I hope you don’t think it too forward of me to write to you, my lord, but it is only because I so dearly love Corie and want the best for her. I’ve heard only the most wonderful things about you here in London, and I told Corie so in my last letter—ah, but it’s not my purpose here to recount all of that. I wanted you to know how wonderful Corie is, too—though I truly hope you’ve already discerned that for yourself —but she has such a fearsome temper at times that I felt I must write to you and explain—
“Fearsome temper?” Donovan said with a snort, reading on.
…explain that, well, Corie would never admit it, no, not even to me, but she’s very afraid, you know. I wondered a long time why she seemed so set upon scaring away any young man who came near her, but when you look at her father—what became of the poor man after her mother died—
Donovan glanced at the other torn half of the letter in his hand, but he had no stomach to read further. No stomach because suddenly he was so furious with himself that he didn’t know what to do.
Damn him for a fool, how could he not have seen it? That time last week when he had tried to kiss Corisande and she had panicked, then cried herself to sleep?
How she had tried so desperately to run from him the other night—even attempting to jump from the balcony—and he had demanded why she was afraid of him? Maybe she hadn’t been running from him as much as from something else…maybe feelings that frightened her so terribly…feelings he had sensed all along ran as deep and as fierce as his own…
Cursing his blindness, cursing himself for having spoken to her so callously last night on the ship when she had come to thank him, Donovan stuffed the torn letter in his pocket and sprinted outside, his heart thundering in his ears as he headed for the stable.
“What do you mean he’s not here?” Corisande began to think she would have to shake an answer from Henry Gilbert, who was gaping at her so fearfully, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “I’ve no pistol, Henry! I’m not going to shoot you! I just want to know where Donovan—”
“Th-the stable, I think. A few moments ago—I imagine to get his horse. He…he said he was going to London.”
“Oh, Lord.”
She fled back outside, wondering wildly if she had missed him.
Henry Gilbert had been so engrossed in his work when she burst into the library, who could say if it had been a few moments ago or maybe a quarter hour ago that Donovan had left? She must have frightened the poor man to death, too, papers flying into the air as he dropped to his knees and ducked behind a chair. It had been so comical she might have laughed, but she didn’t feel at all like laughing.
She’d never ridden so hard, exhausting poor Pete. He would never make it any farther, not to Helston, and certainly not to London. She ran to the stable, her lungs hurting, already so out of breath.
She couldn’t believe Donovan would leave her without even saying good-bye—ah, yes, she could, and she couldn’t blame him. Yet it still made her angry all the same and—and, oh, please, please, may he still be in the stable—
Corisande gasped, spinning so crazily out of the way as a horse and rider galloped through the stable doors that she lost her balance and fell flat on her face, the wind knocked from her.
For a moment she could only lie there, coughing at the dust and bits of hay settling around her, but suddenly she was hauled to her feet, coming face to face with Donovan.
“Corie? Good God, are you all right?”
She stared up at him, so grateful that she’d caught him in time, so giddily happy that he hadn’t left yet for London, so…so angry that he was going to leave without saying good-bye!
“You…you cad! Scoundrel! Reckless horseman!”
“Reckless horseman?”
“You could have killed me! Killed me! And I came all this way to find you!”
“You came to find me?”
“Yes, that’s only fair, isn’t it? After all the times you had to come after me? But then Gilbert said you were going to London and—and without even a good-bye and…and you’re going to annul me, aren’t you?”
“Actually,” he said huskily, drawing her into his arms, “I’d annul you just for the chance to start over with you again as my bride, Corie, if I thought it might help me win your love.”
As tears filled her eyes, Corisande plucked at Donovan’s coat; she had suddenly grown so flustered. “I…I don’t think that will be necessary, my lord.”
“No?”
She shook her head, swallowing hard so that she might continue to speak. “I think I’ve been quite won over already…quite won over. I love you, Donovan. I’m just so very sorry that it took me so long—”
She didn’t have to finish. Donovan’s kiss was so warm, so tender, that she felt her heart filling with unimaginable joy. When he finally pulled away from her, long, long moments later, he had the funniest, wryest smile on his lips.
“I wasn’t going to London, you know.”
“No?”
He shrugged. “No. Couldn’t leave you. That’s all there is to it. I guess you’re stuck with me, woman, for better or worse, informer or not—”
“Oh, no, Donovan, I never believed you were an informer! I only said that because—”
Again Donovan silenced her, this time with a finger placed gently to her lips. Later, he thought, later he would tell her about Jack Pascoe, but not now. Not now.
“That’s all behind us, Corie. Are we agreed?”
She nodded, and he drew her close, hugging her fiercely to him as he murmured against her hair, “And no more fair trading, are we agreed? After seeing that revenue cruiser, I can’t bear the thought that—”
“Agreed.”
She’d answered so hoarsely that he drew back to look into her face, only to discover tears coursing down her cheeks.
“Corie?”
“I want you to find your daughter, Donovan, I truly do, and I’ll do anything I can to help you. I’ll love her as if she were my very own. But for you to go behind enemy lines—”
“There won’t be any enemy lines, not in Lisbon,” he said softly, watching surprise light her face. “My daughter Paloma’s been found. We have only to fetch her, Corie. Will you come with me to bring my little girl home?”
