Check out Anna Campbell's fabulous book — The Highlander’s English Bride #HistoricalRomance #MustRead @AnnaCampbelloz

The Highlander’s English Bride

The Lairds Most Likely Book 6

By Anna Campbell

An impossible pairing…

Hamish Douglas, the mercurial Laird of Glen Lyon, has never got along with independent, smart-mouthed Emily Baylor. Which wouldn’t matter if this brilliant Scottish astronomer didn’t move in the same scientific circles as Emily and if her famous father wasn’t his mentor. But when Emily looks likely to derail the event which will make Hamish’s career, he loses his temper with the pretty miss and his recklessness leaves her reputation in ruins.

A marriage made in scandal…

Emily has always thought her father’s spectacular protégé was far too arrogant for his own good. But what is she to do when the only way she can save her good name in society is to wed the unruly laird? Reluctantly she accepts Hamish’s proposal, but only on the condition that their union remains chaste. That shouldn’t be a problem; they’ve never been friends, let alone potential lovers – except that after they marry, Hamish reveals unexpected depths and a host of admirable qualities, and he’s so awfully handsome, and now the swaggering rogue admits that he desires her…

From the ballrooms of London to the grandeur of the western Highlands, a battle royal rages between these two strong-willed combatants. Neither plans to yield an inch – but are these smart people smart enough to see that sometimes the greatest victory lies in mutual surrender?

Excerpt

London, late October, 1822

Emily gestured for Hamish to sit, accepting that she wasn't going to throw him out. Raising her chin, she injected false cheerfulness into her tone. "It will all blow over."

He didn't shift from where he stood. "No. I don't think it will."

Nor did she. Not really.

Feeling cornered, she backed away and curled one hand over the back of the chair she'd been sitting in. "We didn't do anything wrong."

No trace of his usual smile lit the deep blue eyes he leveled on her. Nor did he sit down, which meant he still loomed over her like a mighty cliffside. "The world sees it differently."

She sliced the air with a dismissive hand. "I'm a spinster lady past marriageable age and up until this point, I've had a spotless reputation. Outside the scientific community, nobody even knows I'm alive."

She hid a wince as more of that dratted compassion softened his gaze. Hamish Douglas would not feel sorry for her. She would not permit him to.

"The scientific community includes many of society's darlings. Only the great and the good have the money to dabble in arcane matters like the discovery of comets."

A realization struck her, and not a particularly pleasant one at that. "You're worried for your own reputation."

He didn't even flinch. "I am indeed. I hope one day to be Astronomer Royal. At the very least, I plan to spend the rest of my life working with the men who witnessed our downfall."

She wanted to object to his use of the word "men," but they both knew how few women carved out a scientific career. Influence in London's intellectual circles was a masculine prerogative.

"I'm sorry your ambition has suffered a minor setback," she said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Hardly minor. A man with a dishonored name is unlikely to reach the peak of acclaim. Don't mistake me. I also care about the damage to your name. These things are always worse for the lady, however much I wish that wasn't the case. But nor am I blind to the harm all this talk will do to my hopes."

Emily hid another wince. She felt small for mocking him.

As a woman, she'd always be an outsider in the scientific community, however clever she was. Hamish had started with a disadvantage that was almost as fatal. He was Scottish, and he'd arrived in London with no connections in the world he aspired to dominate. But because he was a man and because he had an exceptional brain, he'd made his way so successfully that when he spoke of becoming Astronomer Royal, it didn't sound like hubris.

"I'm sure they'll forgive you in time. You just need to keep your nose clean from here on in."

With visible regret, he shook his head. "They'll forgive me after I make amends for my sins."

She frowned. "Are you going away until it all dies down?"

"That would be something."

"So you're here to say goodbye to Papa?" Both of them knew that if Hamish went into extended exile, Sir John Baylor wouldn't live to see his return.

She felt a pang at the idea of him going. Which was mad when he'd caused her so much trouble.

