Jacqueline Navin - The Viking's Heart

“Are you an expert on evil, Rosamund?”

When she turned back to him her eyes were a bit wild—large and round, lost in that pretty face. They startled him. So did her answer. “Aye. Of a sort. I am.”

He blinked, trying to absorb it. Trying to think what it meant. In the end, he only held out his hand. “Come. Let us go back to the hall.”

She was so artless, so utterly transparent. She hesitated. “I…I thought I might roam a bit. Get to know the castle.”

“What a poor liar you are.”

Her head whipped around. She was all fire again. “What an insulting man you are! What reason have you to question me?”

What reason had he? Only that something deep down in his gut seemed connected to this woman. Only that his soul spoke to him of her, and it told him disturbing things….

Dear Reader,

Much of the beauty of romance novels is that most are written by women for women, and feature strong and passionate heroines. We have some stellar authors this month who bring to life those intrepid women we love as they engage in relationships with the men we also love!

In fact, rising talent Jacqueline Navin could be one of our heroines. This mother of three has written six books since her publishing debut in 1998. Her latest, The Viking’s Heart, is a lively yet emotional sequel to her first book, The Maiden and the Warrior. Here, noblewoman Rosamund Clavier awaits escort to the dreaded marriage her abusive father has arranged for her. Imagine Rosamund’s dilemma when she discovers that her Viking escort is her true match—yet duty and honor still bind her to another….

Award-winning author Gayle Wilson returns with My Lady’s Dare, a sensational Regency-set romance about a woman who would sacrifice all for the life of a family member. Luckily the Earl of Dare comes to her rescue! In Bandera’s Bride, Mary McBride gives her Southern belle heroine some serious chutzpah when, pregnant and alone, she travels to Texas to propose marriage to her pen pal of six years, a half-breed who’s been signing his partner’s name…!

And don’t miss Susan Amarillas’s new Western, Molly’s Hero, a story of forbidden love between a female rancher and the handsome railroad builder who needs her land.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

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

The Viking’s Heart #515

This is dedicated to Mick.

Does it ever get old when I keep saying, “Thanks”?

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

Epilogue

The woman who lay upon the cushions of the gently swaying litter was asleep. Beside her, a slumbering maid snored softly into the still air as if even in sleep she could not stand to be silent. Outside, the steady clatter of horses’ hooves, the occasional deep drone of a man’s voice, the clang of armaments jostling as their bearers traveled over rough terrain all blended together and filled the air with a busy, hushed din that was somehow soothing. It was this and the rocking motion that had lulled the lovely young woman after three days and nights of anxiety-filled wakefulness.

Her eyes flew open and she sat up.

The dream had come again.

Glancing about, she blinked until sleep released its hold and she recognized where she was. A sigh that was more resignation than relief stole some of her tension as she lay back again and placed a limp wrist over her forehead to push the wisps of golden curls away.

As horrid as her sleep had been, the world unchanged upon waking was no better. They were set to end this day at Gastonbury, the fortress home of her cousin’s husband.

Gastonbury. She shivered. She had heard tell of Lucien de Montregnier, a dark and fearsome lord who had conquered the lands in a sweeping campaign of vengeance and taken her cousin, Alayna of Avenford, to wife. The thought of such a man, mingled with her other fears, set her to nibbling on her fingernail.

In truth, it was not so much Gastonbury, or even its fierce lord, that sparked her dread as what lay after the visit to her kinswoman. Berendsfore Manor. Sir Robert, and her one, greatest fear.

Which brought to mind her dream. Or was it a memory? She never really knew for certain, and the wondering preoccupied her to madness.

It had begun, as it so often did, with the deceptively mild realization that she was in her bed at Hallscroft, her home since she was a child. In the dream, she was but a girl of ten and two. She could detect the soft smell of rain and wood fires that wafted in through the window. A band of moonlight fell across the pale carpet of rushes. It was so real, she often wondered upon waking how it was that each sensation had felt so vibrant, each perception clear and acute.

When the woman entered, she was only a shadow, but her scent was familiar and beloved. Soft contentment drifted over her at the woman’s presence. The faint touch of fingertips at her brow, then along her cheek, felt like cool silk.

“Beautiful Rosamund,” the woman whispered, and Rosamund reveled in her mother’s love.

Then she spoke again and the words that came across the years, borne upon the wings of memory and given breath in the netherworld of sleep, were just beyond Rosamund’s comprehension. She saw her mother’s lips move, heard sounds come forth, but could not understand.

Her mother stood and turned, her profile jarring. The protrusion of her belly was evident now, with the moonlight behind her. Her slender, delicate mother thus encumbered had been strange and somehow disturbing to Rosamund, as though she had known at the advent of her mother’s pregnancy that the visible advances in the woman’s condition would bring them both closer to loss.

Going to the window, her mother had spread her arms. She set herself adrift on the air. She was flying. The world fell away, and Rosamund knew this was no beautiful soaring of the falcon. Her mother’s hair, so like Rosamund’s own, floated and she smiled, turning her face away from the tormented visage of her little daughter and into the death before her.

Rosamund screamed, but no sound came forth. No tears came though she wanted to weep. She reached for her mother but her limbs refused to obey her will.