In Harms Way (Mills & Boon Vintage Intrigue)
Mae goes to discover the truth of this before the dragon leaves its lair to extract her own justice. And in her search of the spring festivities, learns more secrets than the dragon had even guessed of. But something was wrong, terribly wrong, in Warm Springs. Nothing could have prepared even a hardened police officer like her for the dark mystery of this place???
And nothing could have prepared her for Cole Becker, the devastingly handsome newspaper reporter who was determined to help her uncover the truth??? The second one is a killer Now Tara and Stormi must spring into action to defend their friend.
But Trixie has deep dark secrets. Could they destroy her and the very people defending her? Find out in the third installment of the Caesars Creek Mystery Series. But something evil is lurking amongst the walls and gardens of the beloved farm: Fay, the long-suffering housekeeper shows up in odd places, ghost-like figures haunt the gardens at night, and her estranged and aggravating sister Esther has roared back into her life.
But there is something not quite right about her! The shadow of doom lurks closer each day! But as Angela and Nathan dive into the world of a bygone era, they discover that the old family house and farm hold more than a few secrets and more than a few suspects who will stop at nothing to keep the truth from leaking out. Davis - erscheinungsdatum: Warm Springs Thunder Mountain, 6 - Warm Springs A Thunder Mountain Novel Belle returns to her old hometown, looking for clues as to what happened to her great-great-grandmother a hundred years in the past.
Zane, on a secret mission into the past, never expects to meet the woman of his dreams. A complex time travel novel that explores alternate realities, a future no one wants to face, and sets the Thunder Mountain universe going into the future.
Reconcilable Differences (Mills & Boon Vintage Intrigue) - Ana Leigh - كتب Google
The sixth standalone novel in the popular Thunder Mountain series. He has not written again. Yet I do not think he is dead. The messenger who brought it was from abroad. My mother did not welcome him very warmly, and afterwards she cried. The messenger went away laughing, and that maddened me.
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I ran after him, demanding that he should fight, but he caught me by the wrist, looking down for a long time into my face. Ha, ha! So you would not run away in face of an enemy? A game cockerel, I protest. And my mother wept again very sorely and very often, till the day she died. Sir Henry's chin was sunk on his breast. The reopening of an unhealable wound is sore enough work. Yet, being open, he would tell the lad all now, before forbidding mention of such subject again.
Sir Henry Berrington did not believe in ghosts. Yet they haunted the picture-gallery up there. Ah yes! Curse he might and did, yet the ghosts laughed and sang with merry, boyish voices, shouting in glee as they romped with Chieftain and Bride, the great deerhounds, crying aloud to tell father or mother of some youthful sport, carolling out some brave, rollicking ditty of gallant deeds. Ah, yes! It was not the old mother alone who had wept on the neck of these ghosts, holding out wide, empty arms to embrace shadows, and turning away—alone. But the old man's step was firmer now as he trod the gallery floor, head erect and shoulders set as he passed between rows of smiling or frowning ancestors, followed by a lean, dark-browed boy, whose head was a trifle bent and his eyes deprecating as they met the fixed stare of painted ones around.
lyn stone (E-kitapları)
Was it his fault that the scutcheon they left so fair was stained and blotted by a foul and treacherous deed? The setting sun sent a flare of light through the great window, with its blazonment of arms and rich colouring, at the end of the gallery. It shone strangely on the dusty curtain which hung there over the last picture on the wall. And Michael, looking, saw the picture of a young man, dressed in the extravagant fashion of a period twenty years earlier. Rich setting to rich beauty. Surely it was no traitor's face, but rather that of a very pretty gentleman. Yes; chin and mouth proved that—a youth to be led rather than born to rule.
And Satan had led him to his own destruction. So Sir Henry said, even whilst Stephen's mother wept for her son on her knees. A woman puts love before honour where a brave man makes the latter his deity. No wonder Morice Conyers had mocked him. Yet he would prove that a man can be a traitor's son, and yet no traitor himself. The blood drummed in his head and through his pulses at the thought. Yes, he would prove that, and, by his own deeds, wipe out the stain which seemed ready to tear his shrinking soul.
They did not speak, but stood there in the dying sunlight, whilst grey eyes alone spoke their promise to sunken blue ones. A rough night, cold and wet, with a thin sleet falling and the wind blowing from the north-east full against the great coach which lumbered on its way from Oxford to London. Passengers inside huddled together, stamping benumbed feet and wishing for the journey's end. Passengers outside poured anathemas against the weather and the slowness of the horses into the depths of fur-lined coats, wherein their faces were buried.
Only two or three of the younger men perched near the driver were able to crack occasional jokes, whilst one alone strove huskily to troll a stanza of some popular ditty. Positively insulting to sing of drinking and being jolly, or drowning melancholy either, in face of such a gale, and the coach an hour behind time!
Even his comrades upbraided him, whilst one beetroot-nosed individual near looked positively murderous. But Michael Berrington was made that way, and—so an Oxford wag declared—would have found food for laughter with a noose around his neck.
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A man, in holland smock, and face as white as chalk, had burst through the hedge on their left and was running frantically after them. He was breathless before he reached them, and the anathemas of the beetroot-nosed passenger rose high above his fur collar. But Michael—nimble now as when, ten years before, he had scaled a high garden wall with a child's ball—had swung himself down on to the ground beside the man. Have a drink, my friend, and tell us the merry news afterwards. I'll wager it's worth the hearing. The man gulped down the contents of the extended flask readily enough, and proceeded to tell his tale in crescendo tones.
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He had been working yonder with the mangels for Farmer Benton's sheep, and had just stepped into the copse near, when he heard voices on the other side of it, and the jingling of bits. Gentlemen of the road they were,—three of them, black-masked, and dainty in their dress as any lords. How they laughed too, little dreaming of the mangel-digger, as they discussed how they and the rest of their band meant to rob the Oxford coach at Craven's Hollow, not far from Reading. Seven was the hour, and the prey secure.
Loaded (Mills & Boon Intrigue) (Four Brothers of Colts Run Cross, Book 4): First edition
A lonely place, my masters, and rich booty. They had news of a certain gentleman whose valise was worth risking their necks for. The man told his tale in the broad Berkshire dialect, but the outline of it was enough for those who rode on the Oxford coach. What a to-do there was! Gabbling, crying, cursing,—one urging this thing, one the other, whilst the excitement of the beetroot-nosed passenger caused more than one to wonder what his valise contained. Why, troth, we'll be miles away past Craven's Hollow and through Reading itself before then, so you give me leave to handle the ribbons.
More clamour at this you may be sure, more cursings too, and cries that to be robbed by highwaymen was better than to have their necks broken by a mad young blood from Oxford University.