These five mesmerizing tales of disguise, of suspense, and of forbidden romance scorch the pages.
In THE GAMBLE, a notorious rogue discovers that a woman's heart is the hardest jewel to steal. In BEGUILED, two people set out to con the upper crust, and discover they may be pulling an even greater scam on one another. In MISCHIEF, the only thing a dangerous man can remember is the night of passion he once shared with an unforgettable woman. In CAPRICE, a spy sets out to hunt an elusive prey, and uses seduction to trap her once and for all. And, in EMERALD AND SAPPHIRE, a man rediscovers his lost identity with the help of a woman who ignites more than just his memory.
There will be no need to disguise your love for these scintillating romances, penned by a true master of the head and the heart.
These five mesmerizing tales of disguise, of suspense, and of forbidden romance scorch the pages.
In THE GAMBLE, a notorious rogue discovers that a woman's heart is the hardest jewel to steal. In BEGUILED, two people set out to con the upper crust, and discover they may be pulling an even greater scam on one another. In MISCHIEF, the only thing a dangerous man can remember is the night of passion he once shared with an unforgettable woman. In CAPRICE, a spy sets out to hunt an elusive prey, and uses seduction to trap her once and for all. And, in EMERALD AND SAPPHIRE, a man rediscovers his lost identity with the help of a woman who ignites more than just his memory.
There will be no need to disguise your love for these scintillating romances, penned by a true master of the head and the heart.
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Overview
These five mesmerizing tales of disguise, of suspense, and of forbidden romance scorch the pages.
In THE GAMBLE, a notorious rogue discovers that a woman's heart is the hardest jewel to steal. In BEGUILED, two people set out to con the upper crust, and discover they may be pulling an even greater scam on one another. In MISCHIEF, the only thing a dangerous man can remember is the night of passion he once shared with an unforgettable woman. In CAPRICE, a spy sets out to hunt an elusive prey, and uses seduction to trap her once and for all. And, in EMERALD AND SAPPHIRE, a man rediscovers his lost identity with the help of a woman who ignites more than just his memory.
There will be no need to disguise your love for these scintillating romances, penned by a true master of the head and the heart.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781626816244 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Diversion Publishing |
| Publication date: | 12/16/2014 |
| Series: | The Masqueraders Series |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 1363 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
England, April 1814
Once the sloop from Jersey came to dock at Portsmouth, Clarissa was annoyed and then indignant to find herself suffering the interrogation of customs officers who swarmed over the ship. The apologetic captain informed his passengers that because the ship had come from the enemy French-influenced isles of Guernsey and Jersey, the English government felt it necessary to check for contraband and spies. From Clarissa's observation, it appeared that the customs men were bent on seizing all the liquor, tobacco, and silks they found, regardless of whether or not they were legally held. Only after they had ransacked every cabin, opening trunks and barrels, spilling what they did not want willy-nilly over the floors and decks, did they allow the passengers to disembark.
The disagreeable interlude left Clarissa impatient and angry. The crossing had been difficult, with a sudden squall causing delay. As each and every hour passed she had grown more anxious. By the time the port of Plymouth came into view, she was half convinced that her aunt must already be dead.
As she stepped off the gangway, she was engulfed in the teeming life of the pier. Crates, bales, and barrels of every size and description formed an intricate maze through which she and the other passengers were forced to negotiate a path. Hundreds of boisterous soldiers and sailors, disembarking or waiting to board the many military vessels choking the harbor, stood about openly ogling the female passengers. As the daughter of a major general, Clarissa had long ago become accustomed to their high-spirited braggadocio. But now their scarlet coats and blue jackets were reminders of both her father and her husband and, with their deaths, all that she had left behind. Life on the Peninsula seemed a world away, as did the role of daughter of the regiment.
When she raised her head to scan the wharf for a sign that might direct her to a coaching inn, she noticed that a couple ahead of her had paused to stare at the adjoining pier where another ship was unloading. As she reached them the woman pointed a finger as she said, "Would ye look a' that, Henry!"
