Deborah Hale - The Elusive Bride

Rowan’s gaze rose to meet hers. To discover the answer to his question. What he saw confounded him.

“Dear God, lass, don’t look at me so! Did I not say it would be your own choice? Cast me aside if you cannot love me, but don’t look on me with fear.”

For a moment her body seemed to melt against him, eager to mingle her flesh with his. It stiffened again at his words. Had he said anything so terrible?

Rowan gasped with shock and pain as her fingers twined in his hair and wrenched his head back.

“Damn you, FitzCourtenay, you are a devil! Why could you not just take what you wanted? Why must you make me choose? Can you not see it will tear me apart…?

The Bonny Bride

“…high adventure!”

—Romantic Times Magazine

A Gentleman of Substance

“This exceptional Regency-era romance includes all the best aspects of that genre…. Deborah Hale has outdone herself…”

—Romantic Times Magazine

“…a nearly flawless plot, well-dimensioned characters, and a flame that will set your heart ablaze with every emotion possible!”

—Affaire de Coeur

My Lord Protector

“Invite yourself to this sweet, sensitive, moving and utterly wonderful tale of love from the heart.”

—Affaire de Coeur

The Elusive Bride

Harlequin Historical #539

#540 MAID OF MIDNIGHT

Ana Seymour

#541 THE LAST BRIDE IN TEXAS

Judith Stacy

#542 PROTECTING JENNIE

Ann Collins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

My Lord Protector #452

A Gentleman of Substance #488

The Bonny Bride #503

The Elusive Bride #539

For my daughter, Deidre Siobhan Hale,

and my sister, Ivy Marion Moore.

Their spirit inspired Cecily Tyrell and enriches my life.

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

Epilogue

A twig snapped under footfall.

Its report shattered the golden hush of the glade. The girl jumped at the sound, a batch of freshly picked beans spilling from the lap of her gown. Why? she cursed herself. Why had she lagged behind the novices to steal a moment’s sweet summer solitude? Her father had sent her to the safety of this remote priory, out of the path of civil war. But in a land where every man’s hand was turned against his neighbor, safety was an illusion, and secluded places held their own special dangers.

She willed herself to stillness, like an arrow nocked on a taut bowstring, aimed and ready for flight. By fierce concentration, she forced her breath to the pace of a reverent Ave: “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us…”

A stirring of the underbrush drew her wary glance. Into the sun-dappled clearing stepped a man, leading a gray horse. Catching sight of the girl, he froze. For a moment they stood, each surveying the other. Her look and posture said clearly, Keep your distance. His pleaded, Don’t give me away.

The girl saw a hard lean warrior, whose mail surcoat glinted beneath a well-worn, gray traveling cloak. His ruddy bronze complexion boldly proclaimed him a Crusader. He had the stance of a man proudly in his prime, belying the frets of silver in his dark hair and close-trimmed Norman beard.

The man saw a lithesome, virginal figure, in a coarse-woven tunic and gown, a thick plait of lustrous chestnut hair falling over one shoulder. She reminded him of a young hind, with her delicate brown beauty and her wild, wary vulnerability.

As the man obligingly held his ground, and the girl graciously held her tongue, each began to relax. The man’s gaze strayed hungrily to the tangles of ripe beans and vetch. He’d been traveling in haste and stealth, not sparing the time to hunt or gather food. He would grab a quick meal now, even if the lady should call an alarm.

The girl stared greedily at the horse. How long had it been since she’d felt the firm, powerful barrel of a good mount beneath her, and the wind in her hair? She would brave any peril just to stroke the nose of that magnificent animal.

She stooped and pulled a carrot from the ground. Carefully stepping over the rows of vegetables, she walked steadily toward the stranger and his horse, holding out her offering.

Snatching up the pale orange morsel, the man snapped its crisp flesh between strong even teeth. Dear God, how delicious it tasted! Even the dirt that clung to the root, for it was good honest English earth, moist and loamy.

As the girl watched him devour the carrot, her alarm turned rapidly to amusement. A dimple blossomed by the corner of her wide, mobile mouth. “I meant that for your horse, sir.” Laughter bubbled musically beneath her words.

The man jerked his head toward the gelding. “I’m hungrier than he is. Grass is plentiful, but not to my taste.” The voice was deep and warm, the smile wry and sardonic. As if to affirm his master’s comment, the horse dipped his lean head and cropped a mouthful of tall grass at the edge of the clearing. The girl reached out a hand and passed it caressingly over the big beast’s neck.

Then she remembered the man. “Wait there,” she said eagerly. “I’ll get more. For both of you.”

Making a rapid circuit of the garden, she plucked a handful of beans, pulled a carrot here and an onion there. She thrust the vegetables at the man, holding back one carrot for his mount. She held out her offering to the horse, who snipped it in two mannerly bites. The stranger dropped to the ground and wolfed down his portion with noisy gusto.

“I thought you said she was right behind you!” A deep feminine voice rang out from nearby, coming closer with each word.

“Sister Goliath!” hissed the girl, pulling man and mount back into the safety of the forest’s thick foliage.

“She was right behind me,” insisted a nasal whine.

Into the glade garden charged a bearlike nun in a rusty black habit. By her side scurried a chinless ferret of a novice. They stopped short and peered around the empty clearing.

“Now where can she have got to?” demanded the nun. “Mother Ermintrude wants to see her about something. It’s almost time for Mass—”

“Probably wandered off into the woods,” suggested the novice, with the self-righteous implication that she would never indulge in such improper conduct.

“Heedless child,” fumed the big nun, planting her hands on her hips. “She ought to know wild places can be dangerous.”

Watching from the shadows of the forest, the girl smiled to herself. She knew wild places could be dangerous. She also knew they could be fiercely compelling—like the man who stood behind her. She could feel his breath rustle her hair. She could smell the warm musk of sweat and leather.

Sister Goliath took several menacing strides toward the verge of the clearing, peered into the dense curtain of foliage and bellowed, “Cecilia!”

The man clutched his horse’s bridle and instinctively brought one hand up to clap over the girl’s mouth. He could not take the chance that she might betray him. She did not struggle as he pressed her back against him, but yielded as to a lover’s embrace. The warrior suddenly remembered how long it had been since he’d held a woman. His body ached with the pleasure of it. His breath quickened. A strange chill rippled up his back. Was it excitement?