
Cecily.
She walked toward them, her blue eyes gazing about the ruined village with a fury that Giles had never seen the likes of before. The men surrounding him muttered a prayer under their breath at the power she so casually wielded, her fingers but flicking at the water to divert it until the fires were completely extinguished. Even the few villagers who had enough elven blood to possess a bit of magic crossed themselves. For they only had a little, since the elven lords destroyed all half-breed offspring who might possess enough power to be a threat to their rule.
Like Giles’s younger brother, John, who commanded enough magic at the age of six to help their father craft the devil-sword, a weapon more powerful than the sovereignty of Bladehame had produced in centuries.
And like Cecily.
She had never displayed such power before, indeed, Giles had thought Thomas might have found a way to suppress it in her. To better hide her. But he had never seen her this furious before, either. She’d never had a reason to be, in the idyllic little village life they’d led, safe from the horrors of the rest of their enslaved England.
And the full import of what had happened struck Giles. The soldiers could find her now.
When Giles had been assigned the task of protecting the girl he’d been but fifteen years old, and determined to join the Rebellion that would free England of the elven lords that had invaded their land…and killed his father and brother. But after years of working the forge and feeling like nothing more than a glorified bodyguard–even if he enjoyed watching Cecily more than he should–when he longed to fight for freedom…
Ah, but Thomas had insisted that Cecily could be the Rebellion’s greatest weapon, that Giles’s task held more importance than he knew. That Thomas himself could not leave the girl and do his important work for the Rebellion without knowing that someone would protect her in his absence.
Giles had pleaded with Thomas to be assigned another mission. A small task even, just so he would be able to shed this disguise of a thickheaded village blacksmith, if only for a few days. But Thomas denied him, and each time Giles grew more restless and frustrated, suppressing his feelings as surely as Cecily hid her magic. For Thomas insisted that one day Giles would be needed to protect his adopted daughter. That Giles was the only man Thomas would trust in that task.
This must have been the moment Thomas feared. When he would be unable to return to watch over Cecily.
Thomas must be dead, or he would have come home. And now, Giles had full responsibility for the Rebellion’s treasured weapon. And a part of him did not regret that the day for action had finally come.
“I did not break my promise,” said Cecily. “I did not come until the fighting stopped.”
Giles nodded. He thought she would keep her word–that’s why he’d forced her to give it. Fie, he probably knew more about the lady than she knew about herself, after constantly keeping her in his sight for the past nine years.
He prided himself on the fact that she hadn’t been aware of his scrutiny.
“There are more soldiers coming.” Giles glanced over his shoulder at the rapidly approaching dust cloud. “Go back to the water and stay beneath it until I come for you.”
Her raven brows rose at that. “Your sudden concern for me is…mystifying, but there are others here–”
He grabbed her arm. The second time he’d touched her. And that same shock of excitement went through him. “No one is more important than you are, do you understand?”
Old Man Hugh made a choking sound and William, who’d been sweet on Cecily since they were children, took a step forward. “Now see here, Giles, if anyone be protecting Cecily, it’ll be me. Don’t think the number of men ye killed here today gives ye any rights to be bossing around–”
Giles grabbed the smaller man by his dirty collar and lifted him off his feet. In addition to his elven strength, he’d been pumping bellows for years to work off his frustration and had the muscles to prove it. “She’s not meant for the likes of you, William, so let it be.”
The younger man’s face paled until his freckles stood out in stark relief. Giles carefully set him back on his feet. He’d watched William moon after Cecily for years and for some reason it had irritated the hell out of him. With the aftermath of battle and the threat of another, Giles had allowed his hidden feelings to surface. He needed to rein in his control.
Cecily stood there, with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open, staring at Giles as if she’d never seen him before, rather than almost every day of her young life. For a change, she looked straight into his eyes.
The world suddenly appeared to come to a stop, and Giles could no more tear his eyes from hers than he could tear out his own heart. Cecily appeared equally transfixed. They might have stood there enthralled with each other, if not for Eleanor Sutton.
The frail woman staggered into the clearing, clutching at her chest, her face black with soot. “Cecily!”
She wrenched her gaze away from Giles and turned. “Mother!” Cecily ran to the older woman’s side, clasping the thin hands in hers. “Are you all right?”
Eleanor coughed, an affliction that she’d had for years, but which seemed to have worsened since her husband’s disappearance. “The smoke–the fire destroyed half of our little cottage, Cecily. The one Thomas built with his own two hands.”
“Mother, I’m so sorry.” Cecily turned back to Giles, the expression on her face now completely altered. “You shouldn’t have made me promise! She needed my help.”
The older woman collapsed at her daughter’s feet, Giles took a step toward them, but Hugh spat and said, “Stand firm, boys.”
Giles spun back around to face Breden of Dewhame’s soldiers. Hundreds of them. He wondered what had brought them out in such force. Thomas had been his only source of information to the outside world, and he’d been gone for nearly a year. But he’d gone on assignments for months before, and Giles had expected him to return any day.
It suddenly occurred to Giles that he might be wrong about the failure of the spell surrounding the village. Perhaps Thomas had been found out. Interrogated with elven magic. Perhaps he’d given away Cecily’s location to Breden of Dewhame. And his army had been sent here to capture her.
To hell with Hugh trying to reason with the soldiersarmy. Giles couldn’t risk it.
With a roar he leaped forward, sword aloft and singing with glee, decapitating the mounted officer before the man’s body realized it, swinging around to kill another while the first slowly slid off his horse. The rest of the villagers had apparently forgotten his suggestion as well, for without hesitation they joined the melee, destroying the mounted officers before the soldiers on foot behind them could even get a shot off.
But the enemy rallied soon enough, firing at the villagers with abandon.
Giles took a bullet in the shoulder. He barely noticed. He had complete control of his devil-sword this time, and it flew in dizzying arcs, slicing through anyone foolish enough to get close enough.
They kept coming anyway.
Until he walked on bodies to reach the next group of fighters, saving his fellow villagers time and again.
But it would not be enough.
There were too many soldiers this time.
Screams of fury and agony surrounded him. The sharp scent of blood filled his nostrils. Betimes a red haze covered his eyes until he could barely see. Battle was not all he had dreamed of. The reality of it twisted his gut, brought a bitter taste to his mouth. Giles’s blade hummed with happiness while he regretted the death of each man he killed, trying not to think of the widows he created today.
Magic bit at him more than once; a pool of water threatening to trip him up, a liquid flail that sliced across his chest like a knife, ripping through linen and skin.
There must have been a few soldiers from other sovereignties as well, for fire magic from Firehame licked at his breeches. Giles fought an illusion of a Cyclops using gifts from Dreamhame, and he even met the steel of another enchanted sword crafted in Bladehame. But none of the paltry spells could overcome his devil of a sword. It dissolved the flail, quenched the fire, cut through the illusion, and shattered the other blade.
Through it all, Giles knew he fought a losing battle. But he would not allow despair or regret to make him falter, for not once did he forget the reason he fought. And after nine years of his life revolving around one slip of a woman, he did not allow his awareness of her to waver.
And so. When she approached the circle of fighting he felt her. He cursed, took one dangerous glance behind him, cursed again. That quick glance revealed Eleanor’s lifeless body behind her, Cecily’s furious blue eyes sparkling like sentient jewels as she strode toward the fray. Giles gathered all the elven strength he possessed and jumped, landing lithely in front of her, effectively stopping her advance. His sword danced a pattern around her, warning anyone foolish enough to approach the woman to stay clear.
“Get out of my way,” she growled.
“The hell I will.”
“You cannot defeat them all. I can.”
She could. Giles could hear it in her voice. She might even be the villagers’ only hope of surviving this battle. But then what? For the past nine years she’d hidden the true strength of her magic. And Giles had to consider every possibility. If he was wrong about Thomas being captured, and the elven lord didn’t know about Cecily’s existence…word of this battle would spread quickly to Dewhame Palace. Breden would know that one of his elven bastards had enough magic to threaten his rule.
They would hunt her down like a rabid fox. He wouldn’t be able to keep her safe.
“No,” he finally said. “When I say the word, you will run. Find a horse. Ride away from here as fast as you can. Go to Firehame palace–ask for the Prime Minister, Sir Robert Walpole–tell him you are Thomas’s daughter.”
“The hell I will.”
She’d thrown his words right back at him. Damn if he couldn’t stop the smile that cracked his face.
“If you don’t get out of my way,” she continued, “I shall have to go through you.”
And she would.
He’d admired her growing beauty for years, but this was the first time he admired her strength of character.
Giles stepped out of her path but stayed near, protecting her back. For even the most powerful sorceress could be felled by a bullet or a blade.
A pile of bodies lay between them and the remaining fighters. Cecily’s uncannily brilliant eyes narrowed at the sight, her lips tightening with resolve. Giles could feel her call to the magic in her blood, could hear the distant sound of the waves which constantly crashed against the shore grow more furious by the second, could sense the multitude of ponds and lakes that surrounded the village rise up into pillars of whirling dervishes.
Giles had known of Cecily’s command of water but he’d never felt the complete force of it until now. Thomas had once told him she also commanded the more dangerous elements of the sky, that he’d seen her use a storm to defend them long ago. But the consequences of her actions had made Cecily turn her back on most of her magic, and Thomas had allowed it for his own reasons. If she called down her sky magic now, Breden of Dewhame would know that he dealt with more than an ordinary half-breed. That the daughter he’d let slip through his grasp still survived.
For only Breden could command the power of sky. Even his general, Owen Fletcher, reputed for his magical abilities– and more quietly–his perversions of that power, could not summon the tiniest of rainstorms.
Giles glanced up at the sky, still blue and soft with clouds, and breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Cecily’s aversion to using that gift still ruled her.
But the power she commanded from earth-bound water was impressive enough. The young woman that stood next to him radiated enough magical resonance to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. And her head barely topped his shoulders.
Spears of liquid raced from ocean and pond, swirling in columns of water to create a density strong enough to wrap around the soldiers of Breden’s army. Saltwater tangled about their boots, pond water circled their arms and muskets. At first it soaked their clothing, the bloody dirt at their feet, but more water arced toward them until it surrounded them in a cyclone that had the strength to lift them off their feet. Their screams were muffled behind the silvery sheen of liquid.
Two of the officers possessed magical abilities and they managed to break free of their watery traps. Five other soldiers wielded swords that must have been crafted in Bladehame, for they sliced through their cyclones, trying to cut the tendrils that led to their fellows. But they did not wield a devil-blade like Giles’s, and Cecily’s power overwhelmed such puny strength. Soon they were trapped like most of their fellows.
The villagers gaped at the maelstrom around them for a few moments but soon began a retreat toward Cecily. The officers who remained free followed them with a yell of defiance. Giles resisted the impulse to leap forward and engage them in combat, his mission to protect Cecily keeping him by the half-breed’s side.
Her hands moved in a pattern that followed the swirling motion of the water. Those faceted elven eyes barely blinked, the blue irises glazed with some emotion that Giles could only guess at. What would it feel like to wield such power?
His devil of a sword thrummed in his hand; reminding him that he did indeed possess a similar gift, although not one he would have chosen. Unlike the inferior swords of the officers, Giles’s blade could withstand almost any magical spell. Cecily would find it nearly impossible to entrap him with her powers. Giles suspected that his sword might even surprise an elven lord bereft of a scepter.
The villagers ran past Cecily. Giles cursed. They had brought the officers right to them. He swung his blade in a warning pass and the closest soldier came to an abrupt stop. Seemingly unaware of the danger, Cecily continued to weave her magic with her hands. She lifted her palms to the sky, raised them above her head. The cyclones surrounding the trapped officers rose in unison, drifted toward the ocean. Cecily turned to watch her creations, and as each one reached a point that Giles judged to be over deep water, she made a fist, then quickly splayed her fingers. The cyclone disintegrated into thousands of droplets, releasing the man trapped inside to plunge downward with a scream of terror that Giles heard even from this distance.
He could not determine if they would survive the fall.
The officer who had halted a few paces beyond where they stood narrowed his eyes at Cecily’s hands, suddenly threw back his head and screamed, “To me, men! To me!”
Giles did not wait for anyone to answer that cry. He lunged forward, forcing the other man to raise his sword in defense, and with a spin of his wrist and a twist, he quickly disarmed the officer and ran him through. Giles risked a brief glance around as the man fell to his knees, but none of his troops remained to answer his call.
Old Man Hugh stood over the other officer’s body, one bare foot of gnarly toes placed firmly on the back of the blue uniform. He gave Giles a crooked grin as Giles yanked his sword free of the fallen man and half-turned toward Cecily. But Hugh’s eyes widened and Giles turned back just in time to see a pistol pointed at her. He had no time to consider if it had already been discharged or gotten water soaked. He removed the arm from the hand that pointed the barrel at the Rebellion’s coveted treasure.
Despite the horrors that Cecily had witnessed already, or perhaps because of it, a sob of dismay ripped from her throat as the severed hand flew through the air. Giles turned, his chest contracting for a moment at the expression on Cecily’s face. The dreamy haze had faded from those blue eyes and now each individual facet sparkled with hypnotizing flashes.
“How could you do that?” she demanded.
“I had to.” Giles bent down and cleaned his blade on a blue coat. “He would have shot you.”
Cecily waved her hands wildly about her. “I cannot believe this is happening.” With a sudden slash of her hands, a curve of water arced over their heads to crash onto the bloody battle site, washing it clean before curling upwards and returning to wherever it had come from. The surviving villagers released a gasp of terror despite the cyclones that she’d already conjured, and as one, they backed away from her.
Giles stood, shoved his sword back into his scabbard. Or at least, he tried to. The damn blade resisted and nudged the tip away from the opening, causing Giles to nearly impale his own boot. Faith, not only did he have to endure the hysterics of the battle-scarred young woman, but he couldn’t even manage to sheath his own weapon.
“Get in there you bastard or I swear I’ll melt you down for horseshoes,” muttered Giles as he slammed the blade into the scabbard again. This time it settled into the leather with a satisfied hum.
If he had not vowed to avenge the deaths of his father and brother, Giles would have abandoned the magical sword long ago. But the enchanted blade had the power to aid him in his revenge against the elven lords, in his goal to one day become an important leader in the Rebellion. He hated the necessity of its thirst for blood–and needed it, all at the same time.
“You talk to it–you are mad,” hissed Cecily.
“Me? Aren’t you the one who just dropped a troop of Breden’s soldiers into the ocean?”
“They killed my mother.”
Giles wiped his bloody palm down his breeches, took a deep breath of patience and strode forward, placing his fingers on her cheek, as if now that he’d touched her, he could not stop from doing so again. “I’m sorry. Many more would have died if you had not called your magic to defend us, and I am grateful. But we have no time for your fit of vapors. If any soldiers survive, they will tell the story of what happened here and the elven lord will come with an even larger army. You must leave the village.”
“Now I know you’re demented,” she said. But she did not pull away from his touch. “I do not understand your sudden concern for me. You…you do not know that I am alive. And I…I despise you. That’s the way it has always been.”
“Has it?” Giles found this revelation of her inner thoughts startling, but he didn’t have time to dwell upon it. “Listen. I promised your father that I would look out for you while he was gone, and since he has not returned, that makes you my responsibility.”
“You? You would be the last person I would ever want to watch over me.”
“Apparently Thomas did not care what you thought.” Giles noticed that the women had emerged from their hiding places, had started to tend to the wounds of the injured. His own bullet wound suddenly began to ache and his vision swam for a moment as his hand dropped to Cecily’s shoulder to steady himself. He didn’t have the patience to reason with her, but he would have to try. “You are no longer safe here. Even if word of this scuffle does not reach Breden of Dewhame’s ears, more soldiers will come. Thomas has been gone too long and the spell that has hidden this village has faded. The Rebellion cannot let you fall into enemy hands.”
Cecily’s enormous eyes glittered. “Now I understand. You aren’t just a friend of my father’s. You are part of this Rebellion–how long have you been spying on me? No, no, don’t answer. I’m sure it will be a lie. Fie, you almost had me believing…never mind. Your concern is for me as a tool, not a person.”
She stepped away from him, dislodging his hand. Giles swayed.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Giles Beaumont…if that’s even your real name.”
His vision developed odd black specks and he blinked to try to clear it. “I assure you, lady, that is my name. And after nine years of protecting you I think you could at least trust me for the next few…” The ground suddenly flew up to meet his face, but before he felt the impact the black specks exploded and the world disappeared.