Curious to know what had caught their attention, Clarissa turned to look toward the large square-rigged ship, letting her gaze slip in envy over the details of the ship that was so much grander than the tiny cramped craft aboard which she had sailed.
And then she saw him.
He stood at the head of the gangway, legs apart and fists on hips. He wore a full-sleeved shirt, unfastened nearly to the waist to reveal a mat of fine black hair on a golden chest. The hems of his baggy trousers were stuffed into gleaming black boots. A wide leather belt embroidered with colorful designs spanned his narrow waist. Tucked behind it was the curved blade of a scimitar. As he surveyed the port city, a sudden breeze caught and billowed out his burnoose, making him seem as majestic as a ship's mast under full sail.
From her perspective, and through the dimming effect of her widow's veil, Clarissa could not distinguish his features. Yet as he made his way down the gangway, his stride confident — no, masterful, she thought in admiration — she was reminded of the only man she had ever known who possessed this combination of swaggering authority and icy disdain.
"Uncle Quentin?" she whispered incredulously.
Was it possible? But of course! It would be like him to turn up in England long after everyone had given up hope of seeing him again.
Flooded with giddy joy and relief that Aunt Heloise would not now have to face her last days without the comfort of her long-lost husband, Clarissa rushed toward the adjacent gangway with a hand lifted in greeting. "Uncle Quentin!"
She gave no thought to the spectacle she was making of herself as the crowd on the pier parted to allow her passage. Uncle Quentin enjoyed spectacles, preferred them, Aunt Heloise would say.
As he reached the dockside, she stepped into his path and impulsively threw her arms about him, hugging his hard-muscled body. For a moment she rested her head on his chest, struggling to master strong emotions of gratitude and relief. Then she lifted her head and said in the Arabic language he had taught her many years earlier, "Welcome home, burra sahib. We feared you were dead!"
One moment she was enveloped in the thick folds of his linen robes, which held the commingled aromas of ambergris, tobacco, and the unique scent of the man. The next she was being propelled backward to arm's length by hands on her shoulders.
For several seconds she stood blinking up at the dark figure whose features were eclipsed by the brilliance of the sun directly behind him. Then she thought she understood the reason for his surprise. He did not recognize her in her widow's weeds.
She reached up to draw back her veil and said in the elaborately formal speech of the East, "Has it been so long, great master, that you do not recognize your humble handmaiden?"
Stepping out of his shadow to allow the sun to fall fully upon her face, she saw his features clearly for the first time.
An arresting face gazed down at her. The jutting nose, black brows, and long mouth nestled in a silky black goatee marked him as a man of uncompromising temperament. A faint scythe-shaped scar over his left brow marked him as a man of action. Eyes, green and hard as jade, stared out at her from a face burned brown by the sun. It was a handsome and dangerous face ... but it was not her uncle's.
"Bismillah!" Clarissa whispered, echoing Uncle Quentin's favorite phrase. "I beg your pardon," she murmured and tried to back away.
He did not release her. As his cool green gaze passed deliberately over her, she felt a distinct chill though the day was warm. Then her face seemed to catch fire with embarrassment. Yet she could not look away. She saw his pupils expand until the irises became brilliant coronas, marking the depth of his interest.
When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly warm, the tone shockingly intimate. "Do you know me now, Bahia?" he inquired in Arabic.
"Of course not! There's been a mistake," Clarissa replied in English. Belatedly realizing she had been released and feeling even more foolish, she turned abruptly away. But she had not thought to look where she was going and stumbled against a barrel, hissing in pain as the rough slats bit into her shin.
A hand grasped her upper arm, exerting enough pressure to steady her, and then dropped away. "You are impetuous, are you not?"
Clarissa glanced up in amazement. "You speak English!"
"I'm not aware that it's a crime," he replied, revealing that he not only possessed a command of the English language but that he spoke it as well as any noble. "You've injured yourself. Let me see."
He took a step toward her, and she hastily retreated, fearing that he would try to examine her. "That won't be necessary."
"As you wish." He smiled now, and in that wicked gleam of teeth she discovered a further reason to make a quick escape. Like some black-pelted panther he was exciting — and disturbing. Even so, she had a sudden irrational desire to touch him again.