Hamish's chiseled jaw set in a determined line, and a muscle flickered in his lean cheek. "No."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I woke him. He always loves to see you. Although I'm not sure how alert he'll be."

One large, capable hand made a sweeping gesture. "Yes, I'll need to talk to him. But, Emily…Miss Baylor, you misunderstand me. I'm not here to say goodbye. I'm here to ask you to become a permanent part of my life."

Oh, no… Not this. Not this.

Her knees turned to water, and she gripped the back of the chair so tightly that her knuckles went white. Icy dread trickled down her backbone. Surely he couldn't mean what she feared he did. "Hamish, I…"

He rushed on before she could finish. Nor did he sound any happier to say what he did than she was to hear it. "Miss Baylor, I'd count myself the luckiest man in England if you will consent to become my wife."

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The Highlander’s English Bride

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Anna Campbell

Anna Campbell is an Australian historical romance writer. She’s published 11 multi award-winning novels for Avon and Grand Central, and 24 books as an independent author. Her books have been translated into 24 languages. She’s currently working on a series featuring roguish Highland heroes, called the Lairds Most Likely. The Laird's Willful Lass, The Laird's Christmas Kiss, The Highlander’s Lost Lady, The Highlander’s Defiant Captive, The Highlander’s Christmas Quest, and The Highlander’s English Bride. Look out for The Highlander’s Rescued Maiden later in 2020.

Connect with Anna: Website • Facebook • BookBub • Goodreads • Amazon Author Page.

Check out Gretchen Jeannette's fabulous book — A Devil of a Time #HistoricalRomance #American #HistoricalFiction @GAJeannette

A Devil of a Time

By Gretchen Jeannette

Captain Niall McLane might think he has survived the worst that could happen to any man, but as the bloody American Revolution draws to a close, he finds his troubles are just beginning. When Niall becomes a suspect in a grotesque murder, his reputation as a merciless Indian fighter and scalp hunter turns the public against him. Worse, the real killer has only begun to rampage, his sights set on those close to Niall.

Now the hunt for evil is on. Niall's only allies are Andrew Wade, a hopeless drunkard tormented by his act of cowardice, and Andrew's young wife, Clarice, a woman of mettle who captivates Niall’s heart. After another murder occurs, Niall manages to stay out of jail, but can he protect Clarice from the formidable creature prowling in their midst?

From the mysterious forests of Kentucky to a graceful Virginia plantation, from the fevered heat of battle to the passionate struggle for renewal, A Devil of a Time weaves a tale of courage, betrayal, and forbidden love, of three men grappling with the demons of their past, and the remarkable woman destined to change all their lives forever.

Excerpt

Shortly after supper, Niall slipped outside onto the veranda behind the mansion.  A full moon shone through the treetops, bathing the world in opalescent light.  Taking refuge in a shadowy corner beyond the spill of lantern glow, he drank in the splendor of Polly’s parklike estate.  A luxuriant formal garden, extending from the veranda to the back of the property, encompassed a full acre of gently undulating grounds.  Secluded pathways offered an escape into tranquility, winding among beds of native wildflowers, exotic shrubs, and ornamental trees, many in bloom.  He could hear the music of a flute wafting through the night.  Recognizing the light, silvery notes of a Handel sonata, he grimaced, for the song signaled the start of an amusement of paramount importance to this gathering: dancing.

On Polly’s orders, the musicians would commence with a round of four minuets, followed by a French cotillion in honor of her military guests.  Once the ceremony of skilled footwork and dexterity concluded, the jigs, reels, and country dances would follow.

I cannot wait to show you off.

Niall scowled in the dimness, envisioning a catastrophe of missteps and lost rhythm, of Polly scolding him for not paying attention during his lessons.  He turned as the veranda door opened, fully expecting to see Polly or a servant sent to summon him.

Clarice stepped outside.  Scanning the veranda, she spied his figure cloaked in shadows, and although she could not make out his face, she knew him by a host of sensuous details.  When he walked forward into the light, she caught the full view of his handsome appearance.  Her body’s response to his nearness was immediate, unnerving in its intensity.  “Have you seen Andrew?” she asked.