If you’re one who likes real historical events interwoven into your romance, Sandy Blair‘s The King’s Mistress is for you.

If you’re one who likes romance and love blossoming at the most unexpected time between the least likeliest characters, this books is for you.

If you’re one who likes twists and turns and being kept on the edge of your seat in the dark until the last minute, this story is for you.

If you’re one who just likes a damn great historical read, you cannot miss the opportunity to delve into The King’s Mistress.

Britt and Geneen are thrown together to try to keep a country from war, having to fight an instant attraction, requiring them both to do the right thing, but is it possible to fight a love like theirs? Think you know the answer to that? Think again!

Summary:

The long way home could be the shortest road to ruin.

The king of Scotland is in a snit. Which means Britt MacKinnon, proud captain of the king’s guard, has an onerous task: fetch Alexander’s favorite paramour back to the royal bed—now. Never mind that the crown should be about the business of getting a legitimate heir. Especially since England’s Edward I would love nothing more than to seize an empty Scottish throne.

When the handsome soldier appears on her doorstep, Geneen Armstrong has to think quickly. Her twin lies abed in her cottage, pregnant with the king’s bastard. If the barren queen learns the truth, the foolish girl’s life won’t be worth a farthing.

She must somehow transform her graceless, plain-spoken self into her vivacious, talented sister. Then, after the court is convinced she carries no child, use her herbal knowledge to sour the king’s taste for her sister’s company—for good.

By the time Britt realizes this unusually articulate, ungodly stubborn woman is the wrong woman, tendrils of attraction have already tightened into a bond. A bond that will be tested when the king’s unexpected death puts Scotland’s very destiny at stake—and unleashes an ever-tangling web of court intrigues, secrets…and lies.

Meet Britt and Gen:

Britt had never seen a lass turn so white in his life. Humph! Mayhap the lady wasn’t as enamored with Randy Sandy as His Majesty presumed. ’Twould serve him right.

The king’s paramour wavered in the doorway, and Britt grabbed her arm, fearing she might topple. “Lady Greer, are you all right?”

She swallowed in gulping fashion and jerked her arm away. “Fine. I’m quite fine, thank you.”

“Excellent.” She didn’t look the least fine to him. In fact, she looked totally distraught, not to mention dowdy in her plain tunic of gray homespun and with her pale, waist-length tresses caught in a simple braid, but then she hadn’t been expecting him. “May I come in?”

Her right hand flew to the long white column of her throat. “In?”

“Aye, inside.”

“Oh. Aye, please come in.”

“Thank you.” He stepped over the threshold as Lady Greer scurried backward, her cornflower-blue eyes growing as huge as tankard tops, her gaze raking him from boots to hair roots as if she’d never set eyes on him before. Knowing that not to be the case, he tensed and immediately scanned the whitewashed room and the open sleeping loft above for an intruder. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he murmured for her ears alone, “Is something amiss, my lady?”

“No!” She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m simply surprised to be summoned…so soon.”

“Ah.” He relaxed his stance. “His Majesty trusts that whatever crisis took you from his side is now resolved?” The queen had not deemed it necessary to tell anyone why Lady Greer had gone home.

“They died.”

He scowled at her. “I beg your pardon? Who died?”

“Father and Mother. Both of them.”

“Oh. My deepest condolences, my lady. May I be so bold as to ask how?” The last thing he wanted to do—orders or no—was to escort a contagious Lady Armstrong back to Edinburgh.

She wrung her hands. “A carriage accident.”

He nodded. Good. Well, not good for her parents, of course.

He looked about the modestly furnished room, this time taking note of the basket filled with skeins of green and yellow wool, the odd chair, the bench and small bowl overflowing with dandelions sitting on the stone hearth, of the oil lamp, a handful of well-worn texts and a few candlesticks. There was little enough of a personal nature. One trunk at best, which his destrier could easily carry. “Your father was trackman in service to the earl, I believe.”

“He was.”

“So, with a new man coming and nothing left to hold you here, am I correct in assuming we can pack up and be on our way before gloaming?”

“Umm, umm…” Lady Greer looked about in panicked fashion. “But I’ve yet to say good-bye to the animals, sir!” She blushed to a pretty rose, something he couldn’t recall her ever doing in the past, then waved in dismissive fashion. “I meant to the tenants, of course.”

“Of course.” Grief could make idiots of us all, he supposed. And likely explained why her voice sounded deeper then he recalled it being. Aye, she was likely hoarse from weeping, although weeping didn’t explain why she spoke in such stilted fashion.

“Sir, I’ve yet given thought to what I should take or leave behind.” She took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. “I need a full day to pack and set my affairs in order.”

Since he was in no hurry to return her to their king, he said, “Why not take two? You have many a woolly beast in yon pasture you doubtless wish to kiss good-bye.”

Her cornflower blue eyes narrowed. “Doubtless.”

“But please be mindful of my horse as you pack. He’ll also be carrying me.”

“Does that mean my taking the rocking chair is out of the question?”

“Absolutely!” He huffed, then realized she was only taunting him, that she was trying not to grin, then lost the battle, which brought light into the low-ceilinged room and an odd sensation to his belly. My God, he’d always found Lady Greer pretty but had never thought of her as truly beautiful… Until now. That smile. Absolutely captivating. Why hadn’t he noticed it or the dimple in her right cheek before? No wonder his liege had become so enamored.

His gaze drifted down the long column of her neck to the gentle swell of her breasts. Feeling heat rise in his loins, he gave himself a hard mental shake and cleared his throat.

Christ’s blood. Lusting after his king’s prime flesh could prove a fast route to the gallows. He blew through his teeth.

He’d need a place to bed down for two days. Randy as he felt and without her having a chaperone, his staying here—even in the barn—was definitely out of the question. “Whilst you settle your affairs, I shall be at the small lodging I passed in the village.”

Her lovely eyes went wide again. “Oh no! Not there. No, no. The place is crawling with fleas. Loads and loads of fleas. Bucketsful.”

“Bucketsful?”

“Oh, aye.” She made a delicate shudder, setting the golden wisps framing her face to fluttering. “You’ll be far more comfortable staying at the abbey in Morehead. Simple but clean. Much nicer, truly. And you’ll not be getting weevils with your porridge…as you could expect at Mr. Bailey’s.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Bailey has fleas and weevils?”

“Aye, ’tis a terrible place. Truly.”

He couldn’t help but grin. She looked so earnest, but he suspected her defaming poor Mr. Bailey was more likely due to a female aversion to anything crawly rather than to the actual number of crawlies Mr. Bailey might have. Britt had stopped at the establishment to quench his thirst, and the hostel hadn’t appeared any worse than most. But to be assured he wouldn’t be munching weevils when he broke his fast, he said, “As you lust, my lady. Please direct me to the abbey.”

 

The moment she closed the door on their unexpected visitor, Genny collapsed against it, tears springing to her eyes.

Why on earth had she blurted that her parents were dead? Now the earl would learn the truth; she’d be evicted, and with nowhere to go…

Saint Bride and Columba preserve us.

“Oh dear God, Gen!” Her sister rushed to her side. “I thought I’d faint when I heard his voice.”

“You? I nearly expired on the threshold. Who, pray tell, is that man?” She’d never seen anyone so tall, so broad of shoulder or so muscled of limb in all her days. And the way he studied her with those pitch-black eyes! A dozen times she’d readied to scream, certain he was about to snatch her up by the hair and declare her an imposter. Certain, that was, until he began teasing her. As if she’d kiss her sheep good-bye. Well, mayhap Ol’ Duffy. She did cherish her old ram, stiff-legged and grumpy as he’d grown.

Greer wrung her hands. “’Twas Sir Britt MacKinnon, Captain of the King’s Guard. I can’t believe he’s here. What are we going to do, Genny?”

“I’ve yet had time to think. Have yet to get over our good fortune that he did not think to question who I was.” Or over her shock that she’d actually taunted so obviously lethal a man.

Greer cocked her head in question. “Why would he? We look alike.”

“But knowing that we do, wouldn’t he have asked to whom he spoke?” In response, Greer twisted the wide silver band she wore on her right index finger to cover a scar—a sure sign she’d done something wrong or was about to lie—then turned away. As she began rearranging the dandelions in the bowl, a painful realization finally dawned. “You never told them about me.”

If you’re looking for an emotional and fun western romance to read, you need look no further. Kaki Warner is a new name in the industry and she’s writing cowboys and the old west like they should be written.

Her latest release is Heartbreak Creek, the first book in her Runaway Brides series. You’re in for a lot of fun with these sassy heroines. They’re survivors, strong women who helped shape the west and paved the way for the women of today.

Edwina is up first, and you sure don’t want to miss her story!

Summary:

Honest, hard-working widower, age thirty-three, seeks sturdy English-speaking woman to help with mountain ranch and four children. Drinkers, whores, and
gamblers need not apply.

Not very romantic, but after one disastrous marriage, widowed Edwina Ladoux isn’t looking for romance. What she wants is safety for herself and her half-sister, and a way out of the war torn South, even if she has to offer herself up as a mail order bride to a stranger a thousand miles away in the Colorado
Rockies. But she hadn’t reckoned on Declan Brodie.

Declan’s first wife ran off with a gambler and was later killed by Indians. He has no desire to saddle himself with another—and her mulatto “traveling companion”. But his children need a mother, and he needs help to keep his mountain ranch running, and the proxy papers are already signed. But there’s something odd about those two. A connection he doesn’t quite understand. But at least the companion can cook.

What starts as a marriage of convenience between a southern princess and an overworked rancher-sometimes-sheriff, soon becomes a battle of wills, then a grudging respect, and finally a side-by-side struggle to rebuild the ranch after a vicious Indian attack. But just as things are starting to looking up again, and Declan and Ed begin to explore their feelings for each other, Declan’s first wife returns and an old enemy out for revenge threatens to destroy the family. It all comes to a head high atop an abandoned mine platform, where Edwina fights as she never has before, and Declan faces his greatest fear in order to save his
daughter and the woman he has grown to love.

Now have fun!

HEARTBREAK CREEK

PROLOGUE
Rose Hill Plantation,
Southeastern Louisiana

Edwina Ladoux stood at the window in her late father‟s office and watched a small two-wheeled carriage swing through the front gate.

Or rather, what was left of the front gate. The filigreed ironwork had been torn off years ago—rumor was it now graced the back garden of a bordello up by Bossier City—and the lovely stone pillars had toppled soon after. Quarry stone was hard to come by in bayou country, and so back when there had still been hope of rebuilding, she and Pru had laboriously carried the stones back to the orchard to fill in the gaps in the garden wall. But now that wall had fallen, too.

The carriage rolled briskly down the oyster shell drive beneath the long-armed oaks and their streamers of moss. Only three of the original trees remained. The fourth had burned the night the Yankees came, but had stood until high winds toppled it two years later. Now it sprawled across the lawn like a blackened skeleton, slowly sinking into the overgrowth.

The carriage stopped and the driver stepped down, a tall, thin man Edwina knew well. Bernard Alexander, and his father before him, and his grandfather before that, had been bankers for the Whitneys for almost seventy-five years. He probably dreaded this meeting as much as Edwina did. And he hadn‟t come alone, she noted, recognizing the other occupant as he came around the back of the carriage. He‟d brought Reverend Morton.

Reinforcements? In case the distraught Widow Ladoux needed a „tut-tut‟ and a pat on the shoulder to help soften the loss of the home that had been in her family for three-quarters of a century. Bless his heart.

The front door open and closed. Murmured greetings. Without furniture or carpets to muffle sound, voices carried through the empty house. A moment later, footfalls thudded in the hall. Clasping her hands at her waist to hide the shaking, Edwina turned as the door opened.

But only her sister, Prudence, stepped inside. “Mr. Alexander is here. Reverend Morton has come with him.”

“I saw. Is he expecting a ruckus, do you think?”

“Oh, dear.”

Edwina gave a brittle laugh she hoped might cover the fear gripping her throat. “Don‟t worry, I‟ll behave.”

Pru hated scenes. Edwina—the impulsive, high-spirited sister—thrived on them. As with any well-bred, well-trained Southern lady of quality, drama was her weapon, just as pride was her strength. Like the whalebone corsets and hoops under her dress, they shaped her and supported her, hiding beneath the bows and ruffles and hospitable
smile the core of determination that gave her the strength to endure what she must.

Today would be a test of that. Today she had a task to perform—her last as the sole survivor of the Whitney family and inheritor of Rose Hill. With the flourish of a pen, her own personal drama would be over. She could finally drop the mask of brave, but impoverished Southern widow struggling to cling to her home while the last shreds of a way of life crumbled around her. She was so very weary of the pretense.

It was liberating, in a way. This final act had been so long in coming she was almost glad to have it done. She was ready for a new role.

More or less.

Pru walked toward her, her footfalls echoing hollowly off the stripped walls and empty shelves and bare wood floor. “Do you want me to stay?”

Edwina saw the worry in her sister‟s dark eyes, and forced a smile. “What I want is for you to keep Reverend Morton occupied. If I have to suffer through one more pitying glance or murmured platitude, I declare I will throw myself out the window.”

Pru arched a dark brow. “And fall the entire twelve inches onto the veranda? You brave thing.” Reaching out, she gave Edwina‟s clasped hands a gentle squeeze. “He‟s only trying to help.”

“Like he helps all the lonely widows?” Seeing Pru was about to scold, Edwina waved her away. “Fine. I‟ll be nice. But really. Doesn‟t the man realize we‟re Catholic?”