As it was wont to do in moments of extreme agitation, a portion of her mind stood apart to survey the scene. Here she was, a widow swathed in mourning black, while a man dressed as an Arab corsair looked down at her as though if she even leaned in toward him, he would heave her over his shoulder and make off with her through the streets of Plymouth. Not that she would ever have done such a thing. The urge to move closer to him arose from the same primitive impulse one had to stroke any sleek and beautiful predator — and she knew it would prove to be just as dangerous.
The idea that she, a lady, was actually thinking such thoughts struck her as absurd, and she lifted a hand to still the laughter that threatened her. If she laughed in his face surely he would think her mad.
At that moment a man approached them. "Ye'll be the one hired the coach, guv'nor?" he asked the man beside her in a respectful manner and tipped his hat. The stranger answered with the merest nod of his head. "'Twill be that 'un." The man, whom she guessed to be a coaching clerk, pointed to a place a few yards away where a post chaise stood.
The "Arab" pulled a purse from his thick belt and fished out a few coins. "That should cover the expense," he said and handed the money to the clerk who, grinning, doffed his hat and then left.
When he again turned to Clarissa, the "Arab's" fierce gaze was tempered by amusement. "Have you looked your fill, madam? Or would you care to continue your perusal on the way to London?" He held up a coin so that the sunlight struck sparks off the gold. "Perhaps the privacy of my coach will stimulate you to further demonstrations of enthusiasm over my return."
As there was nothing to say in the face of such impropriety, Clarissa simply turned her back on him and walked away. She tugged her veil back into place, but her hands shook with the effort. Obviously he considered her to be no better than the dozens of slatterns who were parading along the quay in the hope of attracting the attention of any man with a coin in his pocket. She had made a dreadful mistake that was best forgotten.
She hurried after the coaching clerk. "Wait, sir." When he paused she added, "I wish to hire a post chaise for a journey to Surrey. I assume it is possible to do so."
The man smiled, his pale-blue eyes speculatively upon her. " 'Tis like this, ma'am. We'd three post chaises for hire, but two was bespoken for ahead of time."
"Then I will take the last," she answered, wondering why he was being deliberately difficult. Or had he heard the insulting exchange between herself and the "Arab" and drawn his own erroneous conclusions?
"The other's been took, as well."
"Taken?" she asked suspiciously. "Taken by whom?"
The coaching clerk nodded toward the street. "By him."
Somehow in the instant before the words were out, an inkling of misfortune warned Clarissa who had hired the coach. Still, she turned to gaze at the robed stranger who was directing the removal of his baggage from the pile on the docks.
She looked again at the clerk. "When will another coach be available?"
"'End o' the week, ma'am."
"I don't suppose there is another coaching house nearby?"
"There be a dozen, but what with the military commandeering everything from milk carts to highway coaches on account of the fleet's return, ye'll not be finding one with so much as a nag to let."
"I see." Clarissa set her jaw. She simply had to reach her aunt Heloise before nightfall. With the greatest reluctance, she cast a glance at the man who had now made his way to the chaise waiting on the lane. Her father always said there was more than one way to skin a cat. She hoped he was right, for her opponent was of a large and very dangerous breed. Gathering her courage, she strode purposefully toward the hired coach.
Unaware that he was being followed, the stranger had stopped to remove his turban while his bags were being placed inside by a hired boy. Once released, his raven-black hair flowed down over his shoulders in wave after satin-smooth inky wave. When he looked up and saw who had come to stand beside him, his frank expression of amusement made Clarissa involuntarily clutch her purse tighter.
She knew what he was thinking, that she had changed her mind about his odious invitation to join him. The very idea made her want to slap his arrogant face. Instead, she noted the small gold earring glinting in his left ear and reminded herself that he was not of her world, nor of her experience. If she struck him, he might very well strike her back.
She drew herself up and favored him with her best lady-of-the- manor tone. "It's imperative that I reach Surrey at once. My aunt is very ill. I therefore appeal to your better nature and ask that you permit me to hire this coach away from you."
