Rance nodded, his tears glistening. “Jessie brought you into town herself. You were wounded in the chest, but the bullet went clean through…missed your heart. But by then you went into labor, and there was nothing they could do but deliver the baby and hope for the best. Well, honey, we got the best. He’s a beauty.”
He nodded with pride to a woman who had been standing back in the shadows. Stepping forth, she laid a blanketed bundle in April’s trembling arms.
April raised her head in wonder to stare down at the tiny scrap. His head was covered with thick, black hair. She laughed through her tears and cried, “He looks like you!”
“Well, that’s the first of many problems he’s going to have,” Rance laughed with her.
The others moved out of the hospital room, leaving them alone. April held her son close to her bosom and looked up in wonder and love to meet Rance’s adoring gaze.
Their nightmare was over. Their dream had become a living reality.
And he leaned down to press his lips to hers in a kiss that tasted of warm, sweet wine.
About the Author
Patricia Hagan might be the New York Times bestselling author of 38 novels and 2500 short stories, but she can also lay claim to being among the vanguard of women writers covering NASCAR stock-car racing. The first woman granted garage passes to major speedways, she has awards in TV commentary, newspaper and magazine articles, and for several years wrote and produced a twice-weekly racing program heard on 42 radio stations in the south.
Patricia’s books have been translated into many languages, and she has made promotional trips to Europe, including England, France, Italy, Norway, Greece, Turkey, Croatia, Spain and Ireland.
Hagan’s exciting eight-book Coltrane saga, which spans from the Civil War to the Russian Revolution, has appeared on every major bestseller list and is one of the most popular series published in France, never having been out-of-print in that country in nearly 30 years.
Born in Atlanta, Georgia, Patricia grew up all across the United States due to her father’s position as a federal attorney, finally settling in Alabama where she graduated from the University of Alabama with a major in English. She now resides with her husband in south Florida where she volunteers as a Court-appointed Guardian Ad Litem for abused children.
But of all her accolades and accomplishments, Patricia most of all loves to boast of being the proud mom of a Navy SEAL.
Look for these titles by Patricia Hagan:
Now Available:
This Savage Heart
The Coltrane Saga
Love and War
The Raging Hearts
Love and Glory
Love and Fury
Love and Splendor
Love and Dreams
Love and Honor
Love and Triumph
Coming Soon:
Golden Roses
Love’s Wine
Midnight Rose
Heaven in a Wildflower
Shipwrecked on the rocky shores of romance…
Souls Aflame
© 2012 Patricia Hagan
Julie Marshall’s brother has been labeled a traitor to the South. Unable to stay, she must now leave her beloved home, Rose Hill, and board the Ariane, a blockade-running frigate sailing for London, in order to save the family home. On route, she is shipwrecked on an island in the Gulf with handsome Captain Derek Arnhardt.
After finding a love and passion unlike anything she has ever known, Julie and Derek are soon torn apart when they are rescued and Julie must leave to search for her missing brother. Plunged into a world of intrigue and darkness, Julie prays that she and Derek can be reunited and rediscover the love that once set their souls aflame.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Souls Aflame:
Julie stood at the ship’s rail, oblivious to the chill of the December night as she stared pensively toward the moon-swept wilderness of the Georgia river bank. She was leaving behind everything familiar and dear to her to journey across the ocean to a distant land and marry a man she knew she could never love.
A shudder went through her slender young body. Marriage. She did not want to marry anyone, and certainly not someone for whom she felt only polite regard.
But she was not the only person driven to act against her will, she reflected. The war between the North and the South had brought upheaval and chaos to thousands of lives.
From above, twinkling stars reflected in the rolling black waters danced merrily and shattered into thousands of shards. The silence was broken only by the croaking of an army of frogs and the mournful hooting of unseen owls. Wind whispered through the gray moss that hung shroudlike from the trees lining the shore.
They had left the landing some hours ago, traveling to the ship on a ten-oared barge hewn of thick cypress logs. She, her mother, and Sara, their most devoted Negro servant, had been taken to the low, marshy flat that the Yankees had not yet discovered. Steam-powered cotton presses had been built there, and the blockade runners took on their cargoes from that point.
They had been met by sentries, who were posted on the wharves at all times to prevent Confederate deserters from getting on board and stowing away. And, of course, they kept a stern vigil for Yankee spies.
Before Julie’s betrothed, Virgil Oates, had left weeks earlier to go to England and make preparations for their wedding, he had explained that the conformation of the Atlantic coast and the direction and force of the winds were both factors in the successful blockade running.
“If the wind blows off the coast, it drives the squadron to sea,” he had said. “It enlarges the perimeter of the circle through which the blockade runner can swiftly and safely steam. If the wind blows landward, the squadron must haul off to a greater distance to escape the consequences of the heavy seas that are so violent along the coast.”
He talked of the shoals lining the North Carolina coast, saying that they extended for miles into the sea, and were unsurpassed in danger for navigating when strong easterly winds met the ebb tide.
