Heart of Fire. Kat MartinЧитать онлайн книгу.
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Selected praise for New York Times bestselling author Kat Martin’s enchanting new series
“The first of the new Heart series, Heart of Honor, is a grand way for the author to begin… Kat Martin has penned another memorable tale…look forward to Coralee’s story.”
—Romance Designs
“Martin puts a twist on the captive/captor theme by cleverly combining it with a bit of Pygmalion and a touch of Tarzan for a fast-paced, sensual, entertaining tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“With an exciting ending and a steamy romance, Heart of Honor is a great book to heat up a winter’s night. Compelling characters and plenty of adventure round out this well-written novel.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Heart of Honor sweeps the reader away on a tidal wave of emotion, bittersweet, poignant romance and a tantalizing primal sexuality that are the inimitable trademarks of multi-talented author Kat Martin. [It] is the kind of novel that touches your heart and your senses. It is the kind of story you won’t want to put down.”
—Winter Haven News
“Ms. Martin always delivers for her readers a romance that they can sink their teeth into. With wonderful characters, beautiful settings and a plot that keeps you turning the pages, you can never go wrong with one of her books. A great winter read!”
—A Romance Review
Heart of Fire
Kat Martin
To children everywhere.
May they all find love, joy and peace.
Contents
One
London, England
January, 1844
An icy drizzle hung over the churchyard. The gravestones stood dark and unreadable in the shadows of the high rock walls of St. Michael’s Church.
Gowned in layers of heavy black crepe, her face hidden beneath the veil of a wide-brimmed black bonnet, Coralee Whitmore stood next to her father and mother, the Viscount and Viscountess of Selkirk, listening to the drone of the bishop’s words but not really hearing them.
In the casket beside a mound of damp earth, her sister’s body lay cold and pale, retrieved only days ago from the chilly waters of the Avon River, the victim of a suicide, the authorities claimed. Laurel, they said, had jumped into the river to hide her shame.
“You’re shivering.” A stiff wind ruffled the viscount’s copper hair, the same fiery shade as Coralee’s. He was a man of average height and build whose imposing presence made him seem much larger. “The bishop has finished. It is time we went home.”
Corrie stared at the casket, then down at the long-stemmed white rose she carried in a black-gloved hand. Tears blurred her vision as she moved forward, her legs stiff and numb beneath her heavy black skirt, the veil on her hat fluttering in the cold February breeze. She laid the rose on top of the rosewood casket.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered to the sister she would never see again. “Not for a single moment.” Corrie swallowed against the painful, choking knot in her throat. “Farewell, sweet sister. I shall miss you ever so much.” Turning, she walked toward her parents, the father both sisters shared and the mother who was Corrie’s alone.
Laurel’s mother had died in childbirth. The viscount had remarried, and Corrie had been born soon after. The girls were half sisters, raised together, always close, at least until the past few years. Then Corrie’s job as society editor for Heart to Heart, a London ladies’ gazette, had begun to absorb more and more of her time.
Laurel, who had always