The Summit Authors Present:
Favorite Romance Themes™
BAD BOY HEROES
Four complete novels in one volume
Meet the Authors:
Patricia Ryan is a RITA Award-winning author known for breaking boundaries with her “fresh, swift and sexy” page-turners that blend romance, history and suspense. Her 30 books have been published in more than 20 countries.
Judith Arnold is a USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of more than 90 novels, with more than 10 million copies of her books in print. Her writing has been called “enchantingly charming,” “quietly lyrical,” and, according to Publishers Weekly, “scrumptious.”
Kathryn Shay is a USA Today bestselling author and has more than 5 million copies in print of her 48 published novels. Her contemporary romances have been serialized in Cosmopolitan magazine and featured in The Wall Street Journal and People magazine.
Barbara Samuel is the author of more than 45 romance and women’s fiction novels. She has won the RITA seven times and received awards from Library Journal and the Colorado Center for the Book. She was inducted into the Romance Writers Hall of Fame in 2012.
Samples
If you downloaded the free sample of this boxed set, you can click below to sample the opening chapter of:
Secret Thunder by Patricia Ryan
Follow the Sun by Judith Arnold
Trust in Me by Kathryn Shay
Breaking the Rules by Barbara Samuel
Table of Contents
SECRET THUNDER
*
“This is as good as it gets. If you only read one historical romance this year, it should be Secret Thunder!” The Literary Times
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
FOLLOW THE SUN
*
“Rarely do I rate a novel with graphic love scenes this high, but the story was so strong and the situation unique.” Amazon Reviews
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
TRUST IN ME
*
“This powerful tale of redemption, friendship, trust and forgiveness shows once again that Shay knows how to pack an emotional wallop.” Booklist
PROLOGUE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
BREAKING THE RULES
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“I thought my heart would break… I wept with joy… Breaking the Rules is a book filled with deep emotion (by) one of the best writers of romance today.” -All About Romance
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
SECRET THUNDER
*
By Patricia Ryan
Dedicated with love to my uncle, Dr. Thomas Guy Burford. My sisters and I still have those Wives of Henry VIII dolls you gave us so long ago. See what you started?
Chapter 1
*
March 1067: The village of Cottwyk in Cambridgeshire, England
“IT’S NOT MUCH of a whorehouse.” Luke de Périgueux tugged on the reins, halting his mount next to his brother’s at the edge of the clearing. He could barely make out the humble cottage against the darksome woods that surrounded it; English forests were black as hell at night.
“At least it’s shelter,” Alexandre said through a yawn. “‘Twill rain soon, and I’d rather be in there than out here when it does.”
A shudder coursed through Luke. He rubbed his arms beneath his mantle.
Alex grinned and punched him on the shoulder. “So, my fearsome big brother feels the cold just like us ordinary men.”
Luke nodded, though it wasn’t the damp night air making him shiver, but a cursed weakness of the body and soul—a weakness too shameful to reveal, even to Alex. His hands fisted involuntarily, and he gritted his teeth. Ride it out, he commanded himself. ‘Twill ease up. It always does. A good, hard tupping should help. Flicking his reins, he approached the cottage.
Alex followed, eyeing the crude wattle-and-daub hovel, a doubtful expression on his face. Yellowish light shone through the skins tacked over the windows, and wood smoke scented the air, but not a sound came from within. “Perhaps we’ve got the wrong place,” Alex said.
“Nay, this should be it.” One of Luke’s fellow crossbowmen had directed him here: There’s just the one wench, and she’s not much, but she’ll spread her legs for anyone with tuppence and a hard cock—even a hard Norman cock. Most of these Saxon bitches run and hide when they see us coming.
Little wonder. Every inhabitant of this miserable, rain-choked island feared and despised the Norman conquerors, and why shouldn’t they? Five months had passed since Luke and Alex crossed the Channel to help William, Duke of Normandy—and now King of England—seize this godforsaken country in a single, bloody battle. Hastings should have been the end of it, and it would have been, if only these English barbarians would cease their pointless uprisings and accept Norman rule. All winter, William’s army—including many landless knights, like Luke and Alex, hungry for English holdings—had confiscated estates and subdued the locals with a pitiless zeal calculated to crush rebellious tendencies. Yet, still the people of England defied them, holding on with pathetic tenacity to lands forever lost to them on the fourteenth of October, 1066.