“He came to stand witness, not preach. And he brought the mail.” Pru reached into her apron pocket and pulled out an envelope. She studied the address. “That‟s a dismal name. Heartbreak Creek.”

Finally. Snatching the letter from her sister‟s grip, Edwina stuffed it into her skirt pocket. “I saw an advertisement for an employment opportunity and inquired about it, that‟s all.”

“In Colorado Territory? Over a thousand miles away?”

To forestall further questions, Edwina nodded toward the door. “I think we‟ve left the gentlemen waiting long enough. Show them in. I want this over with as soon as possible.”

Pru hesitated. “You‟re sure you don‟t need me to stay?”

“I‟ll be fine. This is simply a formality.” Edwina forced a smile. “We knew Rose Hill was lost months ago. I‟m just glad it‟s going to our banker, rather than that Yankee scalawag tax man.”

Pru nodded and turned away. She took a step, then paused to swing her gaze around the room that was empty of all but their father‟s desk and three mismatched chairs—one behind the desk, and two in front. “I shall miss the books.”

Edwina heard the quaver in her sister‟s voice and strove for a lighter tone. “I don‟t know why. You read every one of them.”

But Pru didn‟t seem to hear. “They were like friends. I felt safe among them.”

Safe. Something twisted in Edwin‟s chest. Guilt, no doubt. She wanted to blurt out that those days of hiding—under beds, behind drapes, inside the pages of book—were over. She had a plan. A desperate, foolish, outrageous plan that was already in motion, and if successful, would allow them a new start far away from this place of destruction and despair.

It wasn‟t just the war-torn South Edwina hoped to escape, but their own desperate childhoods. Years ago Pru had been Edwina‟s protector—and would bear the scars from that selfless act for the rest of her life. Now it was Edwina‟s turn to step out from behind her sister‟s skirts and do what she must to save them both.

Again, that feeling of liberation swept through her. She might be leaping from the fat into the fire, but at least for that brief moment she hung suspended between the two, she would be totally free. Clasping her hands once more at her waist, she stiffened her back and lifted her chin. “I‟m ready, Pru. Send them in.”

* * *

A scant fifteen minutes later, the papers were signed and witnessed. Rose Hill Plantation was now the property of Bayou Bank & Trust of Sycamore Parrish, to be auctioned off at a later date for back taxes.

Before the ink had dried, Edwina was slipping out the office door and down the veranda steps into the south lawn.

Hardly a lawn any more. Mostly ragweed and dandelions. More weeds choked the azalea and camellia beds. The crepe myrtles had been left untended for so long they hardly bloomed any more, and the arbor where she and Pru had hidden from Mother was now a tangled mass of ropey wisteria vines. With no one left to fight back the undergrowth, Rose Hill, like most of the grand houses throughout southern Louisiana, was slowly falling into neglect, disappearing beneath a mountain of untamed vegetation.

Blood was an excellent fertilizer, Edwina had heard.

Chased by so many memories and emotions she couldn‟t separate one from the other, she quickened her pace. By the time she reached the resting place on the rise above the bayou, she was almost running.

The gate creaked as she pushed it open. Slowing to catch her breath, she followed the weed-choked path past the raised vaults of all those who had lived and died at Rose Hill. Here, in this quiet place, nothing changed. The same birds nested among the wide, glossy leaves of the magnolias. The same squirrels scurried by with their acorns. The stately oak still stood guard over the dead, its outstretched arms trailing long streamers of moss like gray tattered scarves.

When she came to the newest graves, where the lime-washed concrete was still starkly white, unscarred by war and time, she sank down on a stone bench and dropped her head in her hands.

It was over. Gone. Her home, this resting place, an entire way of life…lost with the signing of her name.

“Daddy, I‟m sorry,” she wept. “I‟m so sorry.”

After a while, disgusted with herself for giving way to useless tears, she blotted her cheeks and straightened. She had cried and wrung her hands for years, and it had gotten her nothing. Now she would do what she must to protect herself and Pru, even if that meant going all the way to Colorado Territory.

Gathering what courage she had left, she pulled the letter from her pocket and broke the seal.

A bank draft and several railroad vouchers slipped from a folded piece of paper and into her lap. Edwina carefully studied them. One voucher was for passage on the
Texas and New Orleans Railroad dated five days hence. Another was for a later date on the Missouri Pacific, and the third was for the Colorado and Nevada.

It’s happening, she thought, her heart starting to pound. It’s really happening. With trembling fingers, she unfolded the sheet of paper.

I accept your terms. Enclosed find train vouchers and travel funds. I will meet you in Heartbreak Creek on the eleventh of April, eighteen seventy. Bring proxy papers. Brodie.

Edwina stifled a sudden urge to break into hysterical laughter. Or maybe wails of despair. It didn‟t matter which. It was done. Her fate was sealed. Within less than a month, she would serve herself up like a timorous virgin to a man she had never met, in a place she had never been, for a purpose that made her cringe.

Except, of course, she was neither timorous nor a virgin, and this time, she knew exactly what was in store for her.

A shadow passed overhead, and Edwina looked up to see a brown pelican wing by, the pouch beneath its beak full. She doubted they had pelicans in Colorado. Or magnolias, or shrimp gumbo, or long sultry days when even the alligators didn‟t venture far from the slow, murky waters.

But they had mountains. And snow. And since she had never seen either, she at least had that to look forward to.

* * *

“You‟re what?”

Pru‟s voice had risen to a near shriek. Her eyes were as round as a carp‟s and her brows had moved halfway up to her tight dark curls as she‟d stared at the papers in her hands.

It might have been comical had Edwina been in a laughing mood. Hoping to avoid arguments, she had planned to put off this confrontation until tomorrow, the day before their departure. But her sister had found the proxy papers so Edwina was forced to tell her all.

“A mail order bride.” Edwina flopped down on the narrow bed in the room they shared in Mrs. Hebert‟s boarding house. “It‟s the perfect solution. And please don‟t try to talk me out of it, because as you can see by those papers, the deed is already done.”

“You‟re married?”

“This morning. In Judge Aucoin‟s chambers. His assistant stood as witness. It was all rather humdrum.” And somewhat sordid, but she didn‟t mention that. She‟d been through one grand wedding. She certainly didn‟t need another.

“Married?”

“To Declan Brodie. He seems a nice enough man.” Seeing that her sister was about to start yelling, Edwina dumped the contents of her reticule on the bed and rifled through the papers and vouchers until she found the tattered newspaper clipping. “Here,” she said, handing it to Pru. “Read for yourself.”

Edwina already knew the words by heart:
Honest, hard-working widower, age thirty-three, seeks sturdy English-speaking woman to help with mountain ranch and four children. Drinkers, whores, and gamblers
need not apply.

Such a romantic.

And one with rather low standards, she thought. Yet she qualified—except for the „sturdy‟ part. Since she had lost so much worry-weight over the last months, her once “willowy” figure now had all the appeal of a flagpole.

“You actually responded to this?” Pru‟s voice was starting to rise again. “An advertisement in a common newspaper?”

“It‟s not common,” Edwina defended. “It‟s the Matrimonial News. And it‟s famous. Everybody had heard of it.”

“I haven‟t.”

Edwina waved that aside. “And he wrote a very nice letter back.” Digging again through the papers on the bed, she came up with a crumpled envelope, which she handed to her sister. “A rather nice assessment, I think.”

“As well it should be,” Pru snapped when she saw the signature. “Since the man wrote it himself.”

“Not that one. The one from the traveling circuit judge.”

Another terse appraisal that Edwina knew by heart:
Mr. Brodie is a man of strong-determination, who is well-respected and tall.

Tall?

“And he also sent this.” She held up a tiny tintype of an unsmiling, clean-shaven, dark-haired man in a dark coat and banded collarless shirt.

Pru studied the tintype, then handed it back along with the letters of recommendation. “I just wish you‟d talked to me first,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Edwina recognized the pose, and braced for a scolding.

“Why would you do such a thing, Edwina? I know it was hard losing Rose Hill, but—”

“It isn‟t just Rose Hill, Pru. It‟s…” Edwina spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “It‟s everything. That man spitting on you, the vile things that Yankee upstart said to me, those horrid men in Crappo Town who are terrorizing everyone. This isn‟t home anymore. Everything has changed. And if there‟s nothing left for us here, why should we stay?”

“We? You‟re dragging me into this?”

“You‟re my sister. Did you think I would leave you behind?”

“Well…I…”

“They have mountains, Pru. Huge mountains! And all kinds of things we‟ve never seen. And look!” Edwina bent to pull from beneath the bed the book that had arrived only yesterday. Beaming, she held it out. “Knowing what a glutton for information you are, and how curious you would be about our new home, I had this sent all the way from a New Orleans bookstore.” And it had cost her dearly, but seeing the smile on her sister‟s face convinced Edwina it was worth every penny.

“Our new home?”

“Our new home. Mr. Brodie has a place for you in his household, too.” Or he would, as soon as Edwina talked him into it.

Pru laughed and rolled her eyes. “He‟d better. Since his new bride doesn‟t know a thing about cooking or tending children.”

When I started reading this trilogy, I was fascinated by both brothers of the Earl of Westcliff, especially Stephen. I wasn’t sure he could be redeemed after his behavior is revealed. Of course, I shouldn’t have been doubtful, considering who wrote his story, and I ended up so enamored of Stephen within the first few pages of the book. That left the Duke of Ainsley.

I really didn’t think much about his story, knowing that Lorraine Heath would give him a nearly insurmountable problem, have him suffer for it, but give him – and me – that happily ever after we’d both long for. And did she ever. If you’ve loved Ainsley from the previous two books, have anticipated reading about him since finishing Pleasuring of a Notorious Gentleman, the wait is worth the anticipation and anxiety.

You feel for Ainsley immediately, once you discover his torturous secret. Make that secrets. That’s where Jane comes in. And things definitely go from bad to worse before they get better. And the getting part is so beautifully done, just before their hearts – and yours – break all over again.

Get ready for a very emotional ride with Ainsley and Jane.

Summary:

Renowned for his bedchamber prowess, Ransom Seymour, the Duke of Ainsley, owes a debt to a friend. But the payment expected is most shocking, even to an unrepentant rake—for he’s being asked to provide his friend’s exquisite wife with what she most dearly covets: a child.

Living for pleasure, they will give their hearts to no one . . .

Lady Jayne Seymour, Marchioness of Walfort, is furious that such a scandalous agreement would be made. If she acquiesces, there must be rules: no kissing . . . and, certainly, no pleasure.

Until love takes them by surprise.

But unexpected things occur with the surprisingly tender duke—especially once Lady Jayne discovers the rogue can make her dream again . . . and Ransom realizes he’s found the one woman he truly cannot live without.

“I’ll consider your debt paid in full if you get my wife with child.”

Ransom Seymour, the ninth Duke of Ainsley, struggled to concentrate as he sat sprawled in a comfortable armchair in the well-appointed library. He’d been downing excellent whiskey ever since his arrival at the Marquess of Walfort’s country estate for his once legendary hunt. After three hours, they were both well into their cups, so surely he’d misunderstood.

“Does your silence indicate your acceptance of the terms?” Walfort asked.

Ainsley scrutinized his long-time friend, sitting in that wheelchair, where he himself had placed him three years earlier. He released a dark chuckle. “I’ve had far too much to drink. You would not countenance what I thought you uttered.”

“Jayne wants a child. I can’t give it to her. You owe me this.”

Ainsley pushed himself out of the chair. He’d meant to do so with force. Instead, he staggered and almost lost his balance as he crossed over to the fireplace. He pressed his forearm against the stone mantel to steady himself while he studied the madly dancing flames. Within them, he could almost see the night he and Walfort had been barreling wildly through the London streets, the curricle traveling at a dangerous breakneck speed—

“Jayne would never agree to this mad notion of yours. She despises me.”

He hardly blamed her for her attitude toward him. She was the sort of woman who should never be denied anything her heart desired. It was his second thought upon being introduced to her at the betrothal dinner that had been held in her and Walfort’s honor: If you were mine, you’d never do without. His first thought had been that he wished he’d met her before Walfort, so certain was he that he’d have been able to charm her into his arms. She was the loveliest woman upon whom he’d ever set eyes. Grace and poise mirrored her every step. When she smiled, she made a man feel as though he were all that mattered.

In no hurry to marry, Ainsley had avoided the soirees of Seasons past whenever possible. Thus he’d missed the opportunity to meet and court Lady Jayne Spencer. Although to hear Walfort tell it, he snagged her heart during their initial dance.

“You have a reputation for charming the ladies. Apply your talents to my wife,” Walfort said now, each word biting, clipped, as though forced between clenched teeth.

“You want me to seduce her?”

“I want you to give her what I cannot.”

“This is ludicrous.” Ainsley shoved himself away from the fireplace, dropped back into the chair which had suddenly become unbearably uncomfortable, rose, and stalked to the window. Unsettled, he refused to acknowledge how often he’d dreamed of Jayne, but he’d never acted upon his interest. He lived his life by a code of chivalry that had been passed down from his ancestors who had fought alongside Richard the Lionheart during the crusades. He did not take women who belonged to others. “Does she consent to this preposterous scheme of yours?”

“I’ve not yet discussed it with her. I wanted to ensure you were in agreement with it before I did.”

He faced a man he suddenly no longer knew. Had Walfort’s affliction driven him mad? “I can predict her answer with unerring accuracy. She’ll laugh, she’ll slap my face, and then she’ll weep. Not to mention the legal ramifications. If she gives birth to a boy, he will inherit. Even if all of England knows you are not his sire, you will be legally bound—”

“You and I are not only friends, but cousins. We both carry the Seymour blood. It would not be such an offense. Besides, I do not care about blood as much as I care about Jayne and seeing that she is happy.”

But what of Ainsley? To have a son or daughter whom he could never acknowledge? Did he owe his cousin such a sacrifice? Although his recollections were a blur, Ainsley knew he’d been driving the curricle. When it toppled, he’d been thrown clear, his only souvenir from the incident a thin scar that bisected the left side of his chin. Walfort had somehow managed to get caught up in the rigging. When everything had finally come to a thundering halt, he’d been broken.

Ghastly. Irrevocably. Broken.

Well, in the excerpt earlier today, you got to meet Elias and Nessa. But you also need to meet Dominic.

Over such a period of time apart, of course, both of these characters have changed, but it’s Dom who’s changed the most. Though Nessa gets a pretty darned good makeover herself, when all is said and done.

But no matter what, they recognize each other just because of their love and need for one another.

So take the time to read this first chapter of Hunter’s Fall. I can guarantee you’ll make a trip to the old bookstore when you’re done…

Present Day

There was smoke.

And there was blood.

The air was thick, and he was going to choke on all the blood. Even if he didn’t have it pooling in his throat, he wouldn’t have been able to take a breath.

The pain wouldn’t let him.

It stole through him, turning everything to ice.

She was crying. He could hear her. She cried and wept and pleaded with him not to leave her. But he had no choice. Death was coming, coming to rip him away from the one person who mattered.

