Dakota's Bride by Christine Young
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 4
Buy
at: www.roguephoenixpress.com
This is the 4th book in the
Lakota/Pinkerton series
Dakota's Bride, My Angel, The
Locket, The Talisman, and Forever His
Moonless and frigid, the December night sent chills down
Emma's spine. Yet she didn't stop at the lighted inn nearby, nor did she break
stride when she stumbled over a rut in the muddy road. Instead, she pulled her
skirts higher. A carriage raced by, hell-bent in the same direction, spitting
mud as it flew past
A frantic look over her shoulder did nothing to relieve
the fear. He was closing on her, forcing her from her hiding place. She stopped
for a moment while she quickly shook the mud off her cape, then she turned to
the little girl.
"You all right, Clare?" Emma asked.
The little girl nodded but didn't say anything, her face
screwed tight with concentration, her breaths ragged and hard.
The big Mississippi paddle wheeler, due to leave in ten
minutes, let out two loud, booming whistles. To Emma's frayed nerves, the sound
was heart-stopping.
The wind from the docks smelled of fish and tar. When it
shifted, she could make out the aroma of fresh baked scones coming from the
inn. Emma gripped the tiny hand she held in her own a little tighter, and
prayed that Clare could keep up the pace.
"It's only a wee bit farther. We can make it,"
Emma told the little girl, her sister. Half sister, she reminded herself.
Clare's father was not her own. His demonically handsome
face leering at her while he calmly explained what he meant for Emma to do in
the bordello was something she'd never forget.
Clare was a tiny and very fragile seven-year old. She had
loving green eyes and a long, slender nose coupled with delicate cheekbones.
Emma knew that someday Clare would grow into a classic beauty.
One long blond lock of hair slipped loose from Clare's
cap. The little girl pushed it away with her free hand, wrinkling her nose
disgustedly.
Frost coated the road, and each hurried step caused the
almost frozen mud to crunch beneath their feet. A horse and rider passed them,
the man tipping his hat as he and his mount thundered by. Church bells rang
out, the sound hollow and thin. It was almost six o'clock. She had five minutes
to reach the boat.
A gust of wind caught her broadside and whisked the hood
of her cape off the top of her head. She grabbed the soft fur and pulled the
fabric back where it belonged. Distracted by the wind and her haste to reach
the boat, Emma caught the toe of her shoe on a rock and balanced precariously
for an instant.
She swore softly under her breath.
Had only one month passed?
No, three weeks ago her mother had died and two weeks ago
she had learned the awful truth. Lawrence Stevens had slowly poisoned her
mother. He had given her a small dose of arsenic each day until finally her
mother took to her bed. Several days later Emma had held her mother's hand
while she breathed her last.
Emma would never have known about the murder if she
hadn't overheard Stevens speaking in harsh whispers with a friend of his. There
were other things said and promised, things Emma had not wanted to acknowledge.
Disbelief and denial had caused her to waste precious
time. Seven days had come and gone since she'd had her last horrible encounter
with her stepfather. It was an encounter that had left her with no doubts that
everything she'd heard was the god-awful truth. Stevens had meant to sell her
to a whorehouse. Still, she'd had a difficult time believing the extent of
Lawrence Stevens's depravity. But when he'd installed her in Madame leBon's
bordello, she realized too late that her life was in grave jeopardy.
And Clare, sweet, sweet Clare, had understood all she'd
told her and perhaps more. With the eyes of a child, Clare had somehow sensed
the evil that surrounded her father long before anyone else did.
Five long days and nights they'd spent on the run. Clare had
not complained. No matter how exhausted or hungry she was, the little girl had
pressed on, understanding the imminent danger that faced Emma. Clare had
somehow known that Emma had to get as far away from Lawrence as possible.
This incredible romance is one I positively fell in love with and
is good enough to read again and again.
Cherokee
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More 4 Cups
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance & More 4 Cups
I can’t remember the last time I was so engrossed in a
book: Dakota’s
Bride took over my weekend, and even now, am wishing to go peruse
it one more time…
Rating: 4.5 Books
Reviewed by Snapdragon Long and Short Reviews
Reviewed by Snapdragon Long and Short Reviews
And My Angel also published by Kensington now with Rogue Phoenix Press
$0.99 at Amazon, Barnes & Noble and All Romance
My Angel by Christine Young
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 4
Buy
at: www.roguephoenixpress.com
This is the 4th book in the
Lakota/Pinkerton series
Dakota's
Bride, My Angel, The Locket, The Talisman, and Forever His
Denver, 1893
A polished azure sky looked down
on a day that vacillated between winter and spring--a day unable to make up its
mind. Cool breezes lifted Angela Chamberlain's brand-new canary yellow skirt
off the moisture-laden sidewalk. A blazing hot sun dried the puddles in the street
left over from last night's deluge.
Unlike the day, Angela had no
trouble making up her mind. Angela knew what she wanted out of life. She
touched one finger to the sapphire earrings adorning her newly pierced ears.
She wanted adventure.
She had a terrible craving to see
the world--to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower, to walk the Great Wall of
China. She yearned to fly in a hot-air balloon high above the earth, or ride in
a gondola in Venice. She wanted to fall in love with a man who was as brave and
smart as her father and as dangerous as Devil Blackmoor.
Angela's wish list had no end.
Instead of adventure and romance,
in three short weeks she'd be enrolled in Miss Somebody's finishing school for
young ladies, where knowing which fork to use was more important than riding
with the wind on her favorite horse, Kangee. A place where changing one's
clothes three times or more each day was common practice.
Two days ago she'd told her
father she didn't want to go.
And two days ago her father had told
her she would learn to appreciate the schooling and that she was a very lucky
young woman. He'd also promised her a trip to the continent for a graduation
present.
A graduation present! She
wanted to yell at him, but wisely kept her mouth shut. She wanted to travel
now. Today. But more than anything, she didn't want to be confined to the
stuffy drawing rooms in the East. Just like her father, she needed freedom. But
her father meant to take the choice from her.
To gossip and chatter with rich
society women was not her destiny. To know which wine was served with fish
would not make her happy. This was his dream for her. Sam Chamberlain needed to
look to his own heart and remember the choices he had made twenty-five years
ago.
Her destiny was out there
somewhere, waiting for her to snap it up and hold the moment close to her
heart. She knew what she wanted, and to prove her point, she'd bought a camera
and had the machine sent over to the hotel. She meant to photograph all her
adventures, every nook and cranny, every monument, every intriguing person.
Across the street and down two
blocks, Devil Blackmoor had just taken the saddle off his horse. He brushed the
stallion's back, all the while petting the animal's sleek coat and crooning
into the horse's ear. Mesmerized, she watched his hands and the gentle way he
stroked the horse.
She wished she had her camera.
Devil Blackmoor commanded her
attention. He symbolized everything a father cautioned his daughter to be wary
of. Despite the warning, Devil's strong jaw, his powerful shoulders and the
confident way he held himself beckoned to every feminine nerve in Angela's
body.
Angela clutched her hands to her
chest, willing her gaze to shift to something or someone who wouldn't shatter
her senses and set her blood boiling. Helpless to control her wayward heart,
she kept looking back at Devil. She noticed everything about him, the way he
moved, the way his denim jeans clung to his legs and the way they molded to his
backside. Devil laughed at something the bouncer from the saloon said, and when he smiled, one edge of his mouth tilted crookedly. Angela's heart
swooned and fluttered, and she thought she might never breathe again.
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