Jacqueline Navin - The Sleeping Beauty

She knew that look

She had once known the look of desire on a man’s face—on many men’s faces. But none of them had ever affected her like this.

Deep inside, some nether region of her innards rattled. Humming, vibrating, rattling—she couldn’t tell which. It felt wonderful, like silver threads of pleasure were woven throughout her body and being plucked by some unseen hand like an angel playing a harp.

She felt a bit dizzy all of a sudden. Her eyelids felt heavy.

“It is less than a fortnight when we will be man and wife,” Adam said thickly. He kept looking at her mouth, studying it intensely. Without seeming to move an inch, he somehow was closer. “Not long…”

“No. Soon.”

He was going to kiss her, and she could do nothing but stand there, frozen on the spot, and wait for the touch of his mouth….

The Sleeping Beauty

Harlequin Historical #578

Praise for Jacqueline Navin’s previous works

The Viking’s Heart

“THE VIKING’S HEART is a beautifully written medieval romance…an entertaining and emotional read.”

—The Romance Reader

A Rose at Midnight

“Nothing can prepare you for the pure love that flows from Ms. Navin’s writing. She gives warmth, humor, tears of joy…her books are gifts to be treasured.”

—Bell, Book and Candle

The Flower and the Sword

“…a touching tale of love’s ability to heal wounded souls.”

—Romantic Times Magazine

The Maiden and the Warrior

“Ms. Navin has captured the essence of the time and created a beautiful love story.”

—Rendezvous

#575 SHOTGUN GROOMS

Susan Mallery & Maureen Child

#576 THE MACKINTOSH BRIDE

Debra Lee Brown

#577 THE GUNSLINGER’S BRIDE

Cheryl St.John

The Sleeping Beauty

Jacqueline Navin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and

JACQUELINE NAVIN

The Maiden and the Warrior #403

The Flower and the Sword #428

A Rose at Midnight #447

Strathmere’s Bride #479

One Christmas Night #487

“A Wife for Christmas”

The Viking’s Heart #515

The Sleeping Beauty #578

To Kelly.

The year this book was written was a tough one for you and yet you have emerged from it with amazing benefit. I admire your courage, your fortitude, your poise, your sense of justice—just about everything about you (except your hairstyle ). You have made your dad and me proud and so very happy each and every day.

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

Northumberland, England 1852

Adam Mannion pulled his mount to a halt as the two of them rounded a bend in the packed-dirt road and stood staring at the sprawling mansion.

This was Rathford Manor?

His horse, a newly bought gelding with more spirit than sense, skittered sideways as if he, too, felt the sudden chill that seemed to hit once the house came into view. “Whoa, boy,” Adam muttered, controlling the steed with a skillful jerk of the reins. The horse stilled and twitched his ears nervously as they both regarded the house.

Adam Mannion was nothing if not a practical man. In all of his thirty-two years, he had not seen anything to cause him to believe in anything outside the realm of the physical world other than a good, solid hunch one got at times when the turn of the cards was going one’s way. Nevertheless, in this case he had to sympathize with the horse’s skittishness. The place seemed…dead.

It appeared deserted. Not a single soul wandered in the gardens snipping herbs. No one trotted from the stables to greet him. The shrubbery that might have once lent grace to the noble facade was overgrown, ill tended and wild looking. Lichens grew on the stones, flourishing in the neglect that hung about the place like a pall. Many of the windows were shuttered, a strange sight when the weather was so mild. He supposed it indicated those rooms were shut up and unused.

“The Sleeping Beauty of Northumberland,” Adam muttered, and huffed a short sound of amusement. Well, he was hardly Prince Charming set on cutting down the fence of thorns to rescue the princess, that was certain.

It was money that brought him to this godforsaken corner of England, up here where the wind came off the North Sea to blow across the lifeless moors. He would have preferred summering in Cornwall with his friends, or perhaps the south of France, or Italy as some of his more wealthy bows had. The difference was, he wasn’t wealthy. Which was why he was here. Money. Oh, yes. And a wife.

The Sleeping Beauty of Northumberland, no less.

The horse nickered, a sure sign of derision, as if he could read minds, and Adam nodded sagely. “I agree. Silly stuff and nonsense, all of it.” He shook his head and kicked his heels into the gelding’s flanks. “We shall have to debunk the air of sorcery around here. It is pickling my brain.”

However, his thoughts remained dark as he headed through the high grass and weeds growing on the terraced lawns. It was like heading into a mist-shrouded graveyard at midnight. The hairs on his arms stood up as though lightning were preparing to snap at his feet.

Dismounting, he brushed some of the dust off his trousers and smoothed his cravat, then laughed at his uncharacteristic fussiness. He supposed he was a bit nervous.

Going up to the door, he raised the thick verdigris wreath protruding from the mouth of an iron grotesque, and let it fall. The sound echoed like the low rumble of thunder. Nothing happened for a long time. Knocking again, he waited. He frowned back at the unsightly sentry and thought about his predicament.

Had his information been wrong? Or had he fallen victim to his friends’ savage humor? The idea struck him like a blow. His “bosom bows” were rakehells and scoundrels, and it wouldn’t be below them to play a cruel trick on one of their own. Maybe this was a prank, and they were right now gathered at White’s by the wide front window, laughing themselves senseless as they thought of him traveling all the way up here for…for a fairy tale.

The Sleeping Beauty? He had been told fantastic tales of her beauty, of her charm and grace that had no equal, and—and this was the most important of all—of her fortune. A fortune he needed.