“Not for a while.”

“I’ve looked all over for him.  I don’t know where he could be.”

“They’re playing cards in the upstairs sitting room.  Did you look there?”

“No, I didn’t,” she said, wondering how intimately he knew the upstairs chambers of Polly’s house.  “That must be where he went.”

“I’ll go have a look.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself.  He’ll make his appearance eventually.”  After a momentary silence, she ventured, “Are you getting some air?”

“I’m hiding from Polly.”

She smiled in surprise.  “Why, pray tell?”

Just then, the opening notes of Bach’s Minuet in G Major floated through the air, prompting his reply, “That’s why.  The minute I go back inside, she’ll want me to dance.”

“You make it sound like a punishment.”

“It is when you have two left feet.”

Then Clarice realized he was suffering from nervousness.  This courageous man, who had battled scalp hunters in the deep woods, whose ferocious aggression helped turn the tide in a bloody Yorktown redoubt, was terrified of dancing before this crowd.  That he made no effort to hide his apprehension touched her deeply.  “You do not,” she chided.  “I saw you dance on Twelfth Night.  Anyway, no one cares if you miss a step.”

“Polly cares.”

At that, Clarice yielded to a sudden impulse to banish Polly Stewart from his mind.  “Dance with me,” she invited in a soft voice.  “Let me see how you do.”

Niall started to decline, but then she drew near enough that the fragrance of her perfume invaded his senses.  With the strains of a romantic melody stirring his blood, he watched her gather her skirts and dip a low curtsy.  Thus persuaded, he bowed in response.  The next thing he knew, their hands were joined, her palm warm against his skin.  As he guided her into the first figure of the dance, the steps he had once trudged through came naturally, almost without conscious thought, enabling him to savor the passion of her movements.  Like a mystical princess endowed with enchantment, she seemed to float across the veranda, commanding in her beauty and grace.  Whether she was dancing by his side or slowly wheeling away or gliding forward in refined steps to clasp his hand, he found he was not merely performing with her but engaging in a kind of courtship under the starry heavens.  With each touch, with every look exchanged, he matched the intensity in her eyes, beguiled by the lure of the forbidden that made her so unspeakably desirable.  When the music dwindled through the final refrain, signaling the end of their communion, he cursed Bach for not writing a longer piece.

He faced her for the closing honors, bowing as she curtsied.

“You dance beautifully,” she said.

“You inspired me.”  He kept his smile correct and polite, no easy feat with her standing within arm’s reach.  “I had no idea the minuet could be so enjoyable.”

A blush of pleasure suffused her face.  “I think you’re ready to face the public.”

He felt ready to take on the world.  When he offered his arm, she accepted without hesitation, and together they returned to the ball.

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A Devil of a Time

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Gretchen Jeannette

Gretchen lives and works in Chester County, Pennsylvania, an area rich in Revolutionary War and Colonial American history. Her enduring interest in 18th Century America began at a young age, inspired by tales of adventure, romance, and early American lore. After working as an editor for a small publishing company, she decided to write a story of her own. So began a journey fueled by her passion for breathing life into history through believable characters, authentic historical details, and stories woven with romance, action, and adventure.

Connect with Gretchen: Website • Twitter • Goodreads.

Check out Gretchen Jeannette's fabulous book — The Devil Take Tomorrow #HistoricalRomance #AmericanRevolution #HistoricalFiction @GAJeannette

The Devil Take Tomorrow

By Gretchen Jeannette

George Washington has been marked for death. British agents embedded in the Continental Army wait only for the order to strike. Racing against time, rebel spy Ethan Matlock sets out to protect the one man who can save the Revolution. Without General Washington, the whole American enterprise might easily collapse, for no one else has demonstrated the ability to keep together an army that constantly threatens to fall apart.