Corisande reached up to cradle his face, her lips sweetly, so sweetly touching his, and Donovan knew that he needn’t have asked. Yet he couldn’t help himself from asking for one final agreement when she drew away from him a moment later, her beautiful eyes shining.
“One last thing, Corie. Would you promise here and now that you’ll never call me lambkins?”
“Only if you promise never to call me a shrew.”
“Oh, you’re no shrew, woman.” Donovan hugged her against him, his smile as teasing as her own. “Just lively. And I wouldn’t want you any other way.”
Preview My Runaway Heart
Book 2 of Many of My Dreams Series
The English Channel
April 1813
“Do we set her ablaze, Cap’n? She’s listing so far to port already, it won’t take long—”
“Light the torches.”
The damning words were spoken so low that they were almost sucked up by the roar of the wind, but the captain made no effort to repeat them. The stumpy Irishman scrambled to obey his command. As another howling gust tore at the captain’s hair, the icy sting of salt spray plastering his shirt to his body, he gripped the starboard railing and peered through the gathering dusk at the doomed merchantman, Superior.
Galleys loaded with officers bobbed around the crippled ship like ducklings reluctant to leave their mother’s side, although one longboat had turned into the wind to head for England. A harsh smile touched his face. “What do you say, Walker? Think they’ll see the flames in London?”
“Ha! With all those munitions aboard? Damned if they don’t hear the explosion all the way to Boston.”
The captain didn’t respond, falling as grimly silent as the raven-haired American standing behin
d him. Torches hissed to life along the quarterdeck. Bright orange flames curled and clawed at the wind with malevolent fingers. First one, then another, then a dozen torches were hurled across pewter-dark waves to the Superior, her billowing white sails soon writhing like tortured souls in a maelstrom of hellish fire and heat.
Within moments the upper decks were a roaring pyre of flame and the captain smiled again, his face as tight as his grip on the railing. Hoarse cries of alarm carried to him from the galleys, plaintive wails to the Blessed Virgin careening to the heavens.
“Yes, pray, damn you,” he said under his breath, watching as the frantic officers rowed like fiends to get themselves clear of the burning ship. “Pray as if God had any time for man’s piteous affairs.”
Blasphemy, he knew, but he was already damned.
He didn’t flinch when an earsplitting explosion suddenly rocked the night, the merchantman’s foredeck blown to bits into the darkening sky. Red-hot sparks and shards of burning wood pelted the sea like blistering rain. It was only then that he gave the signal to unfurl the sails, and the sleek schooner cut cleanly through the waves, leaving the merchantman to its watery fate. He kept his eyes riveted upon the flames even as another thunderous explosion ripped in two what remained of the British ship.
Boiling, seething flames that only fed the inferno in his soul, faces appearing to him against a backdrop of crimson fire and acrid black smoke.
The faces of beloved ones long dead and the faces of those he lived to hate. He had lost so much, and what of the years that had been stolen from him? Precious, irretrievable years…
Such fierce rage swept over him that his knuckles whitened, his splayed fingers digging into the railing. A great hiss cut through the wind, hot steam rising like a mist. The sea churned and bubbled around the glowing carcass of what had once been a mighty trading vessel. Then the merchantman was gone, dragged beneath the debris-strewn waves, and with its disappearance he felt the rage begin to subside within him.
Yet the soul-deep chill remained. As icy cold as the salt spray stinging his flesh. He turned from the railing, his hands cramped, his fingers numb, and met Walker’s gaze.
“See that the prisoners are fed, blankets all around. The sea is up. It’ll be a hard crossing to the Isle of Wight.”
“True, but what better end to a tale they’ll be telling their children and grandchildren for years to come? It isn’t every day a ship’s crew is escorted safely to land while their officers are made to row home. Think they’ll place wagers on their captain’s skill at the oar?”
He made no reply to the American’s wry response, having grown accustomed long ago to Walker’s grim humor. But right now he had no stomach for it. He wanted to be alone. He wanted a brandy. He wanted an entire bottle.
“Aye, it’s him, the cap’n of this ship, didn’t I tell you?” A young sailor’s excited voice carried from mid-deck, where the Superior’s crew stood surrounded by guards. “The scourge o’ the entire Channel fleet! ‘Tis the Phoenix himself, and wearin’ a gold mask to boot, just like they’ve been sayin’ in London!”
“Crimey, lad, hold your tongue! This ain’t a blasted Sunday picnic. Can’t you see he’s lookin’ our way?”
The man they called the Phoenix was looking their way, his jaw growing hard when he saw the older sailor knock the youth to his knees with a harsh cuff to the ear. His strides strong and furious across the listing deck, he had the man by the throat before the astonished fellow could blink.
“Strike him again and you’re over the side to swim back to England,” he growled, his fingers tightening mercilessly around a leathery neck. “Am I understood?”