Even though he slept, he felt the sting of tears. Felt them well up under his eyes, felt them burn their way down his cheeks. He wanted to wipe them away. Wanted to wake from this awful dream.

But he was helpless, locked in his slumber.

Ah, Nessa . . . my beautiful, foolish, wonderful girl. I love you so much. I will come back . . . I will find you again . . .

Browning, Idaho

“You’re too pretty.”

“Am I?” he asked, a grin tugging at his lips. It was a mouth made for kissing.

“Yes.”

She was dreaming. Nessa knew she was dreaming. If she had any sense, she would lie back and just enjoy it.

Well, I already did that. And she had—three, no, four times over.

There was no way any red-blooded, straight woman could lie in bed with this man, dream or no dream, and not enjoy it. Not enjoy him.

His eyes were dark, rich as melted chocolate, framed by thick, curly eyelashes. His skin gleamed a soft, mellow gold. In the sun, she imagined that smooth, sleek skin would deepen to a darker gold. His hair was black, blacker than onyx, and thick. It had just the slightest curl to it and when she ran her hands through it, the jet strands twined her fingers.

She knew that from experience—she’d spent half the night with her hands buried in his hair.

They hadn’t spent much time standing up, but she guessed he was about five ten. He had a long, lean build, and she sensed strength inside him. Massive strength, but when he touched her, he did it with gentleness. Reverence.

As well a dream lover should, she supposed.

He reached up and traced the line of her mouth with his fingertip. She shivered under that light touch and felt heat flicker through her. Catching his finger in her mouth, she bit lightly.

Hunger blazed in his eyes.

She felt a response and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his. “Well, if I had to dream you, I must say, it turned out rather well,” she mused.

He laughed against her mouth and asked, “How do you know I’m not the one who dreamed you up?”

“Oh, believe me, I’m the one who is dreaming. There is no man out there pining for me.”

No man waiting. No man longing. No man searching. No matter what was promised.

I will come back . . . I will find you again . . .

“You’re so sad,” he whispered. “Why are you so sad?”

Nessa forced a smile. “Of course I’m not . . . well, I won’t be for long. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

~*~

“I will find you. No matter where you go. No matter how far.”

With a snort, Nessa looked away from the TV and focused on Mei-Lin’s hair. The teenager grinned up at her. “It’s romantic, Nessa. You can’t snort like that when Daniel Day Lewis is on the screen saying a line like that.” With a sigh, the girl rested a hand on her heart and gazed at the TV with rapt eyes.

The Last of the Mohicans was the girl’s favorite movie. They usually watched it once a month.

Unless Nessa could see a way out. Today was Mei-Lin’s seventeenth birthday, though, and she’d wanted to watch the silly film before she went out with some friends.

Weaving the girl’s silky hair into a tight braid, Nessa glanced at the screen. Spectacular scenery. Strong, sexy men with big guns, innocent-looking girls with simpering eyes. Romantic bits like, I will find you.

It struck a knife in her heart.

Although it had been five hundred years, she could still hear Elias’s voice.

I will come back . . . I will find you again . . .

Only God Himself could keep me from you, love.

And God Himself had spent the last five centuries doing just that. Nessa couldn’t watch this damn film without reliving her memories. A time when she was torn away from her husband.

Not by pissed off Natives, but by death.

By God.

He had taken her lover from her, and had kept her from joining him.

She was alone, and empty. So empty inside. Not even her dream lover could ease that ache. At least not for long.

She blew out a sigh and used an elasticized band to keep Mei-Lin’s braid from unraveling. Rising from the couch, she gathered up the ice cream cartons from the floor and carted them into the kitchen to dump them in the trash.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Mei-Lin and despite herself, she had to smile.

This girl had pulled Nessa back from the edge of madness, despair.

Even as she tried to draw her mind away from the memories, she found herself caught in them again. It had been a few years since her life had been turned upside down.

One last battle . . . she’d been so sure when she went to face the young witch that it would be her last.

And after more than five hundred years, she was so very, very tired. So empty inside, but she’d become accustomed to that. The exhaustion, though, weighed on her more and more, with each and every year.

The thought of just being done had been such a . . . sweet relief. She’d yearned for it, ached for it. Longed for it. She’d gone to battle with a young woman who used her magic to steal life and power from others—Morgan Wakefield. She had practiced blood magic, and it was addictive. Once a witch gave in to that lure, it became a hunger, a need. Fighting it was almost impossible, and Morgan hadn’t wanted to.

The only way to keep her from killing was to end her life—a sad, sorry fact, but one Nessa had been prepared to handle. She’d been prepared for all likely outcomes—including her own death.

She hadn’t been prepared to live. She certainly hadn’t been prepared to live like this.

Absently, she glanced at the ornamental mirror hanging over the sofa and studied her face.

Morgan’s face.

No. She hadn’t been prepared for this. She’d fought the young, deceptive, blood-thirsty witch, and as she’d expected, her body hadn’t survived the battle. But somehow, her spirit had. She hadn’t planned for it—hadn’t done a damn thing to make this happen—at least not consciously. Nessa had wanted death, craved it. Craved it the way Morgan had craved blood. The way a drug addict craved their next fix. She’d needed it.

But instead of the sweet relief of death, she lived. In Morgan’s body.

For so long after it had happened, Nessa had been lost—trapped in a muddle of depression, despair, memories and madness. Even as she began to emerge from that fog, she’d hated it—she’d yearned for the sweet, oblivious cloud where she’d lived.

Until Mei-Lin.

They had met just a few months ago, but already, this girl had settled inside Nessa’s heart, forged a place there. Given Nessa a reason to believe again. A reason to hope. A reason to live.

She looked at Mei-Lin and saw the echo of her own youth. Kindred spirits, she supposed. That was why she’d felt so drawn to the girl, why she’d taken Mei-Lin under her wing instead of shipping her off to Excelsior.

Almost a year earlier, Mei-Lin’s mother had died and the girl had ended up in foster care, only to run away after one of the other foster kids had tried to molest her.

The night they met, Nessa had been walking through the dark streets, looking for a fight, a drink, both . . . anything to occupy her mind.

What she found was Mei-Lin. Or rather, Mei-Lin found her. The girl had quick hands—she might not have even noticed the theft if the girl hadn’t unconsciously used her magic as well.

Untrained witches—they were a danger to themselves. Nessa had planned to dump the girl back at Excelsior. She needed training, that was for certain, and she also needed to finish high school. She could do both at Excelsior. Kelsey and the other Hunters would see to it that Mei-Lin was trained and care for.

But in the end, it was Nessa who took the girl in. It hadn’t taken but a few hours to realize she needed the girl as much as the girl needed her. Perhaps more.

The two of them, they were both lost, lonely souls.

Meeting the girl had pulled Nessa back from the brink—she’d reminded Nessa of who she was.

She’d reminded Nessa of what she was.

She might be a lonely witch still pining over her lost lover, but she was also a fighter.

Nessa was a Hunter—a warrior, a witch. She’d devoted her life to protecting the innocent from the monsters in the world. She’d never given up in her whole damned life.

Mei-Lin helped her remember that about herself.

She owed the girl.

More, she loved her.

Leaning against the counter that separated the kitchen and the living room, she tucked her hair behind one ear and watched as the teen finished watching the movie. As the credits started to roll, Mei-Lin patted her heart and said, “If you’re still wanting to find me another birthday present, I want that. Gimme a man like that.”

“I looked but they’d already sold out at the mall.” Nessa rolled her eyes. “Darling, you are seventeen. You have plenty of time to find a man.”

“They do still make them like that, right?” She wrinkled her nose and said, “I want a real man, not one who spends more time messing with his hair than I do. I don’t want some dumb boy, either. Real men still exist, right?”

Nessa grinned and thought of some of the men she knew. Chortling, she tried to picture Malachi messing with his hair. The vampire had seen millennia come and go, and while he was a vain bastard, he wasn’t one to primp.

Images of other men, other friends—Hunters she’d worked with over the years—flashed through her mind. Would they stand in front of a mirror and primp? Tobias, Declan, Vax . . . no. Not a one of them.

Eli, perhaps, but he had always been a peacock.

She had a quick flash of her dream lover. That thick, silken hair, tousled by her hands. He wouldn’t spend his time studying his reflection, either, she knew.

Of course, he wouldn’t . . . he isn’t real. He was just her dream lover, a man her imagination created to help with the emptiness inside her, to help wile away long, lonely nights.

A dream lover . . . and he belongs in those dreams, only those dreams, so for the love of all things holy, stop thinking about him during the day.

She shoved off the counter and went to turn off the television. “Yes, Mei-Lin. I promise, there are plenty of men who are less than enamored with their pretty reflections.”

Outside, Nessa heard footsteps and she tugged on one of Mei-Lin’s braids. “Your friends are here.”

“How can you hear them?” she asked, cocking her head. She squinted her eyes as though it might help her hear better.

“Practice.” Nessa shrugged a shoulder. “You’ll get there.”

The doorbell rang and Mei-Lin moved to answer it. As a gaggle of giggling girls entered the small house, Nessa tidied up the living room. Living with a teenage girl, she was constantly picking up, straightening up, doing laundry.

She didn’t mind, oddly enough.

Other than Mei-Lin’s training, this was the closest to normal Nessa had ever known.

Mei-Lin reappeared in the door, surrounded by her friends.

“Hi, Ms. Chandler!”

Nessa managed not to make a face. Ms. Chandler was only one of the many names she’d used during her life—she’d much rather be called Agnes or Nessa than anything Ms. Made her feel as old as she truly was. Ancient.

Giving them a smile, she said, “How are you this evening, Kim?”

“Oh, you know.” She rolled eyes heavily made up with black liner and said, “I’m sort of on probation. Brought home a C on my final and Mom said if it happened again, I’d lose the car until I brought home something better.”

“You could have a better grade if you wanted.” Nessa knew the line she should use and she did. Mei-Lin’s friends, the teachers, all the people they knew thought Nessa was Mei-Lin’s stepsister. They even had legal papers to document it. “Your mother just wants you to do your best.”

“I know.” Kim sighed and shrugged. “Chemistry is just so boring. I can’t wait until I’m done with school and don’t have to worry about that sh . . . uh, crap anymore.”

Dryly, Nessa said, “Paying bills is quite boring as well. You’ll have to do things you don’t enjoy the rest of your life. The good comes with the bad.” She gave Mei-Lin a bright smile and said, “Speaking of which . . .”

She dumped the armful of shoes, books, iPod and socks into Mei-Lin’s arms. “Before you go out, please put these away.”

Mei-Lin rolled her eyes and obediently trucked up the stairs.

One of the newer girls asked Nessa about her accent, and another started rambling on about how sssexxxy accents were. Kim enviously told the others how Nessa had taken Mei-Lin to France for spring break.

The new girl—Ashlyn—rolled her eyes and said, “Man, Mei. You’ve got the coolest mom. Mine would never let me go that far away without her.”

Mei-Lin appeared on the stairs and pain flashed across her face. Nessa gave her a gentle smile and whispered mind-to-mind, Are you okay?

Mei-Lin gave her a tight smile.

An awkward silence fell, and one of the girls leaned in and in a loud whisper said, “Way to go, Ashlyn. Mei’s mom died last year. Ms. Chandler is Mei’s stepsister—her guardian.”

Ashlyn went white. Nessa patted the girl on the shoulder. “It’s okay, Ashlyn. You didn’t know, now did you?” Then she gave her a smile and said, “I imagine your mum is quite the protective one. I’m sure you find it quite irritating, but she loves you. Enjoy it . . . enjoy her, because you never know how long you’ll have her.”

Ashlyn gave Mei-Lin a slightly sick smile. “I’m sorry, Mei. I didn’t . . .”

“It’s cool,” Mei-Lin said, shaking her head.

Changing the subject, Nessa looked at Kim and said, “So, what plans do you girls have tonight?”

Mei-Lin gave Nessa an exasperated look while Kim smiled. In a singsong voice, she replied, “We’re going to get some dinner at Applebee’s, then we’re going to a movie. The movie is at the Multiplex and it starts at 9:15. It should be over by 11:30. I have to drop the other girls off first, but we’ll be here by midnight and I’m spending the night. And yes, Ms. Chandler, my mother will be calling at midnight so I hope you’re awake.”

“Cheeky girl,” Nessa murmured. She looked at Mei-Lin. “You have your phone?”

A few minutes later, Nessa shut the door behind them. Alone in the house, she rested her head back against the door and sighed. Alone . . . and it was too quiet.

When silence came, the voice was louder.

The voice . . . Morgan’s voice. Yes, she had Morgan’s body, and she also had Morgan’s . . . ghost, for lack of a better word.

“This is just too cute for words, you old hag. Look at you, playing house.”

It was a taunting, angry jibe, but Nessa pretended to ignore it. Once she had noise, once she had something to occupy her hands, the voice of the dead woman would fade.

For a time.

How much longer, she wondered. How much longer would Morgan linger?

Even now, months, years later, the girl haunted her.

Damn her. Even in death, she’d managed to ruin things. If the woman’s body had just died, then Nessa could have died as well.

“Is this the reason you stole my body, so you could play Holly Homemaker?”

Nessa shoved away from the door and reached out. With the slightest flex of her magic, she turned on some music. Loud. But Morgan wasn’t going to go quiet that easily.

“This is a fucking waste. Why did you take my body if this is all you’re going to do? Shit, can’t you even go out, find a guy, get drunk, get fucked? Something—anything—would be better than watching you play mama witch to that little idiot.”

Nessa smirked. “Not while I’ve got a dead witch whining in the back of my head.”

“I don’t see why not. It’s my body.”

“Actually, no, it’s not. If it was your body, you’d be able to take it back. But you can’t.” She knew what the girl was about—Morgan wanted to make Nessa feel guilty, wanted to exploit any and every little weakness.

“It damn well is my body,” Morgan snarled, her mental voice an angry, ugly growl. “Your body died. That old bag of bones is gone. Hypocritical bitch. How in the hell can you condemn me for taking blood when you took my damn body?”

Narrowing her eyes, Nessa turned to the mirror and stared at her reflection. She saw her face—the face that had once belonged to Morgan. “You didn’t just take blood, child. You took lives. You ended lives. When I came upon you, you stank of death. How many have you killed? Can you even remember?”

“The strong kill the weak. It’s the way of the world.”

“We could write your death off that way if you like.” Malicious cow—she knew just what words to use, when to use them. Guilt tried to settle inside Nessa but she cast it off. “And here’s another way of the world. You can call it karma. I prefer ‘you shall reap what you sow.’ You killed. Blindly, indiscriminately and you enjoyed it. You would have sucked my body dry of magic, sucked me dry of life, and then moved on to your next victim and your next. But you couldn’t beat me. And I didn’t take your body. Trust me, precious, I didn’t want your body. I didn’t want this life. You don’t like it, and I understand that. I don’t like it either. But we’re both stuck with it.”

“I’ll find a way to get my body back.”