Boldly Ethan infiltrates the heart of the British military, occupiers of grand old Philadelphia, where elegant officers posture in drawing rooms and frolic in the bedrooms of the rich. Surrounded by twenty thousand redcoats, aware that the slightest misstep could lead to the gallows, Ethan resorts to vicious measures to unravel a conspiracy of power-hungry men. Against his better judgment, he becomes entangled with the provocative Miss Maddie Graves, whose fierce devotion to the American cause ironically threatens his mission.

Excerpt

Gripping Maddie’s arm, Ethan escorted her along the meandering path, past the darkened stable to his cottage, alert all the while for prying eyes.  Once inside, he locked the door, lit a candle in a wall sconce, and closed the window shutters.

“Sit down,” he said in a soft but commanding voice.

She sat on the sofa, her hands folded in her lap.

“What did you hear?”

“Nothing.  I was merely getting some air.”

“Don’t play games with me, Miss Graves.”

She cast her gaze downward.  “Robert is up to something, and I want to know what it is.  What’s wrong with that?”

“That depends on who you tell.”

“First I would need to hear something worth telling, but you certainly took care of that.”

Bending his head, he rubbed the back of his neck.  “Jesus Christ,” he swore softly.  “In case you’ve forgotten, spying is a hanging offense.  Oh, and by the way, the British hang women too.  It’s a hard death and rarely quick.  Is that how you want to end up, with your pretty neck stretched?”

She looked up with supplication in her eyes.  “I’ve heard that the British commit all manner of vile acts against women.  I can’t imagine a chivalrous man like you would deliver me into their hands.  Believe me; I meant no harm.  Surely you can find it in your heart to overlook my indiscretion, and then we can forget this ever happened.”

“Nice try,” he said.  Pulling over a side chair, he sat facing her.  He leaned forward until they were eye to eye.  “I’ll ask you once more.  What did you hear?”

She hugged her arms and watched the floor, refusing to look at him.  After a moment she divulged, “They were arguing.  Robert called General Howe a procrastinator, which he is.  And the general called Robert a power-hungry egotist with a talent for needless cruelty, which he most certainly is.  Then General Mitchell accused them both of behaving like schoolboys.”

Ethan’s hopes plummeted.  “Nothing more?”

“No.  Thanks to you.”

Did he dare believe her?  That winsome face could be hiding anything.  He watched the rise and fall of the soft swells of flesh above her bodice, the spellbinding view inciting remembrance.  The sweet taste of her mouth had not entirely faded, nor the imprint of her contours on his senses.  She was young, certainly, but the fresh-faced radiance that made her so pretty had begun to sharpen into womanly beauty.  “How old are you?”

She swept a stray curl away from her eyes.  “A man should never ask a woman her age.”

“Well, I just did.”

“And you pass yourself off as a gentleman.  If you must know, I’m eighteen.”

“Old enough to have some common sense.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Too old to acquire manners, I suppose.”

He checked a retort, not about to be diverted.  “This isn’t about me, Miss Graves.  It’s about you spying on the commander in chief of His Majesty’s armies in America.”

“I told you, I’m only curious to know what Robert is doing.”

“I find it hard to believe that mere curiosity compelled you to scale a trellis in that gown.  To whom were you to report your findings?”

“No one.  I acted on my own.”

“For what purpose?”

She sighed.  “To learn things about Robert,” she said slowly and succinctly.  “Are you deaf or just slow-witted?”

Now he wanted to strangle her, for her insolence, her reckless bravery; above all, for her power to arouse his emotions.  “Why do you dislike him?”

She had seemed beyond fazing, yet this stopped her cold.  She swallowed hard, the color rising in her cheeks.  “Your assessment of my feeling for him falls short.”

“Pardon me.  Why do you hate him?”

“He conspired to deliver my father to hell on earth.”

Ethan blinked.  “How do you know that?”

“I just know,” she said bitterly, “and if I can prove it, I will kill him.”