The deerskin covering the doorway parted, and a figure emerged—the figure of a woman carrying a lantern. She was plump, her bosom and hips stretching the wool of her coarse brown kirtle, and her hair was a mop of flaming curls. Holding the lantern high, she sized up the two s
trangers on horseback with a whore’s practiced eye.
Alex chuckled. “Seems we’ve got the right place, after all.”
“Do you speak any French?” Luke asked her as another bout of trembling overtook him. Hold on… ‘twill pass.
“Quite a bit,” she answered in a guttural accent. “My husband, God rest him, hailed from Beauvais.”
A stroke of luck . Most of these Saxons didn’t understand a word of their new ruler’s language. Luke had picked up a little English—he had a facility for languages—but he had no desire to struggle with it tonight.
She smiled coyly. “I don’t imagine you came here to talk, though.” Her doughy cheeks were sprinkled with pockmarks, and her teeth were crooked, but Luke wasn’t feeling very particular at the moment.
King William had issued regulations forbidding his knights and men-at-arms from molesting women or frequenting brothels. Unlike some of his colleagues, Luke had no trouble obeying the mandate against rape. Brutalizing innocents held little appeal for him; he was brutal enough on the battlefield. Unfortunately, the only practical alternative was to patronize whatever local brothels would serve the Normans, and he felt no compunction about doing so.
“My name is Helig,” the red-haired woman said. Luke couldn’t remember having asked. Helig, for God’s sake. Why the devil did these Saxons give their women such grotesque names?
“‘Twill be sixpence for the both of you together,” Helig said. “Tuppence apiece if you want me separately. More if you’ll be wanting something out of the ordinary.”
“Tuppence apiece, then,” Luke said. Alex might not even want her; he could afford to be picky. Handsome and congenial, the young swordsman was remarkably adept at coaxing wenches out of their kirtles. Luke, on the other hand, lacked his brother’s agreeable nature, and his fierce reputation made women uneasy. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had given herself to him for free.
Helig directed them to an attached byre around back, where they stabled their horses, and through that to the cottage proper. Luke squatted on the earthen floor by the central fire pit to warm his jittery hands while his brother went about the pointless business of flirting with this homely Saxon whore.
“Your hair looks like new copper,” Alex told her.
She snorted. “You don’t seem in no hurry to get on with things. Care for a pint, then?”
“Aye, and one for my brother.”
“Ah, I figured you and him was kin.” Helig filled two tankards from a pitcher of ale. “I must say, I never seen such black hair on a Norman as you two have.”
“That’s because we’re from Aquitaine, not Normandy. Folks are darker in the south.” Alex unpinned his mantle and tossed it onto one of the two roughhewn benches facing the table. Luke wrapped his own more closely around himself, hoping his brother wouldn’t notice his tremors. He felt like a cocked crossbow, quivering and ready to fire; his jaw ached from clenching it.
Helig set a tankard on the table with a thunk that made Luke bolt to his feet. Easy. As she reached across it to place the other on the opposite side, Alex came up behind her and lifted her skirt. She had thick legs and a generous white rump, which he fondled freely.
She smirked at Alex over her shoulder as he moved against her. “Seems you’re in something of a hurry after all.”
“Your charms are intoxicating.”
“There’s straw up in the loft, and blankets.” She tilted her head toward a ladder leading to a niche between the byre and the ceiling beams. “We’ll be more comfortable up there.”
Lowering her skirt, Alex raised a tankard and drank from it. “Truth be told, I’m more tired than I am randy. We’ve been fighting since yesterday morning, with no sleep. It only ended at sundown.”
“I know.” Of course. She would have heard the sounds of battle as they wrested nearby Cottwyk Castle from her countrymen. Her expression sobered only momentarily. Nodding toward Luke, she said, “What about you, then? Are you too weary to take what you came here for?”
“Nay.” He craved sleep as desperately as Alex did, but even more pressing was the need to release some of the savage energy thrumming in his veins.
Alex set down his half-emptied tankard, grabbed his mantle, and lay down on the floor next to the fire pit, arranging the woolen cloak over him like a blanket. “Wake me when you’re done,” he told Luke, “and I’ll take my turn.” He shifted to get comfortable in the packed dirt, let out a great yawn, and closed his eyes. Within moments, his breathing grew steady and one hand fell open limply. Knowing his brother, Luke very much doubted he’d be able to awaken him for his turn with Helig, but then he suspected Alex was a good deal less keen on the wench than he’d let on. He’d just thrown her skirt up that way to show a little polite interest. If he’d really wanted her, he would have taken her right then and there. Alex wasn’t shy.