“No.” Nessa shook her head. “You won’t. You’re just a ghost, Morgan, clinging to life. You need to let go and move on. It’s not like there’s much of anything keeping you here now, is there?”

“There’s plenty keeping me here. My body, for one.”

Nessa stared at her reflection, knowing the ghost in the back of her mind would see the insolent smile on her face. That was where Morgan existed now—that was the only place Morgan existed.

“It’s not your body. You went and got greedy, precious. Tried to take things that don’t belong to you. This is rather karmic, don’t you think? You took power, you took blood . . . and your body was taken from you. It’s mine now.”

“Because you stole it.”

Nessa sighed. “No, I didn’t.”

After all, stealing another’s body would imply that Nessa wanted to live. She’d wanted anything but. She’d gone into that battle with her eyes wide open, knowing that after more than five hundred years, she could finally rest. She would die, and on the other side, she’d find Elias. Finally.

But fate hadn’t worked out that way.

Nobody else knew. Nessa had told no one about Morgan. Morgan was her burden, her problem. And she’d learned how to deal with the problem relatively well.

Smiling at her reflection, she leaned in and kissed the mirror. “I must get to work now. Toddle off now, precious. We living witches have things to do.”

In the back of her mind, she heard Morgan shriek . . . just before she blocked her off.

Her workroom was tucked away down in the basement, and she might as well spend some time working on Mei-Lin’s next lesson—the poor girl was still having trouble with basic grounding and shielding. Until they had down, they couldn’t start even the more rudimentary magics.

Focusing on the work, she lost track of time. It wasn’t until she felt a brush against her senses that she looked up with a glance at the clock. Nearly ten. Time enough.

“You might as well come in, Mal. I’m alone for now.”

The vampire appeared in front of her, materializing out of thin air. He cast a look around the small, dimly lit room and grimaced. “Fuck me, love. You could do far better than this, you know.”

“This will do me fine, thank you.” She made a few more notes in the margin of the paper and tossed her pencil down. Rising from the chair, she moved around the desk and rose on her toes to kiss Malachi’s cool cheek.

The vampire was her oldest friend—in more ways than one. He was so old, he’d forgotten just how old he was. Nessa knew he’d been a Roman slave at some point during his human life.

She had met him shortly after she’d returned to Excelsior after Elias had died. Five hundred years of friendship.

She knew his moods. Though that pale, poetically handsome face showed no expression, something was bothering him.

He was worried.

“Where is Kelsey?”

“At the school.” He brushed an absent hand down her hair and turned away. Restless, he roamed around the small room for a few moments before coming to a stop in front of the shelf of books.

Many of the books were old. Not a few decades or even a couple of hundred years. They’d belonged to Nessa for several centuries. He studied them and then turned around, looking at Nessa with an unreadable expression.

Nessa sighed. “What it is, Mal?”

“I don’t know.” Dark, deep red hair fell to hide his face as he lowered his gaze to the floor. He stood in silence for long, long moments.

Her skin started to buzz and adrenaline started to course through her. She didn’t feel anything. But something had Malachi on edge. The bastard had walked this earth for even longer than Nessa—whatever bothered him, it wasn’t going to be some mild little annoyance.

Finally, he lifted his head and pinned her with midnight blue eyes. “Kelsey wanted me here, pet. I don’t know why. She doesn’t know why. But she wanted me here.”

“That doesn’t sound quite good.” Nessa rubbed her eyes and then lowered her head, mentally extending her senses. She felt nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

No nasty, hideous supernatural monster creeping close—that she would feel, just as she’d sensed Malachi’s presence. The small town of Browning, Idaho, had a nearly nonexistent paranormal population. It was why Nessa had chosen to live here after she’d made the decision to take care of Mei-Lin. She didn’t need to worry about any vampires or werewolves. The nearest wolf pack was close to a hundred miles away, and the nearest vamp was even farther. There were one or two lesser witches, a family of cat shifters, and the odd random psychic.

If anything new had moved in, Nessa would have felt it.

“I don’t feel anything,” she pointed out, although she knew it was unnecessary. Malachi might be a vampire and she a witch, but they were both Hunters, which meant they were tuned into the monsters—the non-mortals that hunted and preyed on the innocent.

“Neither do I.” A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Nessa felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. The look in his eyes, it nearly froze her to the bone. She closed her eyes and reached out, extending her mind until it brushed up against Mei-Lin’s. She sensed the younger witch, sensed her surprise as Mei-Lin felt Nessa’s presence.

She gave the nonverbal equivalent of Shhh . . . it’s okay. Just wanted to check on you. And that she did—the girl was most definitely in the theater, as were her friends.

Feeling a bit reassured, she opened her eyes and focused on Malachi’s face. “Mei-Lin will be here shortly. It’s her birthday and she’s gone to the pictures.” She paused and took a deep breath. “She was to have a friend spend the night, but I guess I should reschedule that.”

Malachi just watched her.

“She’ll be cross with me,” Nessa said, forcing a smile.

“She’s a good lass. She’ll understand.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps. Although if I knew whatever the trouble was, it might make it easier to explain, wouldn’t you agree?”

They left Nessa’s small house to drive to the theater. Malachi wouldn’t go for remaining at the house. Truthfully, Nessa was glad he came along, and not just because it was amusing to watch as the big vampire forced his large body into the front seat of her Ford Fusion.

“I’d have more room in a tin can, love.”

“Oh, nonsense. Besides, you can’t drive a tin can.” She started the car and backed up, zipping along the roads with careless speed.

“You can’t crash a tin can, either,” Malachi muttered, maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe.

Plastic cracked and she shot him a disapproving glance. “If you make a mess of my car, vampire, I’ll have your arse.”

She could almost see how much it took for him to ease up. “How did you get any sort of license, driving like this?” He gave her a sour look. “You didn’t magic some fool into it, did you?”

“Of course not.” Nessa smiled serenely. “I don’t have a license.”

She checked the opposite lane of the narrow two-lane highway and darted around a semi, grinning as the driver laid on the horn when she squeezed in front of him.

“Fuck me,” Malachi mumbled. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the passenger seat. “Damn good thing I’m not mortal—you’d give me a heart attack.”

As they neared the interstate, she reached over and patted the white-knuckled fist he had resting on his knee. “You worry too much, my friend. Turning into a boring old fusspot.”

He shot her a narrow glance. “Very few people would dare call me a fusspot.”

She opened her mouth but the words locked in her throat.

Blood roared in her ears. She barely had the presence of mind to pull the car onto the narrow shoulder before she wrecked it. Her hands shook, cold and clammy on the steering wheel.

“Mal . . .”

It came as a cold wind.

Death. Uncaring, unstoppable.

Malachi felt it as well—she could tell by the tight expression on his face, the blue light glowing in his eyes.

She shot him a dazed look. For a few short moments, she could hardly breathe.

The sound of her mobile phone buzzing hit like a fist, stealing the breath from her lungs. She grabbed it, recognizing Mei-Lin’s picture on the display.

“Nessa, hey, you didn’t answer the home phone.”

“Mei-Lin, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing.” Then she paused.

In the background, Nessa could hear the girls talking and their voices lacked the excited, happy tone from earlier. Then Mei-Lin sighed and said, “Kim ran into this guy she was dating at the theater. He started being a real jerk and I told him to back off. He started yelling at me and some guy in the row in front of us told him to back off and then . . .” Her voice trailed off. She was quiet for a minute and then said, “Kim just wanted to leave. So we left. I wanted to let you know we’d be there soon and—”

There was a scream.

A crash.

And Nessa felt it as death came in and claimed yet more lives.

~*~

She cried.

His pretty little witch was crying.

Standing in a field of stone, surrounded by people, yet utterly alone.

Day bled into night and the people drifted from her side and still she cried. She was alone now, save for one woman and one man.

Anger bit into him as the man—the vampire—dared to lift a hand to touch the witch. Dared to wrap a big arm around her slender shoulders and draw her close.

Tears choked him.

Her pain racked him.

He wanted to reach out to her. He wanted to be the one to comfort her, to hold her against him as she wept.

But when he whispered her name, she didn’t hear him.

~*~

Dominic came awake with her name on his lips and a tearing pain in his heart.

Snarling, he fought free of the covers and dashed a hand over his damp face. Crying. Damn it. Again. Dreams of some woman he’d never met and he wakes up crying. He stared at the pink smears on his fingertips and stormed into the bathroom to wash away the blood-tinged tears.

With water dripping from his face, he looked at the mirror. A muscle worked in his jaw and he gripped the edge of the marble counter.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered.

He was obsessed. Obsessed, dreaming about the same woman, night after night, year after year. And now he was even crying like some fucking pansy in his dreams.

“What in the hell is this?” Shoving away from the counter, he strode to the enclosed shower and turned on the water with an angry flick of his wrist. He needed a damn hot shower, he needed a good hard run, maybe even a down and dirty fight—if he could get all three of those, it might lighten his dark mood.

But somehow he doubted it.

The dreams were getting worse, and he had a bad feeling he knew why.

Dominic Ralston was going crazy.

I recently said in a review that I’m currently, slowly but surely, making my way through Shiloh Walker‘s backlist. That includes her Hunters series. Unfortunately for me, this is the first book of that series that I’ve read. And it’s made me very hungry to read the ones before it. Fortunately for those of you who are up to date with the series – and even if you’re not, like me! – you’re in for a very compelling read with Hunter’s Fall.

Elias and Nessa lost each other centuries ago, Elias promising Nessa he will find her once again. This is a love that survives everything, death, heartache, time, loneliness, danger, and so much more that a Hunter can experience over the years.

And when that love is finally to be reunited, nothing can stand in its way. And it comes just in time for Nessa.

Summary:

UNKNOWN PAST

Something strange is happening to Nessa. Ever since she survived a near-death experience she’s not exactly who she used to be—and enjoying every minute of it. Then she’s called upon to go to battle against darkness. If only she could remember why.

UNEXPECTED LOVER

Dominic is having his own problems with memory, sanity, and hallucinations. Sent to Excelsior, the covert Hunter training facility, he senses a female presence that seems so hauntingly familiar. That’s because he and Nessa share a forgotten past.

UNSEEN EVIL

As Nessa and Dominic regain their memories, their strange mission against evil becomes clearer. And all the more dangerous because whether they should trust each other is the still the greatest unknown of all.

First meet Elias and Nessa…

Prologue

Oneoak, England
1506

He was watching her again, the old bugger. She could feel his eyes on her and they made her feel dirty. She quickened her steps and slipped out of the village, melting into the shadows of the forest.

William—why in the hell had he been out this late? It was past midnight. No reason for any sane soul to be awake.

Of course, she was awake. But there were things she needed to do. Out in the forest—the sort of things the good people of the village were better off not knowing about. The sort of things that would likely have her branded a witch, if they knew what she was doing.

And of course, she was a witch. She took no shame in it, either. It was a God-given gift—a gift that saved lives, a gift that helped people.

The skin on the back of her neck crawled. She could still feel the weight of his stare. Casting a look over her shoulder, Agnes stared through the trees, but she could not see him.

He was not there now.

But he had been.

He always seemed to be watching her. There was something about it that made her feel tainted, foul. Almost as bad as that one time he’d touched her.

Damn that bastard. She should have taught him a lesson then. Nessa moved deeper into the forest, trying to shrug off the nervy, twitchy feeling between her shoulder blades.

She was uneasy.

Not afraid, she insisted, squaring her shoulders as she continued to move through the night. Agnes was a Hunter of the Council. She did not fear the dark. She did not fear the monsters lurking there.

The darkness feared her. And she was quite certain if she told herself that enough, she would even believe it.

But something was not quite right tonight. She could feel it. Scent it. All but taste it. She wanted to go back to her home, cuddle in bed beside her man, Elias, and hold him tight. But she could not.

Something evil was afoot, and it called her.

Called her from the safety of her bed into the darkness of night.

Part of her still feared, no matter how much she might insist otherwise.

She did not rightly know if she would ever get over that fear. After all, she knew what monsters hid in the darkness—she knew them truly and well—she knew their names, their faces, the blood and their magic. She was right to fear them.
But fear or not, she had responsibilities. Uneasy or not, she had a sworn duty.

Agnes was more than just a witch.

She was a Hunter, called to protect others. She had been sent to this small village to deal with the rogue werewolves roaming in the forest, preying on the villagers. It had been the first task assigned to her and she knew she had done well.
The werewolves were gone.

They were not responsible for this uneasiness inside her. Perhaps it was just William, she thought. He always made her feel twitchy and jumpy. Dirty.

Not for much longer, though. Soon, she would be away from him and she would never have to see that nasty man again.
Soon she and Elias would be leaving Oneoak. First they would go to Brendain, the home of the Hunters. It had been home to her for nearly six years, since she was twelve. She was almost eighteen now. Although she had lived in Oneoak for the past year, it was not home. Not for her. No, Brendain was home and soon, she would return there, and this time, she would take her man with her.

The two of them would take a bit of a rest. Nessa would see if there was some place she was needed.

Needed . . . it warmed her heart to think of it.

Nessa was needed.

Absently, she fingered the tip of her braid, lost in thought. It was not just by the Hunters, either. She helped people. She had saved people. A grin lit her face as she thought of one person in particular—she had saved his arse, even if Elias tried to argue.

She knew the truth.

Elias could tease her and call her a foolish girl all he wanted.

He knew the truth. She had saved his life. It had been almost a year since she had met him, just one week after she’d come to Oneoak. The wolves would have torn him apart that night. There had just been too many of them—his silver dagger could kill them, but not if there were ten of them and only one of him.

They would have killed him if she had not come and burned them to nothing but dust and ashes.

The entire pack was gone now, the bloodthirsty monsters sent straight to hell where they belonged. A new pack would come here, a healthy pack, one that would roam this land and care for it the way it deserved to be cared for.

The taint in the land would be cleansed. And it was in part because of one little witch, a Hunter called Agnes.
Nessa. Elias called her that, said that Agnes just did not suit her. It was his mother’s name also, and she knew that was partly why he did not think it suited her. Thinking of him made that uneasiness return, stronger, more powerful.

“Stop it,” she muttered to herself. With a sigh, Nessa started to head south. One last trip through, just to be certain.

They would leave in the morning.

But she froze. Icy fear wrapped a fist around her heart.

Pain plunged a fist into her stomach.

Fire danced before her eyes.

A cacophony of voices assaulted her mind.

Witches—we have to kill them.

Do not kill him yet. We need him to get her back here. To make her confess before she dies.


She is just a girl—be sensible. A nice girl. We cannot do this. We will take them before the priests. If there is something wrong, they will know what to do.

Be silent, woman!

She is a witch . . . oh, aye. I have seen her, using fire, casting spells—she has tried to bewitch me. Tried to seduce me, that witch.

Rage wrapped its fiery grip around her. She knew that voice. It belonged to Sir William. Oh, she would tear his eyes out. Slamming a hand against the trunk of a tree, she braced herself to keep from stumbling as everything struck her at once.

Adrenaline surged through her and she spun around, running through the trees. The very night had fallen silent—too silent. The forest was never this still.