“It’s an easy matter, however, for an experienced pilot who knows the coast to run a swift-steaming light-draft vessel out to sea or into port. The heavier and deeper draft vessels of the Federal blockade squadron are buffeted by the stormy winds and waves.”
Julie remembered how Virgil embraced her as he told her that he had engaged the Ariane, one of the swiftest runners afloat. “I certainly would not take a chance with my future bride’s safety,” he said, “and I am told that Derek Arnhardt is one of the most skilled captains on the high seas.”
He kissed her then, and she prayed he would not sense the negative feelings she fought to hide. She was grateful for the kindness he had shown both her and her mother, and she was well aware that if he did not use his “connections” to get Rose Hill cotton through the Yankee blockade, all would be lost.
She could not let that happen, and not merely for her own sake. She was thinking of her mother, who had struggled so desperately to keep the plantation going since her father’s death only five years past. Then there was her twin brother, Myles. Oh, God, he had suffered and was still suffering, and she wanted a home waiting for him when and if he was able to return.
Her hands gripped the railing tightly as feverish determination rippled through her body. Virgil had asked her to marry him, and when she accepted, she knew he would use all his influence and power to save her family estate. But it still made her sick to the depths of her soul to know she was marrying a man she would never love.
There had been so much misery to bear. She could trace her own heartache back to that balmy spring afternoon when she was only twelve years old and discovered the horrible secret about her father. Lord, she would never forget that fateful day.
She and Myles were going riding, and she had gone to the stable ahead of him. It was located down a long, curving path, behind the big house. Stepping inside the structure, she paused for her eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness—then froze at the sound of whispering voi
ces.
“Adelia, darling, you shouldn’t have come here…”
She recognized her father’s voice, and before she could grasp what was happening, she heard her Aunt Adelia’s voice replying, “Jerome, it’s been weeks. When I saw Elena’s carriage pass this morning on the way into town, I knew I had to risk coming. You don’t know how I’ve yearned for your touch, your kiss…”
Cold reality washed over Julie in waves as she leaned back against the rough wooden walls, her legs no longer able to support her. Her father…and her aunt! They were lovers!
She was not able to will herself to move, though she wanted so desperately to run, to escape the nightmare. Helpless, she was forced to stand there, hands knotted into tight fists pressed against her quivering lips as burning screams struggled to surface.
And never would she be able to erase from her memory the sounds of their frantic, feverish lovemaking in the hayloft overhead.
It was only when silence descended that she was able to come out of her shock, and she slipped quietly outside, the memory forever etched in her brain.
She had not told Myles, though she would have liked to confide her heartache. She did not want him to be torn up inside too.
It had been terrible to force herself to pretend she knew nothing, especially when her father was around. A jovial, affectionate man, she reasoned he was the most wonderful father a girl could wish for. She tried not to despise him, blaming Aunt Adelia instead. It was only natural, she reasoned, that he would give in to a woman who threw herself at him, with no thought of morals.
She knew also how crushed her mother would be to learn her brother’s wife was cavorting with her husband, whom she loved with all her heart. Julie had always known this. So why had her father turned to another woman, betraying his wife and the mother of his children? She did not know, especially since her mother was much prettier than Aunt Adelia. Perhaps, she reasoned, physical beauty did not ensure eternal faithfulness and devotion between a husband and wife.
The times when Aunt Adelia was around were the worst, and every Sunday she and Uncle Nigel would bring their son, Thomas, to Rose Hill for a sumptuous dinner. Uncle Nigel was not a man of wealth. He was but a poor dirt farmer who barely coaxed a meager existence from his land, and she had heard the servants whispering that Sundays were probably the only time the Carrigans ever got a decent meal.
Myles noticed her sudden dislike for their aunt and questioned her about it, but she never answered him. Cousin Thomas was another matter. Until Julie discovered the “secret” they had been quite close. Afterwards he badgered her constantly about why she had cooled toward him, never accepted an invitation to visit him at his house, and avoided him when he came to hers. He was hurt and puzzled, but she knew all too well how it would destroy him if he knew the truth about his mother.
So she told no one, harboring the agony herself.
Then came the night that would haunt her forever. Rain was pouring down fiercely, and she was awakened by the loud pounding at the front door and the sound of a man’s booming voice demanding to see her mother.
By the time one of the servants answered and hurried upstairs to tell her mother Sheriff Franklin wanted to see her, Julie and Myles had come out of their rooms and stood at the top of the curving stairs. They waited with a chill of foreboding for their mother to appear. When she did, she murmured that they should return to their rooms, but they paid no attention, watching as she hurried down the steps to where Sheriff Franklin waited, twisting his big hat around and around in his hands. Water dripped from his clothes onto the polished oak floors.
In a trembling voice, their mother demanded to know what brought him all the way out there in the dead of night during a storm.
Over their mother’s shrieks of protest, they heard him tell her that their father was dead—murdered in cold blood. He had been on his way home from town, and someone shot him right off his horse.
There had been much confusion, with their mother fainting, and Julie and Myles screaming and crying. It was only later that Julie was able to sort out the pieces of the story that no one else would ever know about.