He grinned at her, and the self-satisfaction in it was a shock to her spine. "You'd do better, Bahia, to appeal to my baser instincts. It will reap you better results, and more quickly."
Having expected him to reply with an insult, Clarissa merely opened her reticule and felt for the coins in the bottom. "Very well, how much do you want for the coach?"
He leaned casually against the coach door and folded his arms across his chest. "What is it worth to you?"
Clarissa's head snapped up at his tone and she met his sardonic gaze. "What price do you require?"
"Twenty-five pounds," he answered promptly.
She refused to look at him as she counted her coins. He had asked five times the usual rate, but she was too angry to argue. When she had emptied her purse, she laid the coins on a ledge near his elbow. "That is all I have. Take it and step aside."
Instead, he reached out and tossed back her heavy veiling. Even as she gasped in protest he caught her by the waist with one hand while the other slipped under her chin to cradle her face as his mouth descended on hers with stunning purpose.
For a few heart-quaking moments, Clarissa felt her lips enclosed in the burning embrace of his. Incredulous surprise held her motionless. His hot mouth seemed to engulf her entire body in flame. Then, just as quickly, she was released.
They stood a moment, both breathing heavily, her eyes wide with astonishment, his narrowed in surprise.
Until this instant, Clarissa had doubted the possibility of what life had never offered her. But the searing green gaze of a stranger forced the shock of recognition upon her, and she felt the impact of her body's response. For a moment, she looked upon the face of desire.
He recovered first and his eyes turned fierce though his lips parted in a smile. "Let that be a lesson to you. Never offer a man everything you have, or he may feel free to take it, and more. The carriage is yours, with my compliments."
He lifted his bags from the interior and was gone in an instant, the fine white linen of his burnoose swirling in his wake. Only the stinging power of his kiss remained as a throbbing on her lips.
"A friend of yours?" the coachman inquired from his perch atop the coach.
"Heaven forbid!" Clarissa exclaimed emphatically. She put a hand up to her lips to wipe away his kiss but instead pressed her fingers there to stop the tingling sensation his touch had left. From the corner of her eye, she spied the speculative look on the coachman's face and snatched her hand away. "I am Mrs. Willoughby. My bags are on the dock. Please fetch them."
As the coachman climbed down to do her bidding, she stepped into the coach, latched the door, pulled all the shades, and then fell back against the squabs.
"Dear Lord in heaven!" she exclaimed. Her pulse was galloping, her body throbbed in a dozen strange places. And all because of a stranger's kiss. So this was desire! What a fool she had been to doubt it. How wise she had been to hide from it.
Belatedly she rearranged her veil. She had no one but herself to blame for what had occurred. She had made a complete fool of herself when a moment's thought, the merest hesitation, would have saved her a great deal of trouble and humiliation. At least she could take comfort in the fact that he could not know what went through her mind. She was safe. She would forget the incident, put this new knowledge of herself and its implied possibilities right out of her mind. Very shortly it would be as if it had never happened.
So why did she feel as if he had stripped her naked?
Suddenly she knew what her father had had in mind when, years before, she had come to live with him. There were hundreds of soldiers at the post. Being a military man, he had frankly warned her against the frailty of a woman's will in the face of the male animal. Until today she had never experienced it.
She squirmed uncomfortably against the cushions only to bolt upright as something poked her. Turning, she felt along the seat until she found a silver luggage tag. As she ran a finger over it in the dimness, she felt the embossed imprint of a royal crest.
"Impossible!" she whispered as she looked toward the closed shade that blocked her view of the docks. Someone else must have left it behind. Satisfied to have solved the mystery, she again leaned back and closed her eyes.
The moment she did, a pair of fiercely green eyes appeared in her mind's eye, indelibly marked by amusement at her expense.
Summoned by a front doorbell which seldom rang, Potsman took his time in opening one of the pair of huge oak doors which formed the entrance to Dolick Hall. "Good even — why it's Miss Clarie!" he cried, jolted out of his usual solemnity.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Masqueraders Series"
by .
Copyright © 2014 Laura Castoro.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
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