A voice rasped through her head and she heard him speak even though he was far away.

Run, Nessa. Do not come back here, Elias said in her mind. Elias had no magic, no power, nothing save the bond their love gave him. But he knew that if he spoke out to her, she would hear him.

And likely, he knew she would not listen.

The anger and fear in his voice added to her own fear, but it spurred the part inside her that made her warrior as well as witch. She only ran faster. If he thought she would run away when he was in danger, then Elias did not know his wife very well at all.

She tore into Oneoak looking exactly like what she was. One very angry witch.

William had been watching her—watching to make sure she left before he sprung this nasty trap.

Nessa knew she was losing control of her magic but she did not care. And then she saw that they had tied Elias to a pole, hay and branches at his feet.

Sir William, the sodding sheriff, stood at her husband’s side, ready to burn him. Nessa’s grasp on her control fractured even more.

Elias lifted his head, glaring at her. It was dark, but her eyesight had always been keen. Even in the dim light of the torches, she could see him well. They had beaten him. One eye was black, and both his nose and mouth had been busted, blood painting gory streaks on his handsome face.

“Nessa . . .”

She met his eyes and shook her head.

“Let him go,” she said quietly, clenching her hands into fists. There was nothing she wanted more than to release the power flooding her right now. Release it all, into the smug face of Sir William.

Oh, he would pay for this, Nessa swore, her body trembling with anger and fear. He’d pay for this.

William folded his face into pious lines. “Agnes, you and Elias have fallen into a dark path, practicing magic, worshipping dark, foul monsters.”

“We worship no monsters.” She arched a brow. “Elias practices no magic.”

But she’d be damned if she would lie about herself.

They leaped on the one simple thing that she left out. “So you admit it! Witch!”

They moved closer, and Nessa narrowed her eyes. “Stay back, you blind fools,” she said softly. “Let him go.”

William dared to take one step forward. “You say he is no witch—we cannot take the word of a woman who openly admits she uses the dark powers. If we let him go, will you let us bind you? Will you go through our tests? Cleanse yourself?”

She’d openly admitted nothing. She just had not denied it. Looking at William, she suppressed the urge to snort as she stared at him. Cleanse myself? “I do not fear your tests, William. Let Elias go. He has done nothing wrong.”

William smirked. “If he has done nothing wrong, then by all means . . .” He glanced at one of the men and nodded. “But first you must agree. You will be bound. You will submit to the tests. You will be cleansed.”

“Your men will untie him as I come to you. If you dare be foolish, Sir William, you will know pain like nothing you have ever felt,” she warned.

“Nessa!”

She lifted her head and stared across the distance separating them. They use ropes, Elias. You think I cannot get rid of a few paltry ropes? Run into the forest—to our cave. I will meet you there. And these simpletons can rot. We wasted months protecting them.

His dark brown eyes stared into hers with fury and desperation. Do not let him touch you, Nessa. I do not trust him—

She just shook her head. She would not risk Elias. She would not. She walked arrogantly toward William, holding her wrists out in front of her. He just smiled benevolently and gestured to one of his men.

“I shall deal with your husband,” William said, his voice quiet and dignified. His eyes gleamed though, with something she did not like, not one bit. He would deal with her husband? Lower himself to free him? Instead of ordering his men . . . ?
Her ears pricked at those words. Her instincts screamed.

Rough rope bit into her wrists but she barely even noticed as she watched William walk over the uneven ground to where his men were cutting Elias free.

Elias shrugged away from them and started toward Nessa. She shook her head at him and she could see the argument in his eyes. Run, she said into his mind. Now.

She heard the argument in his head. Felt his refusal.

And then there was nothing but icy, sharp pain. She felt the brutal echo of it in her own heart.

They were soul mates—meant for each other even before birth. It would have been better if that blade had killed her as well as Elias.

“No!” she screamed out. She shoved at the sheriff’s man, pushing away from him as though he was naught more than a child.

“Grab her—cover her eyes,” one of the men bellowed.

All around her people shouted—although some screamed in horror as they realized what one of William’s men had done.

She barely even heard them. She was aware of nothing.

Nothing but the screams . . . and the blood.

It was Elias’s blood, dripping from the dagger of a treacherous snake.

Without even looking at her wrists, she gave in to the rage and used her magic to set fire to the ropes, and they fell to the ground still flaming. Nessa didn’t remember closing the distance between her and Elias, just catching him as he sagged to the ground.

William stood behind him, his thin mouth curved up in a smile. In his hand, he held a jeweled dagger and the blade dripped with dark, dark red blood.

“You will be mine now, Agnes.”

“Not even in hell,” she whispered hotly, lifting her eyes from Elias’s face for one second. “And hell awaits you.”

William fell back a step as he looked at her. Behind her, she heard people moving up. Power exploded through her and then heat surrounded her. Fire now wrapped a deadly ring around the three of them, Elias, William and Agnes. He paled, his eyes widening as the fire seemed to reach out and grab him.

“Help me!”

Elias laughed, the sound choked and full of pain. “Listen to him scream for help, love. You came and answered their cries. And this is what they have done.”

Nessa looked down at Elias, pressing her fingers to his lips. “Hush,” she whispered, forcing the words past the tears that were threatening to choke her.

Then she looked back at William. “Filthy swine—there is no help for you. Murderer, filthy, evil murderer. Rot in hell.”

William shrieked, the stench of his burning flesh heavy in the air. All around people screamed, and then they scattered. Their fear was ripe—she should have been choking on it, but she didn’t care.

Nothing mattered.

Nothing but the sight of Elias lying so still in her arms, his face growing more and more pale as his blood flowed so hotly from his body.

She reached under Elias, pressing her hand to the wound. It was too close to his heart, though. “Elias . . . God, please,” she sobbed, hugging him to her. His breath rattled in and out of his chest. “Do not leave me!”

“Hush.”

“Do not tell me to hush, you fool!” she shrieked. Magic sparked out of her and she tried to focus it. Witches could heal.

Damn it, she could heal him. She had not yet learned that magic, but she had to try.

She couldn’t focus it, though, not to save her life.

Or his, it seemed. More and more blood drained from him as she tried to use her wild magic to heal that nasty, jagged wound. “You cannot leave me, Elias,” she whispered. “You cannot leave me. You are my life.”

He reached up, touching his hand to her face. Nessa gave up trying to hold the jagged edges of the wound together and caught his hand, pressing it to her cheek. “Ah, Nessa . . . my beautiful, foolish, wonderful girl. I love you so much. I will come back . . . I will find you again.”

He coughed and a sob wracked her body as she saw the blood trickle from his lips. “Promise me!” she choked. “You promise me! Promise me you’ll come back.”

“Only God Himself could keep me from you, love,” Elias whispered. He sighed and his entire body trembled. She could feel the pain tearing through him and she forced herself in between, using her power to separate him from the pain as she filtered it away. She could not heal him, could not save him—but she could damn well stop him from hurting.

The tension eased from his body and he breathed a little easier.

“Elias . . .” she moaned, wrapping her arms around him.

“Just hold me, Nessa,” he murmured. His voice was weaker. Lifting her head, she stared down at him, brushing his hair back from his battered face. “I do wish I had listened to you, my beautiful witch.”

Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Just come back, Elias.”

“My Nessa.”

I had such fun reading this book. It’s one of those light, heart-warming, and funny stories that endears you to its characters right off. It keeps you smiling and chuckling, though you know that dark moment has to come for Gideon and Winnefred. So the anticipation mixed with the fun and laughter makes for a lovely afternoon of reading.

This is the first book in Alissa Johnson’s new series, and I, for one, am happy to know there’s more to come.

Here’s the summary:

The woman makes the man…

Winnefred Blythe learned at a young age to make do with very little.  After the death of her father, she taught herself to live on a pauper’s allowance—until a charming visitor promises her the funds that had been stolen from her through the years.  But Freddie isn’t comfortable with the trappings of money—or the attentions of a stranger from London…

But can a man make a lady?

After the war, Lord Gideon Haverston resolved to never again burden himself with the troubles of others.  Still, he was expecting to be greeted as a hero by the tough young woman his stepmother cheated out of house and home, not suspected as a conspirator.  Indeed, the situation is more complicated than Gideon had expected—and the task of taming Winnefred Blythe, much more alluring…

Now meet Gideon and Winnefred as they discuss her friend, Lilly.

She shifted her weight and placed her hands behind her back as if to keep from fidgeting.  “I want you to understand that what I am about to say doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for what you’ve done, or that I don’t like you.  It’s only that I like Lilly more.  She is, for all that we are not related by blood, my sister.”

Gideon nodded again, unsure of where she was taking the conversation.  “Of course she is.”

“She is very excited about this trip.”

“I’ve no doubt that’s true.”

“She has built enormous expectations around it.”

“Only natural.”

“She has. . .”  She pressed her lips together in frustration.  “She is now in a position of. . .”

“Spit it out, Winnefred.”

“Right.”  She nodded once, tipped her chin up and stared him straight in the eye.  “If anyone hurts or disappoints her in London, any one at all, for any reason at all, I shall cut out your heart and eat it raw.”

“Ah.”  He didn’t doubt for a second she would try.  He felt the nearly irrepressible, and assuredly ill-advised, urge to laugh.  “What makes you think I’d allow harm to come to either of you?”

“Nothing’s made me think it.  I just wanted you to be aware that I am holding you personally accountable for Lilly’s happiness.”

“That’s a bit much to pin on a man, don’t you think?”

She thought it over.  “No.”

“I see.”  He felt his lips twitch despite the effort to keep them still.  “Well, I’ll do my best to insure that Lilly has her happiness and that my internal organs remain. . .internal.”

She nodded, apparently satisfied.  “Thank you.  And I do apologize for the necessity of the discussion.”

“You are welcome, and forgiven.”  He turned and began walking away, but made it no more than three feet before he gave in to his amusement and turned back again.

“Why raw?”

“Why. . .I’m sorry?”

“Why eat my heart raw?”  He repeated.  “It’s such an odd qualifier, as if it were assumed I’d prefer it first be roasted and smothered in a fine plum sauce.”

“Plum sauce?”  Her mouth fell open, and a bubble of laughter escaped from her throat.  “I think you are mad.”

“I’m curious.  Would the act of cooking really render the deed less barbaric?  And what of the rest of dining etiquette?  Is anything permissible?  Silverware, for example, or napkins?  A seat at the table and a glass of port?”

Her amber eyes began to dance with humor, her lips trembled with suppressed laughter.  “I’m going to take my leave now.  Good day, Lord Gideon.”

“Could there be side dishes and lively conversation?”  He lifted his voice as she spun on her heel and walked away from him, Claire shuffling along at her side.  “’Pass the rolls Mrs. Butley, and another helping of Lord Gideon’s raw heart.  No, no, just use your fingers, dear, he’s being punished.”

Gin Blanco retired from the assassin business, but that doesn’t mean she’s done with killing. Mab Monroe is still calling the shots in Ashland. But Gin has no intention of letting the woman who murdered her mother and sister remain unpunished. First she’s going to have to face a new enemy, however. Luckily she’s got a good group of friends watching her back.

Welcome to the world of Jennifer Estep‘s Elemental Assassin series. Gin is a tough heroine, but she’s feeling vulnerable due to her recent break-up and the return of her baby sister. The first problem is being addressed by her new beau, Owen Grayson. She might not need to worry about the second problem if she dies before she can tell Bria that they’re sisters.

Summary:

I’d rather face a dozen lethal assas­sins any night than deal with some­thing as tricky, con­vo­luted, and frag­ile as my feel­ings. But here I am. Gin Blanco, the semi-retired assas­sin known as the Spi­der. Hov­er­ing out­side sexy busi­ness­man Owen Grayson’s front door like a ner­vous teenage girl. One thing I like about Owen: he doesn’t shy away from my past—or my present. And right now I have a bull’s-eye on my fore­head. Cold-blooded Fire ele­men­tal Mab Mon­roe has hired one of the smartest assas­sins in the busi­ness to trap me. Elek­tra LaFleur is skilled and effi­cient, with deadly elec­tri­cal ele­men­tal magic as potent as my own Ice and Stone pow­ers. Which means there’s a fifty-fifty chance one of us won’t sur­vive this bat­tle. I intend to kill LaFleur—or die trying—because Mab wants the assas­sin to take out my baby sis­ter, Detec­tive Bria Coolidge, too. The only prob­lem is, Bria has no idea I’m her long-lost sib­ling … or that I’m the mur­derer she’s been chas­ing through Ash­land for weeks. And what Bria doesn’t know just might get us both dead …

CHAPTER ONE

“Are you going to kill this guy? Or are we just going to sit here all night?”

“Patience, Finn,” I mur­mured. “We’ve only been in the car an hour.”

“Longest hour of my life,” he muttered.

I arched an eye­brow and looked over at Finnegan Lane, my part­ner in crime for the night. Most nights, actu­ally. Just after ten o’clock a few days before Christ­mas, and we sat in the dark­ened front of Finn’s black Cadil­lac Escalade. An hour ago, Finn had parked the car in a secluded, out-of-the-way alley that over­looked the docks that fronted the Aneirin River. We’d been sit­ting here, and Finn had been grous­ing, ever since.

Finn shifted in his seat, and my gray eyes flicked over him. The wool fab­ric of his thick coat out­lined his broad shoul­ders, although a black watchman’s cap cov­ered his walnut-colored hair. His eyes were a bright green even in the semi-darkness, and the shad­ows did lit­tle to hide the square hand­some­ness of his face.

Most women would have been glad to have been in such close quar­ters with Finnegan Lane. With his easy smile and nat­ural charm, Finn would have already had the major­ity of them in the back­seat, pants off, legs up, steam cov­er­ing the win­dows as the car rocked back and forth.

Good thing I wasn’t most women.

“Come on, Gin,” Finn whined again. “Go stick a cou­ple of your knives in that guy and leave your rune for Mab to find so we can get out of here.”

I stared out the car win­dow. Across the street, bathed in the golden glow of a street­light, the guy in ques­tion con­tin­ued to unload wooden crates from the small tug­boat that he’d pulled up to the dock forty-five min­utes ago. Even from this dis­tance, I could hear the warped, weath­ered boards creak under his weight as the river rushed on by beneath them.

The man was a dwarf—short, squat, stocky, sturdy—and dressed in black clothes prac­ti­cally iden­ti­cal to the ones that Finn and I were wear­ing. Jeans, boots, sweater, jacket. The sort of anony­mous clothes you wore to go skulk­ing about late at night, espe­cially in this rough South­town neigh­bor­hood, and most espe­cially when you didn’t want any­one else to see what you were up to.

Or were plan­ning on killing some­one, like I was tonight. Most nights, actually.

I rubbed my thumb over the hilt of the sil­ver­stone knife that I held in my lap. The metal glinted dully in the dark­ness of the car, and the weight of the weapon felt cold and com­fort­ing the way that it always did to me. The knife rested lightly on the spi­der rune scar embed­ded in my palm.