The sheriff and their neighbors could not understand the reason Nigel Carrigan had quarreled with his brother-in-law earlier that evening in a waterfront tavern. They had no idea why Nigel had threatened to kill him. But when Nigel had disappeared that same night, the night her father was killed, everyone suspected that he had waited in ambush to murder Jerome Marshal.
He was never heard from again.
Julie knew what had happened…and why. It was another secret she would have to bear in agony, alone.
When a haughty Lord meets a determined Miss the only winner is love.
Nicholas
© 2011 Cheryl Holt
Captain Nicholas Price is a man with a plan. As the newly minted Lord Stafford, he is determined to have the best of everything. Clothes, horses, women. He is well on his way with a well-born fiancée and an estate in the country.
Miss Emeline Wilson is a woman on a mission. Forced into penury by the cruel estate manager of the indifferent Lord Stafford, Emeline is determined to confront the new Lord with his callous ways.
When they finally meet, sparks fly, and Nicholas finds himself knocked for a loop by the feisty, intelligent, and definitely not high-born Miss. But what’s an already engaged Lord to do when the plans he’s so perfectly laid out for his future suddenly seem so wrong?
Enjoy the following excerpt for Nicholas:
London, May, 1814…
“Are you sure about this?”
“Very sure.”
Emeline Wilson forced a smile as she leaned across the wagon seat and patted Mr. Templeton’s hand.
He was an older gentleman, an acquaintance from her rural village of Stafford. He’d offered to drive her to London as he brought a load of hides to the tanner. Since she hadn’t had the money to travel any other way, she’d accepted.
The trip had been bumpy and lengthy and fraught with uncertainties. She was worried over whether she should proceed with her plan, and still hadn’t convinced herself that she was doing the right thing.
Nervously, Mr. Templeton pointed to the ostentatious mansion that towered over them. It belonged to Nicholas Price, the new Lord Stafford, a mysterious personage who’d been earl for a year and who no one at the Stafford estate had ever seen or met.
“The house is awfully grand, isn’t it?” he said.
“Not as grand as Stafford Manor.”
“How will you gain entrance?”
“I’ll simply knock on the door.”
“Do you think his staff will admit you?”
“Why wouldn’t they?” she firmly replied.
Two days earlier, when they’d left home, she’d been brimming with indignation, aggrieved on her neighbors’ behalves, and prepared to slay any dragon as she sought a paltry crumb of justice for them.
But now, with their having arrived, her confidence was flagging.
Why had she assumed she could make a difference? Why was she always so eager to carry the burdens of others? Perhaps she should have stayed in the country and kept her mouth shut.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t her nature to be silent or submissive. She was forever arguing when she shouldn’t, fighting unwinnable battles, and cheering on the less fortunate. Usually to no avail. There were few rewards to be gleaned by heroics, but she couldn’t stop herself.
Life was so unfair, catastrophe so random and typically heaped on those least able to withstand the onslaught. If she didn’t comment on inequity, who would?
Her dear, departed father—the village school teacher and best man she’d ever known—had educated her beyond her needs. She saw problems and the obvious solutions too clearly, and she couldn’t comprehend why the easiest remedies were the hardest to attain. Especially from someone as rich and powerful as Lord Stafford.
His tenants were suffering egregiously. Crops had failed and conditions were desperate, yet he couldn’t
care less. He’d never bothered to visit Stafford. Instead, he’d installed Mr. Mason as his land agent. Mason was a bully and fiend who had been given free rein and unfettered control.
His sole objective was to put the estate on a sound financial footing, by any means necessary. He implemented his draconian measures without regard to the human cost. Families had been thrown out on the road. Acreage had been confiscated.
No one was safe from his harsh edicts, not even Emeline. Despite her father’s three decades of loyal service, she—and her two sisters, ten-year-old twins, Nan and Nell—were about to be evicted.
Mr. Mason had already forced them to relinquish their comfortable house, located next to the manor, in which Emeline had been raised. They’d been relegated to a dilapidated cottage in the woods, and they had to start paying rent or leave, her dilemma being that she had no way of paying the rent and nowhere to live if she didn’t.
“Should I wait for you?” Mr. Templeton asked, yanking her out of her furious reverie.
“There’s no need,” Emeline said. “Go make your deliveries, then pick me up at four o’clock as we planned.”
“It doesn’t seem as if anyone is at home.”
Emeline studied the mansion. The curtains were drawn. No stable boy had rushed out to greet them. No butler had appeared.
“Someone will be here,” she asserted. “I have an appointment, remember?”
It was a small lie, but she told it anyway. She’d written to the earl three times, requesting an audience, but hadn’t received a reply. Finally, in exasperation, she’d written a fourth time to inform him that she was coming to London—whether he liked it or not.
She couldn’t abide snobbery or conceit, and considering Lord Stafford’s antecedents, why would he exhibit any?
Twelve months ago, he’d simply been a captain in the army. When the old earl had died without any children, it had been a huge shock to learn that title would pass to Nicholas Price. In an instant, he’d gone from being a common soldier to a peer of the realm. What reason had he to act superior?
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