Bulging blue eyes stared back at him in raw fear, an Adam’s apple gulping beneath his hand. “A-aye, sir, but I meant no harm to the boy. No harm at all, I’d swear on me mother’s grave! I-I can’t breathe, sir, please…”
“Cap-tain.”
Jarred by the deep, slurred bass which held the faintest note of reproach, he bit back the memories of vicious blows raining upon his own head and ears. With a vehement curse he released the sailor to crumple gasping at his feet, while the other prisoners stared openmouthed at the fair-haired, bearded giant whose height and breadth of shoulder cast a hulking shadow across the deck.
A gentle giant—half his wits and most of his speech lost to a metal ball still lodged in his brain—who helped to remind him of what shreds remained of his conscience whenever it seemed he possessed none at all.
“Help Walker with the prisoners, Dag.”
His low command greeted with a solemn nod, the captain made for the hold while the deck erupted with activity, blankets being handed out, the savory smell of beef stew tingeing the air. A grim laugh escaped him.
Warm blankets. Beef stew. Safe passage back to England. Hardly inhospitable treatment from the dreaded Phoenix, legendary plague of the Channel fleet. But, of course, no ship’s officers could say such gracious things about him; even now those men pulling for their lives upon wet, slippery oars were probably cursing his name.
Just as the British Admiralty would be cursing and rattling their shiny dress swords when they heard of the Superior’s fate. And the ton, always so quick to grow bored, would have fresh fodder to add to the latest society gossip and scandal. Blast them to hell; he could already hear them.
Oh, dear, how monstrously wicked! What a horror! Another King’s ship burned to ashes upon the sea!
Ladies would swoon. Men would bluster. Commotion would reign.
Blast them all to hell; he would enjoy every bloody minute of it.
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About the Author
Miriam Minger is the bestselling author of sweet to sensual historical romance that sweeps you from Viking times to Regency England to the American West. Miriam is also the author of contemporary romance, romantic suspense, inspirational romance, and children’s books. She is the winner of several Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Awards—including Best Medieval Historical Romance of the Year for The Pagan's Prize—and a two-time RITA Award Finalist for The Brigand Bride and Captive Rose.
Miriam loves to create stories that make you live and breathe the adventure, laugh and cry, and that touch your heart.
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Marrying Stone
Pamela Morsi
Chapter One
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
J. MONROE FARLEY
April 12, 1902
McBee's Landing, Arkansas
Arrived this noon on the steamboat packet Jesse Lazear. The trip was noisy, crowded, unclean, and uncomfortable. The local accommodations are no better. My portmanteau was wetted in the unloading, and I fear my wardrobe may not be the freshest. The Ediphone, however, survived the treacherous White River crossing intact and for that I am properly grateful.
These Ozarks are an unkind, primitive wilderness, near hellish in isolation and solitude. As I watched the shoreline we passed, I was awed by its never-ending silence. It is eerie and unnatural. Were it not for the importance of my work and my strong desire to prove my thesis, I believe that I might, with great haste, return to the relative civilization of lower Missouri and the Mississippi river valleys.
Heard the word foment today uttered by a raggedy, unlettered farmer who had come riding to the packet with his crop. I was so startled, I fear that I must have stared at the man aghast. To hear such a beautiful old Elizabethan word on the lips of a backwoods man was concurrently joyous and profane. But surely it leads me to hope.
The pilot, Captain Dochelin, assures me that these local inhabitants are far removed from the primitive people farther back in the woods. On the morrow I begin a mule trek back into the darkest depths of the Ozark Mountains. And, one could say, back into history itself. My heart beats wildly with anticipation and wonderment. What songs and
stories and long-forgotten words may I discover there?
Chapter Two
"S00-eeee!" Meggie Best hollered the standard hog call. The half-dozen lazy pigs continued lounging in the morning sun around the small mountain clearing that she and her father and brother called home.
"Soo-eee pig! Come on, now, I ain't got the blame day to idle."
Though her words sounded harsh, she was humming softly to herself and her heart was unusually light. She'd been mostly lost in a pleasant daydream all morning long. A daydream about a handsome prince who rescued a virtuous maiden from a life of boredom and drudgery in the lonely mountains. It was a wonderful dream. Her favorite. Even the lazing pigs couldn't mar her mood. She sighed aloud. The sweet romantic words of a fine old tune came to her lips.
"Well met, well met, my own true love,
Well met, well met, said he.
I have just returned from a journey long
And 'twas all for the love of thee."
Suddenly, as if nature itself had heard the longings of her heart, a strange thrill of expectation swept through her. Gooseflesh skittered across her skin. She stopped singing, stunned to silence, and looked across the clearing. A stranger, a man she'd never seen, a man she didn't know, stood beside the rail fence at the far side of the unpainted barn. Meggie's breath caught in her throat and tiny stars began to sparkle around her. She thought she might faint.
He, the stranger, was speaking to her brother Jesse. The sun was at his back and it shone around him like a golden halo. Even from the distance she could see that he was handsome in a curious way. He was finely dressed and worthily shod. Real pince-nez spectacles of circular glass were perched upon his nose. And his trim form and deignful expression gave him a princely air.
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 237