It would be easy enough to give in to Finn’s whin­ing. To slip out of the car, cross the street, creep up behind the dwarf, cut his throat, and shove his body off the dock and into the cold river below. I prob­a­bly wouldn’t even get that much blood on my clothes, if I got the angles just right.

Because that’s what assas­sins did. That’s what I did. Me. Gin Blanco. The assas­sin known as the Spi­der, one of the best around.

But I didn’t get out of the car and get on with things like Finn wanted me to. Instead, I sighed. “He hardly seems worth the trou­ble. He’s a flunkie, just like all the oth­ers that I’ve killed these past two weeks. Mab will hire some­one else to take his place before they even dredge his body out of the river.”

“Hey, you were the one who decided to declare war on Mab Mon­roe,” Finn pointed out. “Cor­rect me if I’m wrong, but I believe that you were rather eager to kill your way up to the top of the food chain until you got to her. You said it would be fun.”

“That was six hits ago. Now, I’d just like to kill Mab and give every­one in Ash­land an early Christ­mas present, myself included.” My turn to grouse.

But Finn was right. Two weeks ago, a series of events had led me to offi­cially declare war on Mab, and now, I was deal­ing with the fallout—and the tedious bore­dom of it all.

Mab Mon­roe was the Fire ele­men­tal who ran the south­ern metrop­o­lis of Ash­land like it was her own per­sonal king­dom. To most folks, Mab was a paragon of virtue, a Fire ele­men­tal who used her magic, busi­ness con­nec­tions, and money to fund worth­while char­ity projects through­out the city. But those of us who strolled through the shady side of life knew Mab for what she really was—the head of a mob­like empire that included every­thing from gam­bling and drugs to pros­ti­tu­tion and kid­nap­pings. Mur­der, extor­tion, tor­ture, black­mail, beat­ings. Mab ordered all that and more, prac­ti­cally on a daily basis. But the Fire ele­men­tal was so wealthy, so pow­er­ful, so strong in her magic that no one dared to stand up to her.

Until me.

I had spe­cial rea­son to hate Mab—she’d mur­dered my mother and older sis­ter when I was thir­teen. And she’d been plan­ning on doing the same thing to me and my baby sis­ter, Bria. But first, Mab had cap­tured and decided to tor­ture me that fate­ful night so long ago. Which is how I’d ended up with a pair of match­ing scars on my hands.

I put my knife down long enough to rub first one scar, then the other with my fin­gers. A small cir­cle sur­rounded by eight thin rays was branded into each one of my palms. A spi­der rune. The sym­bol for patience. My assas­sin name.

And one that Mab Mon­roe was now see­ing every­where she went.

For the past two weeks, I’d been stalk­ing Mab’s men, get­ting a feel for her oper­a­tion, see­ing exactly what kind of ille­gal pies she had her sticky fin­gers in. And, along the way, I’d picked off some of her min­ions when I caught them doing things that they shouldn’t, hurt­ing peo­ple that they shouldn’t. A twist of my knife, a slash of my blade, and Mab Mon­roe had one less sol­dier in her lit­tle army of terror.

Killing her men hadn’t been hard, not for me. I’d spent the last sev­en­teen years of my life being an assas­sin, being the Spi­der, until I’d retired a few months ago. Cer­tain skills you just never forgot.

Nor­mally, though, when I killed some­one, I left noth­ing behind. No fin­ger­prints, no weapon, no DNA. But with Mab’s men, I’d pur­pose­fully drawn the image of my spi­der rune at every scene, close to every body that I left behind. Taunt­ing her. Let­ting Mab know exactly who was respon­si­ble for mess­ing up her plans and that I was deter­mined to pick her empire apart one body at a time, if I had to.

Which is why Finn and I were now sit­ting in the dark down by the docks in this dan­ger­ous South­town neigh­bor­hood. Finn had got­ten a tip from one of his sources that Mab had a ship­ment of drugs or some other ille­gal para­pher­na­lia com­ing into Ash­land tonight. As the Spi­der, I’d decided to come down here and see what I could do to foul up Mab’s plans once more, thumb my nose at her, and gen­er­ally piss her off.

“Come on, Gin,” Finn cut into my mus­ings. “Make a move already. The guy’s alone. We would have seen his part­ner by now, if he’d had one.”

I looked at the dwarf. He’d fin­ished unload­ing the boxes from the tug­boat and was now busy haul­ing them over to a van parked at the end of the dock.

“I know,” I said. “But some­thing about this just doesn’t seem right.”

“Yeah,” Finn mut­tered. “The fact that I can’t feel my feet any­more and you won’t let me turn the heater on.”

“Drink your cof­fee, then. It’ll make you feel bet­ter. It always does.”

For the first time tonight, a grin spread across Finn’s face. “Why, I think that’s an excel­lent idea.”

Finn reached down and grabbed a large metal ther­mos from the floor­board in the back­seat. He cracked open the top, and the caf­feine fumes of his chicory cof­fee filled the car. The rich smell always reminded me of his father, Fletcher Lane, my men­tor, the one who’d taught me every­thing that I knew about being an assas­sin. The old man had drunk the same foul brew as his son before he’d died ear­lier this year. I smiled at the mem­ory and the warmth it always stirred in me.

While Finn drank his cof­fee, I stared out at the scene before me once more. Every­thing seemed still, quiet, cold, dark. But I couldn’t shake the feel­ing that some­thing was wrong. That some­thing was just slightly off about this whole setup. Fletcher Lane had always told me that nobody ever got dead by wait­ing just a few more min­utes. His advice had kept me alive this long, and I had no inten­tion of dis­re­gard­ing it now.

Once again, my eyes scanned the area. Deserted street. A few dilap­i­dated build­ings hug­ging the water­front. The black rib­bon of the Aneirin River in the dis­tance. The pale boards of the dock. A lone light flick­er­ing over the dwarf’s head—

My eyes nar­rowed, and I focused on the light. The bright, intact light burn­ing like a bea­con in the dark night. Then, I looked up and down the street, my gaze flick­ing from one iron post to the next. Every other light on the block was busted out. Not sur­pris­ing. This was South­town, after all, the part of Ash­land that was home to gang­bangers, vam­pire pros­ti­tutes, and junkie ele­men­tals strung out on their own magic and hun­gry for more. Peo­ple would just as soon kill you as look at you here. Not a place you wanted to linger, even dur­ing the day­light hours.

So I wasn’t sur­prised that the street­lights had been bro­ken, prob­a­bly long ago, by the rocks, beer bot­tles, and other trash that lit­tered the street. What did sur­prise me was the fact that there was one still burning—the one right over the van that the dwarf was pack­ing his boxes into.

How … con­ve­nient.

“You might as well get com­fort­able,” I said, star­ing at the lone light. “Because we’re going to be here a while longer.”

Finn just groaned.

#

We didn’t have long to wait. Ten min­utes later, the dwarf fin­ished load­ing the last of his boxes into the van. Once I started watch­ing him—really watch­ing him—I real­ized that he’d been tak­ing his sweet time about things. Mov­ing slower than a nor­mal per­son would have, espe­cially con­sid­er­ing the bit­ter cold that frosted Ash­land tonight. But then again, this was far from the inno­cent scene that it appeared to be.

Now, the dwarf stood beside the van, smok­ing a cig­a­rette and star­ing into the dark­ness with watch­ful eyes.

“What’s he doing?” Finn asked, tak­ing another sip of cof­fee. “If the man had any sense, he’d crank up the heater in that van and get out of here.”

“Just wait,” I mur­mured. “Just wait.”

Finn sighed and drank some more of his chicory brew.

Five more min­utes passed before a flash of move­ment along the dock caught my eye.

“There,” I said and leaned for­ward. “Right fuck­ing there.”

A fig­ure stepped out from behind a small shack that squat­ted at the far end of the dock that jut­ted out into the river.

Finn jerked upright and almost spilled his cof­fee on the leather seats. “Where the hell did he come from?”

“Not he,” I mur­mured. “She.”

The woman strolled down the dock toward the dwarf. Despite the dark­ness, the sin­gle street­light still burn­ing let me get a good look at her. She was petite and slen­der, about my age, thirty or so. She had a short bob of glossy black hair, held back with some sort of head­band, and her fea­tures had an Asian fla­vor to them—porcelain skin, expres­sive eyes, del­i­cate cheek­bones. She also wore black from head to toe, just like the rest of us.

I frowned. No woman in her right mind would walk through this neigh­bor­hood alone at night. Hell, not many would dare to do it dur­ing the day. Much less wait more than an hour in a run­down shack on a Decem­ber night when the tem­per­a­ture hov­ered in the low twenties.

Unless she had a very, very good rea­son for being there.

And I was begin­ning to think that I knew exactly what that rea­son was—me.

The woman reached the dwarf, who crushed out his cig­a­rette. She said some­thing to the man, who just shrugged his shoul­ders. The woman turned and scanned the street, much the same way that I’d been doing for the last hour. But I knew she couldn’t see us, given where we were parked. The Dump­ster sit­ting at the end of the nar­row alley in front of Finn’s car screened us from her line of sight.

After another thirty sec­onds of look­ing, the woman turned back to the dwarf and advanced on him. For a moment, he looked con­fused. Then star­tled. Then his eyes widened, and he turned and started run­ning away from her.

He got maybe five steps before the woman lifted her right hand—and green light­ning shot out of her fingertips.

Finn jerked, almost spilling his cof­fee again. Even I blinked at the sud­den, pow­er­ful flash of light.

The dwarf arched his back and screamed, his harsh cry echo­ing down the deserted street, as the light­ning slammed into his body. The woman advanced on him, the mag­i­cal light in her hand inten­si­fy­ing as she stepped closer toward him.

And she was so fuck­ing strong. She stood at least a hun­dred feet away from me, but I could still sense the sharp, sta­tic crackle of her power even here in the car. The feel of her ele­men­tal magic made the spi­der rune scars on my palms itch and burn the way they always did when­ever I was exposed to so much power, to so much raw magic. And she had plenty to spare.

A sec­ond later, the dwarf caught fire. He wob­bled back and forth before pitch­ing to the cracked pave­ment, but the woman didn’t stop her mag­i­cal assault. She stood over his body, send­ing wave after wave of light­ning into his fig­ure, even as the green ele­men­tal flames of her power con­sumed his skin, hair, clothes.

When she was done, the woman curled her hand into a tight fist. The bright light­ning flick­ered, then sparked away into noth­ing­ness, like a flare that had been snuffed out. Greenish-gray smoke wafted up from her fin­ger­tips, and she blew it away into the frosty night air, like an Old West gun­fighter cool­ing down his Colt after some sort of shootout. How dramatic.

“Did you see that?” Finn whis­pered, his cof­fee for­got­ten, his green eyes wide and round in his face. “She elec­tro­cuted him.”

“Yeah. I saw.”

I didn’t add that she’d used ele­men­tal magic to do it. Finn had seen that for him­self as well as I had.

Ele­men­tals were peo­ple who could cre­ate, con­trol, and manip­u­late one of the four elements—Air, Fire, Ice, and Stone. Those were the areas that most folks were gifted in, the ones that you had to be able to tap into to be con­sid­ered a true ele­men­tal. But magic had many forms, many quirks, and there were some peo­ple who could use other areas, off­shoots of one of the four ele­ments. Like metal was an off­shoot of Stone—and elec­tric­ity was one of Air.

One that Finn and I had just seen used to deadly effi­ciency, thanks to our mys­tery woman.

I was an ele­men­tal too. In my case, I had the rare abil­ity of being able to con­trol two elements—Stone and Ice. But I’d never seen some­one with elec­tri­cal power before. And I wasn’t so sure it was a good thing that I had now.

The woman stuck the toe of her boot into the man’s ribs. A large hunk of his body dis­in­te­grated into gray ash at her touch and puffed up like some kind of cold, macabre fog. A sliver of a smile lifted her lips at the sight. Then, she reached inside her coat, drew out some­thing white, and tossed it down on top of his body before head­ing toward the van and slid­ing inside.

Thirty sec­onds later, the woman drove the van down the street, turned the cor­ner, and dis­ap­peared from view. But instead of watch­ing the vehi­cle, I stared at the burned-out body that she’d left behind, won­der­ing what that bit of white was on the dwarf’s still-smoking chest.

“You want me to fol­low her?” Finn asked, his hand hov­er­ing over the keys in the ignition.

I shook my head. “No. Stay here and keep an eye out.”

I got out of the car and made my way across the street, slith­er­ing from shadow to shadow, a sil­ver­stone knife in either hand. After about five min­utes of care­ful creep­ing and lots of pauses to look and lis­ten, I reached the edge of the build­ing clos­est to the dwarf. I crouched there in the black shad­ows, out of sight, until I was sure that the mys­tery woman wasn’t going to cir­cle back around the block and see if any­one had come to inspect her shock­ing hand­i­work. Then, I drew in a breath, stood up, and walked over to the dead dwarf.

Even now, ten min­utes after the ini­tial attack, smoke still curled up from his body, the ele­gant, green-gray rib­bons waft­ing up to the black sky. I breathed in through my mouth, but the stench of charred flesh still filled my nose. The famil­iar, acrid scent trig­gered all sorts of emo­tions that were bet­ter left dead and buried deep inside me. But they bub­bled to the sur­face, whether I wanted them to or not.

For a moment, I was thir­teen again, weep­ing, wail­ing, and star­ing down at the ashy, flaky ruined thing that had been my mother, Eira, before Mab Mon­roe had used her ele­men­tal Fire to burn her to death. And the match­ing husk that had been my older sis­ter, Annabella. Try­ing not to vomit as I real­ized the cruel thing that had been done to them. That was going to be done to Bria and me before the night was through. Sweet, lit­tle Bria—

I ruth­lessly shook away the mem­ory. My hands had curled into fists so tight that I could feel the hilts of my sil­ver­stone knives dig­ging into the spi­der rune scars on my palms. I forced myself to relax my grip, then bent down on my knees so I could get a bet­ter look at the white blob rest­ing on the dwarf’s back.

To my sur­prise, it was a sin­gle white orchid, exquis­ite, ele­gant, and petal soft in the dark.

My eyes nar­rowed, and I regarded the blos­som with a thought­ful expres­sion. I knew what the flower meant and exactly who had left it behind to be found. It was her call­ing card, her name, rank, and trade­mark, just like my spi­der rune was. Some­thing that she’d put here to announce her pres­ence, mark her kill, and serve as a warn­ing to any­one who dared to get in her way.

She was taunt­ing me, just like I’d been doing to Mab Mon­roe these last two weeks.

“LaFleur,” I mut­tered, say­ing her name out loud.

Because the sim­ple fact was that an assas­sin had come to Ashland—one who was here to kill me.

If you’ve been following Sharon Lathan‘s Darcy Saga, you’re in for a treat with this latest book, The Trouble with Mr. Darcy.

