The Silver Lord. Miranda JarrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
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George. A saint’s name, the name of kings and now the name of Feversham’s new owner.
But oh, when did Fan begin thinking of him like that, as George instead of his string of titles? She was his housekeeper, his servant, not his friend and certainly not his lover. To address him with such familiarity would be one more slippery step downward to her own ruin, with no way ever to climb back.
That kiss on her hand had been another. Why, why hadn’t she pulled away? Could she only protest when there were others watching? Or was she so weak that she’d cared more for that shiver of heady pleasure that came from his touch?
The Silver Lord
Harlequin Historical #648
Praise for bestselling author
MIRANDA JARRETT
“Miranda Jarrett continues to reign as the
queen of historical romance.”
—Romantic Times
“A marvelous author…each word is a treasure,
each book a lasting memory.”
—The Literary Times
“Miranda Jarrett is a sparkling talent!”
—Romantic Times
#647 TEMPTING A TEXAN
Carolyn Davidson
#649 THE ANGEL OF DEVIL’S CAMP
Lynna Banning
#650 BRIDE OF THE TOWER
Sharon Schulze
The Silver Lord
Miranda Jarrett
MILLS & BOON
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Available from Harlequin Historicals and
MIRANDA JARRETT
Steal the Stars#115
*Columbine#144
*Spindrift#174
Providence#201
*Mariah’s Prize#227
*Desire My Love#247
*The Sparhawk Bride#292
*Sparhawk’s Angel#315
*Gift of the Heart#341
*The Secrets of Catie Hazard#363
Gifts of the Season#631
†“A Gift Most Rare”
†The Silver Lord#648
Other works include:
Harlequin Books
Christmas Rogues 1995
“Bayberry and Mistletoe”
For TFR,
For believing there are second acts!
With Affection & Regards
Contents
Chapter One
Feversham Downs, Kent
March, 1802
The fog clung close to the coast, so gray and heavy and icy-wet that it seemed like an extension of the sea itself, risen up into the night sky solely to increase the misery of any shivering creatures it might touch. This fog had stolen away the moon and stars along with all earthly landmarks, and even the great rush and crash of the waves seemed muffled and muted. It was a night fit for neither Christian man nor beast, and certainly not for a lady.
But for Fan Winslow, it was the most perfect night imaginable.
“Keep the light covered, Bob,” she said briskly to the man on the horse beside her. “Even in this murk, I won’t have the risk of a glimmer to betray us.”
Dutifully the man tugged at the hinged window on the tin lantern swinging from the stake in the sand, the awkward bulges in his coat betraying the pistols in his belt. Though there was seldom any trouble, they were always armed; in this trade, it would be foolish to take the risk of doing otherwise. Now only the tiniest pinpricks of light showed through the punched holes on the back of the lantern, and Fan nodded her approval, drawing her black cloak more closely around her huddled shoulders.
Faith, as if that could keep out more of this wretched cold! The fog would always have its way, icy fingers that could creep through the woolen layers of petticoats and stockings and mittens and shawls under her cloak. The only real warmth came from the sturdy little horse beneath her, for Pie’s shaggy rough coat