“Nice fellow, your brother,” Helig said.
Luke grunted in affirmation and accepted the tankard she offered him, draining it in one tilt. It wasn’t half bad. One thing these Saxons could do was brew ale.
“You were thirsty.” The whore took the empty tankard from him and reached up to unfasten his mantle pin. She held it close to her face, her eyes widening as she examined the little onyx dragon imbedded in the golden brooch. Looking up, she said, “You’re him.”
Luke took the pin from her and clumsily refastened it to the cloak. It had been a parting gift from his father when they left to join William. Alex had received one also, inset with tiny pearls in the shape of a wolf’s head, which he was forever misplacing. Luke treasured his pin and had always taken care not to lose it, especially after receiving word of his sire’s death at Christmastide. Both pins bore the same hopeful inscription on the reverse side: Be strong and of good courage.
“You are him, aren’t you?” Helig said. “You’re the Black Dragon.”
“I’m Luke de Périgueux.”
Helig’s gaze lingered on his hair, which he wore long and braided in back, in the style of his father, rather than closely cropped in the Norman fashion. It was the feature that distinguished him from the rest of the occupying soldiers, including his brother. “Aye, you’re him,” she said, nodding. “You’re the one they talk about.”
Luke knew what they said about him, the words they used to describe him: bloodthirsty, ruthless, brutal. Now she’d be wary, perhaps even refuse him, tuppence or no. He waited for the fascination in her eyes to turn to apprehension.
But it didn’t. If anything, she seemed more enthralled by him now that she knew who he was. Her eyes lit with an interest he knew could not be feigned. Some women had a weakness for monsters in the guise of men, and Luke suspected this Helig was one of them. As she undraped the mantle from his shoulders and hung it on a peg, Luke reassessed her attractiveness as a bed partner. If her heart was in it, as it seemed to be, she might give him quite the lively ride. God knew he could use one.
She approached him with a sway in her hips and a look of frank desire. There was something crudely seductive about her, an unwashed sexuality that stirred his loins. He backed her against the table and ground his hips against hers as he gathered up her kirtle with trembling hands. Arousal merged with the bloodlust still surging through him to rob him of all reason or self-control. He needed this woman, this release, and he was going to take what he needed now.
Unbuckling his belt, she said, “Let’s get you out of these things first.” Luke yanked the heavy, calf-length tunic over his head and tossed it onto the bench, leaving himself in his shirt and chausses. Helig untied the shirt, exposing his chest, and combed her fingers through the dark hair there. “What have we got here?” She pulled out the first of two leather cords looped around his neck and ran her thumb over the crudely carved wooden cross. “My word. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”
He whipped up her skirt and lifted her onto the table as she pulled out the second cord. “What’s this, then?” She fingered the little leather pouch, causing the dried herb
s within to crackle. “Yarrow?” A reasonable assumption. Many of Luke’s fellow knights carried a pouch of the all-purpose medicinal herb.
“Aye,” he lied as he reached beneath his shirt and fumbled for the drawstring of his chausses. His madness had become a carnal drive, hot and urgent.
She brought the pouch to her nose and sniffed, then frowned. “That’s not yarrow. What’s in there? Catnip?”
Luke stilled in the act of untying the woolen hose.
“I recognize the smell,” she said. “My brother, Ham, uses it. Perhaps you know of him. You’re under Lord Alberic’s command, are you not? Ham is the hangman at Foxhyrst.”
Luke and Alex were quartered at Foxhyrst Castle, under the rather inept command of Lord Alberic, one of King William’s most ambitious lapdogs. Alberic’s devotion to his liege—combined with a certain amount of sly manipulation—had recently earned him the coveted title of sheriff. Most of the soldiers who’d served under him since Hastings—including Luke and his brother—remained with him as men-at-arms charged with suppressing rebellion. As Luke recalled, Alberic’s hangman had more or less come with Foxhyrst Castle. Ham was a bearish, bald-headed Saxon who brought a great deal of savage enthusiasm to his work and cared little that his countrymen counted him a Judas.
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