This time around, Darcy and Lizzy have some trials to get through. As they say, however, going through such things only makes a person stronger. This couple has led a relatively idyllic life since their marriage, so when trouble hits more than once, it seems as though that strength is not enough to get to the light on the other side. But with love and patience and a great deal of prayer, new strength that eventually forges an even newer relationship that is stronger than ever before is wholeheartedly embraced by all.

The emotional upheaval for Darcy and Lizzy is felt through every word, every touch, every kiss, every slap, every doubt, and every sensuous night they share. As an added bonus, Georgiana also finds the love of her life, something fans have waited for. So come meet these fascinating characters today.

Summary:
What could threaten the perfect romance?

Just as Darcy and Elizabeth are facing the most intense challenges of their marriage, George Wickham returns to Hertfordshire bent on creating trouble. But Wickham is only a pawn for someone who is even more unscrupulous than he is, and everything Darcy cherishes most is thrown into deadly danger.

Knowing that Wickham has nothing left to lose, Darcy must confront his villainous enemy and his own demons at the same time.

Prologue: After a Time

Elizabeth Darcy walked through the bedchamber doorway and released a heavy sigh as she threw her traveling gloves onto the chair.

“Finally got the baby to sleep. He nursed intermittently, but I do not think hunger was the issue. He definitely does not travel well! I have never seen him so upset, and that is saying something.” She plopped onto the edge of the large bed and gazed around the room as she removed her pelisse. “I know I have said it a few times already, but I am amazed that this house has never been sold. You would think the family weary of maintaining a manor so far away for so many years. What is the point?”

This entire speech, including the unanswered question, was directed toward her husband. Darcy lay spanning the whole width of the generous bed, his long, lean body supine with booted legs dangling over the edge by Lizzy’s knees and hands loosely clasped in the empty air above his head. By all appearances he looked soundly asleep, but Lizzy was not deceived. The simple facts that his mouth was not parted and breathing not deep were a sure giveaway. Therefore, she continued to ramble.

“Whatever the reasoning, it is fortunate for us. Much more comfortable than an inn or trying to cramp into Longbourn.” She sighed again, folded the sable-accented woolen jacket, and absently placed it onto the mattress beside her as her eyes swept over the furnishings and wide windows. “In truth, I will miss this place if they ever sell it. So many memories.” Her voice grew silent. A happy smile adorned her lips as one hand caressed Darcy’s nearest thigh. “Yes, many memories. Remember the time… Oh!”

“No walks down the lane of Netherfield remembrances as yet, my dear. Put your mouth to better use and kiss me.” He had grabbed her elbow and tugged until she lay alongside him, bouncing slightly from the impact.

“William, the door…”

But he turned toward her and engaged her lips before the rejoinder was complete. Nothing improper, they were both fully clothed mind you, but a vigorous kiss ensued for a blissful few minutes.

“Sorry to interrupt the exhibition,” declared a voice that sounded anything but remorseful.

Darcy reflexively released his wife and jerked upward, only then registering the voice and tone of latent laughter. “Uncle! Are you unaware of knocking on doors?”

George’s brows rose, the feigned expression of surprise not hiding his amusement. “On open doors? What an astounding concept! I must have missed that lesson in my youth.” He shrugged. “I only disrupted the romantic interlude to inform you that dinner shall soon be served. Since Mrs. Darcy whined about her hunger for the past hour, feeding two and all that, and I distinctly heard your stomach growl between the infant wails, I thought you both would be interested in the news.”

Lizzy’s giggle and Darcy’s sharp retort were cut off by a sudden piercing scream echoing down the hallway, shut door and stout walls not greatly muffling their son’s healthy lungs. Lizzy sighed yet again and closed her eyes for a momentary skyward supplication for strength. Darcy halted her rising, however, leaning for a kiss to her forehead.

“Go and eat, Elizabeth. I will see to it. I doubt it is sustenance he is wishing for, so perhaps I can handle it.”

“Thank you! I am famished.”

“Just save a bit for me. Uncle, will you escort my wife to the dining room?”

“With honor.”

Briskly and bravely entering the nursery chamber, the doting father was greeted by lusty yells, soothing vocalizations, and the faint clunk of wooden blocks being banged together. The former two issued forth respectively from the mouths of his six-month-old son, diminutive face angrily screwed-up and beet red, and the nanny, Mrs. Hanford, who stood near the window swaying and bouncing as she crooned to no avail. The latter noise, barely audible amid the cries, came from the serious, blue-eyed boy sitting on the carpet surrounded by a pile of building blocks in dozens of shapes and sizes.

The toddler lifted his adorable face, azure gaze serenely greeting the tall man, his piping voice calm. “Papa, baby sad.”

“Yes, Alexander. I gathered as much. Thank you.”

Darcy smiled at his firstborn, stooped to ruffle the wild curls that resisted any form of tamed combing, and turned to the nanny.

“You need not fret, Mr. Darcy. I can attend to him while you dine. Nothing we haven’t all seen before!” she concluded, hugging the irate infant and bestowing a loving kiss to his sweaty forehead.

“I do not doubt your competence, Mrs. Hanford, you know that. But Mrs. Darcy will dine easier if I am here with him. Come here, little demon, let your father deal with your tantrum. There, there now. Is it really all that bad? Carriage rides not for you? Shall we add that to the list of items that disturb? My poor baby boy! So particular you are, my lamb.”

He chuckled as he sat onto the sofa, the baby not even mildly amused, and winked at Alexander who observed the proceedings with quiet interest while still banging blocks. Darcy laid the thrashing, belligerent infant belly down over his knees and proceeded to bounce and pat the diapered bottom. It took awhile, but experience gleaned narrowed this down to the best avenue to hush and pacify.

Alexander rose, tossed the blocks aside, and grabbed one lumpy leg of a tattered, stuffed hound dog. He walked to his father’s side, adding soft pats to the firmer ones calming the infant who was now intermittently gasping while sucking on a plump thumb. Leveling his small face with the smaller one, bright azure eyes engaging the teary cobalt ones of his brother, he added phrases in a soothing voice mimicking Darcy. “Go sleep, baby. Hush, hush now. Papa here. No more tears, sweet baby. Be happy.”

Darcy smiled, watching Alexander bestow soft kisses to the wet cheeks as angry eyes glazed with serenity and sleepiness. For several minutes after regular breathing was reached, Darcy and Alexander continued to administer pats at a gradually lessening pace. Experience had also taught them not to trust the newest Darcy’s complacency too swiftly, a fact they were recently reminded of when his mother’s declaration of slumber was proven erroneous.

Michael James Anton Darcy was born on the blustery afternoon of September 14, 1819, after a mere seven hours of labor. His birth, a good month earlier than Dr. Darcy’s earliest estimate, caught everyone by surprise, especially his father who galloped frenziedly up the drive and barreled through the bedchamber door an hour and a half before the blessed event, as no one, not even Lizzy, had anticipated the imminent delivery that morning when he blithely rode off to attend to estate business. The uneventful pregnancy and easy birth of the delicate five pound, premature baby was in no way an indication of future complacency.

Darcy teased that their second son was simply fashioned after his mother. Lizzy could not dispute these realities too vigorously, as the stories of her infant years were gleefully related by both parents to an amused spouse. She had searched through the journals, but alas, the writings of Anne and James Darcy conclusively revealed a child Fitzwilliam who was even-tempered and tranquil. George Darcy, who delighted in teasing his serious nephew, could not disagree.

Her counter argument was to blame it on their holiday at Matlock Bath, neither her or Darcy doubting Michael was conceived within that three-day span of crazed lovemaking. After an extended business trip to London, Darcy returned to Pemberley and an ill wife. It was his idea for a recuperative visit to the healing mineral waters. Frenzied intimacy amid the untamed atmospheric conditions was a bonus; the humorous jests of personality traits of the unborn being influenced were not taken seriously until after Michael was born.

Alexander was a happy baby and contented toddler. He rarely cried and tantrums were exceedingly unusual, but spontaneous hilarity and uncontained laughter were infrequent as well. He naturally dwelt in a state of calm neutrality and quiet humor, the stoic twenty-eight-month-old so like his father it was uncanny.

Michael, conversely, was perpetually at opposite ends of the mood spectrum. When not in a rage over some perceived slight, he was bursting with mirth. Thankfully, his sprightliness was infectious and all it took was witnessing one episode of wiggling gaiety to forget any moments of pique.

At six months of age, his devoted parents and loving brother had long since fallen under his spell and learned ways to avoid or remedy the tantrums. Waiting until absolutely certain Michael was asleep, Darcy transferred the snoring babe to his shoulder with steady competence. Alexander climbed onto the settee, settling against the welcoming warmth of his father’s side with faithful stuffed companion secure on his lap. Darcy embraced his firstborn, his strong arm hugging tight, and called to Mrs. Hanford.

“Mrs. Hanford, could you please inform the kitchen to bring our dinner here. I will dine with Alexander.” Once alone, he looked at his son and asked, “What do you say? Shall we build a tower to the sky once we have dined?”

In true Alexander fashion, he thought it over carefully before replying. “Nanny say it bath time after dinner.”

“I believe I can overrule Nanny’s orders just this once.” He winked at the staid face, Alexander assimilating the words before nodding and smiling happily.

“Aunt Giana here, Papa?”

“Not yet, my sweet. Soon she will be here. I know she misses you and will hurry to Netherfield as soon as it is possible.”

“Gramma and Grampa here? Aunt Kitty?”

“We will see all of them tomorrow. Longbourn is only three miles away, but it is late. Michael was in no mood for extended visitations. Tonight it shall just be us, but rest assured your grandparents are anxious to see you.”

Alexander nodded at that statement of fact, reaching to pat his sleeping brother’s back. Yet the tiny crease between his brows did not disappear.

“Do not worry, my son. Everyone will be coming for your Aunt Kitty’s wedding. You will be reacquainted with dozens of relatives and meeting new ones. Far more than your young mind will be able to absorb.” He paused, dwelling momentarily on the intelligent gaze of his son and shook his head as he continued, “On second thought, I would be unwise to underestimate your memory. You have not seen Aunt Giana in months and ask about her every day! Come, help me tuck your brother into bed and then we can get started on that tower while waiting for our food.”

Netherfield Hall, the finest country manor in all of Hertfordshire, had remained greatly unoccupied over the intervening years since Mr. Bingley first let it over four years prior. The question as to why the owners continued to do so was a mystery that none of the current lessees knew.

On the occasion of Mary’s nuptials two years ago, the Darcys had resided in the local inn; a modest establishment that served well if humbly. One other time they had stayed at Longbourn. That was one of the longest weeks in Darcy’s life and he stubbornly, and not too kindly, refused to do so ever again! Space for their family was not an issue with only Kitty still at home, but seven days with Mrs. Bennet in close proximity was intolerable. An additional distress was being cramped into a bed not designed for two grown people in a bedchamber surrounded by thin walls that made the necessary joy of loving his wife impossible.

Thankfully, Netherfield was not rented to another party this March of 1820, so they were again able to dwell in comfort. This was a convenience for the Darcys, but also for the other visitors who would be staying there for the wedding. Once again this building belonging to strangers would play host to a gathering of folks intimately involved with the Bennets.

There was never a question of Darcy and Elizabeth occupying the bedchamber that Darcy had inhabited since his first sojourn at Netherfield. The memories surrounding this suite of rooms were special for a host of reasons, but also because of the view of rolling green pastures and a small lake. A nearby chamber served as a nursery, the Darcys insisting on their children staying close. Mrs. Hanford and her daughter, Lisa, who was now employed as an assistant nanny, slept in a bed located behind a privacy screen. This was essential due to the fact that Mr. Darcy nightly crept into the room his boys occupied to check on them.

The need to ensure their contented rest and security was an urge he could not deny, thus it was no surprise when, much later that night, he ignored the post-lovemaking languor that screamed for his body to succumb to satiated sleep. Instead, he kissed his dreaming wife, untangled his limbs from hers, and slipped quietly from their bed.

Soft snores reached Darcy’s ears as he padded lightly to the bed where Alexander lay curled around Dog. Four other stuffed animals lay near his body. Darcy moved the gibbon gifted by “Uncle Goj” during Alexander’s second Christmas so he could sit beside the toddler. Alexander slept as Darcy did: with lips parted as dreams wove through a submerged consciousness. He knew from experience that he could grant dozens of kisses and caresses without Alexander flinching. In fact, he slept so deeply and lengthily that already, at not quite two-and-a-half, Alexander was eschewing the need for a long daily nap.

As the babyish profile and body matured, he weekly grew to mirror his father. There was a great deal of infantile fat here and there, but he seemed to grow taller by the hour. There was a masculine cast to the youngster that disallowed any doubt as to his sex and promised a future figure as powerful as the man who sired him. The squared jawline had a tendency to clench when considering a puzzling toy or dilemma; the thick eyebrows straight on a mildly ridged brow with the left arching in humor or contemplation. His nose was long and prominent to Darcy’s dismay but Lizzy’s delight, his forehead wide and high, and he had a full lower lip accenting a firm mouth. It truly was only the coiled curls that prevented him being a duplicate of his father.

Darcy bent and kissed the ruddy cheek, whispered words of devotion, and tousled the magnetic springy tresses before rising with a contented smile. He turned to the cradle sheltering Michael.

The infant’s plump fists curled beside his head, chest rising steadily with each breath, and skin almost translucent in the dim moonlight. Both of the boys had inherited Darcy’s fair complexion, Alexander even beginning to display a faint scattering of freckles over his nose and shoulders as his father did. Michael, however, aside from the blue eyes that seem to dominate the Darcy clan, resembled neither of them overly. His once delicate, premature body was now stout and strong. His facial features grew daily bolder with a wide nose, almond shaped eyes framed by thick, arching brows, high cheekbones, and plump lips outlining a generous mouth. His brown hair, a trait both parents possessed, was dark, sparse, and waved gently.

You do have your mother’s temperament, the proud father thought, smiling as he leaned to bestow a kiss to the baby’s prominent forehead.

He brushed one finger over Michael’s breastbone, cautious and light so as not to disturb. His heart swelled as his eyes swept over the precious features of his newest child. He was pierced with fresh waves of gratitude for the bonded relationship and love he possessed for Michael. The early months following Michael’s birth were painful to recall. The period when all his dreams of family had seemingly disintegrated beyond salvage was still too real to be forgotten.

The emotions of gratitude and love were followed by a rush of fierce protectiveness. For a second, his eyes were blinded by powerful sensations, his heart skipping a beat and respirations hitching. The years of being a husband and father had changed him profoundly. He felt complete and stronger, yet also vulnerable as never before. Elizabeth and his children were everything to him, his life utterly revolving around them, and living without them was not an option.

He shook his head, relegating the disturbing emotions to a hidden chamber within his soul. He murmured a soft I love you and turned sharp eyes to scan the room one last time. He looked for he knew not what, but only when assured that all was well could he return to his wife and the happiness of his dreams. Lizzy sleepily opened her arms, Darcy nestling and kissing the curve of her neck before they settled into the mattress for a satisfied sleep devoid of unpleasant memories or unfounded fears.