He felt the force of her distress like a physical blow.  In the pale wash of candlelight, he delved into glittering green eyes with the sensation of looking into a mirror.  He wished to tell her that she wasn’t alone in her pursuit of justice or, indeed, in her pain.  He had not been chasing his own demons for so long without being able to empathize with a kindred soul.

She wiped at her eyes, and the power of her spell snapped like a fragile glass stem.

“That may be the first honest thing you’ve told me,” he said.  “By any chance, did you send him a hangman’s noose in New York?”

She regarded him warily.  “Who told you about that?”

“Just answer me.”

“Yes, I sent it.  And I made certain I was there to see his face when he opened it.”

Ethan drummed his fingertips on the chair arms.  He had confronted many women in his life but only one so boldly obstinate.  He felt as frustrated now as he had then.

So,” she ventured, “when do you plan to betray me to General Howe?”

Her mutinous expression made him smile.  “If that was my intention, I wouldn’t have kissed you.  Thanks for the bruised foot, by the way.”

She blushed quite pink but did not look away.  “You shouldn’t have taken advantage like that.”

Again, he felt her allure pulling at him, undermining his position as the one in control.  “Perhaps it was my imagination, but you seemed to enjoy yourself rather profoundly, and that ballet you performed with your tongue was nothing short of sublime.  All that aside, I had to do something to cover your carelessness.  Frankly, I’ve seen children play hide-and-seek with more stealth.”

She drew a deep breath, the muscles of her jaw tensing, but no barb passed her lips.

He couldn’t help but admire her composure.  Before him sat an extraordinary young woman, possibly the most beautiful he had ever seen.  Granted, she could be pert with her words, but she possessed a certain bearing and poise that he found delightful to behold, the ideal of feminine charm.  That she was deeply devoted to her father was moving.  That she would risk her neck to avenge him was downright alarming.  “This is what I propose,” he said.  “On my honor, I won’t say a word about tonight to anyone, provided you swear an oath to stop spying.”

She shifted a little, her mouth forming a delicate frown as she glanced about the cottage, everywhere but at him.

“Look at me and swear it,” he demanded.

She took her time, clearly unhappy at having to comply with his ultimatum.  When she finally met his gaze, the melancholy he saw on her face pierced him to the quick.  “I swear,” she said, her voice pitched low and resigned.  With a small sigh, she began to re-pin her tousled hair.  “What were you doing out there anyway?”

“I came after my pistols for the shooting contest, but the sight of you stopped me in my tracks.  You shouldn’t wear that color to sneak around in the dark.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Just remember you gave me your word.”

He retrieved his pistols, hanging in leather saddle holsters from a peg, and his cartridge box.  Edged weapons in scabbards hung beside the guns—an ivory-hilted dagger, a curved officer’s saber, the brass guard wearing an eagle’s head pommel, the fluted hilt carved from bone.  Other than tools of war, he displayed no personal items in the room, nothing to offer insight into his privacy.

When he held out his hand, she hesitated but then clasped it and rose to her feet.  She stood very still, near enough for him to detect a faint heat from her body.  He breathed in the heady aura of lilac perfume.  “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“How noble of you.”

His mouth twitched in the barest hint of amusement.  “You inspire such virtues, Miss Graves.”  At last he saw what he desired, a soft smile that reached her lovely eyes.  He touched her again, briefly and gently laying the back of his hand against her cheek.  “Come back to the party.  You owe me a dance.”

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This Day is Ours

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 The Coffee Pot Book Club

★★★★★ 

Highly Recommended

Read the full review HERE!

Gretchen Jeannette

Gretchen lives and works in Chester County, Pennsylvania, an area rich in Revolutionary War and Colonial American history. Her enduring interest in 18th Century America began at a young age, inspired by tales of adventure, romance, and early American lore. After working as an editor for a small publishing company, she decided to write a story of her own. So began a journey fueled by her passion for breathing life into history through believable characters, authentic historical details, and stories woven with romance, action, and adventure.

Connect with Gretchen: Website • Twitter • Goodreads.