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KAT MARTIN:
‘Kat Martin is one of the best authors around!
She has an incredible gift for writing.’
—Literary Times
‘[The Devil’s Necklace is] full of spirited romance and nefarious skulduggery [and] one of Martin’s trademark nail-biting endings.’
—Publishers Weekly
‘A knockout! From the first page it pulls the reader in …
the plot is so rich with twists and turns that I couldn’t
put it down … [Martin] is one talented writer and
Heart of Courage is one for the keeper shelf!’
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‘Kat Martin dishes up sizzling passion and true love,
then she serves it up with savoir faire.’
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‘Ms Martin keeps you burning the midnight oil as she
sets fire to the pages of Heart of Fire … Don’t miss this fabulous series! It is definitely a winner.’
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‘Kat Martin shimmers like a bright diamond in the genre.’
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‘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.’
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I hope you enjoy Royal’s Bride. It’s the first in my new Brides trilogy, a series that revolves around the handsome Dewar brothers and the women they come to love.
Reese’s Bride is next. Retired from the cavalry, Reese Dewar has returned to Briarwood, the home he inherited from his grandfather. There he intends to make a life for himself that does not include battle. Instead, Reese will be forced to confront his painful past and the woman who betrayed him, the beautiful widow Elizabeth Clemens Holloway, the woman he once loved.
Now Reese must face his toughest challenge—staying away from the lovely, lonely widow he could never trust when all he can think of is getting her into his bed.
I hope you’ll watch for Reese’s Bride, and that you enjoy!
All best wishes,
Kat
Royal’s Bride
Kat Martin
MILLS & BOON
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To the Martin family, all such wonderful people.
I’m so lucky to have them!
One
England, 1854
Royal Dewar crossed the massive oak-beamed entry of Bransford Castle, his tall black riding boots ringing on the wide-planked wooden floor. As he strode past the main drawing room, so impressive with its high, Tudor-style ceilings and heavy beams, he tried to ignore the worn Persian carpets, the way the bright reds and vivid blues he recalled from his youth had faded to shadowy, lackluster hues.
As he climbed the wide, carved mahogany staircase, he tried not to notice the feel of the wooden banister beneath his hand, once polished to a rich patina but now dull from years of neglect.
He had been home for less than two weeks, returned to England from his family’s plantation, Sugar Reef, in Barbados, where he had been living for the past seven years. His father had fallen ill and the family solicitor, Mr. Edward Pinkard, had sent for him.
The Duke of Bransford is dying, the letter had said. In all haste, my lord, please come home before it is too late.
He was home at last, grateful to have this brief time with his father, but the house was dreary and in desperate need of repair, and he was unused to being cooped up inside. At dawn, after checking on his father’s condition, he had headed for the stables. He hadn’t ridden Bransford lands in the past eight years and he looked forward to becoming reacquainted with his home.
Though the winter wind was chill, the sky gray and cloudy, Royal enjoyed the ride immensely, surprising himself a bit. The hot climate of Barbados had seeped into his bones and his skin was sun-darkened from his work out in the sugarcane fields. Yet this morning, with the brisk wind in his face and the open fields stretching as far as he could see, he realized how much he had missed England.
It was late morning when he returned to the house, swinging down from the big gray stallion that had been a gift on his twenty-first birthday, a colt he had named Jupiter that now stood seventeen hands high. He handed the reins to a waiting groom.
“See he gets an extra ration of oats, will you, Jimmy?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Feeling only a little guilty for leaving with his father so ill, Royal hurried into the house and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Striding down the hall, he paused for a moment to collect himself outside the door to the duke’s bedroom suite.
A strip of light seeped from beneath the heavy wooden panel, indicating a lamp burned inside. Royal turned the silver handle, opened the door and strode into the massive, dimly lit chamber. Across the room, his father lay beneath the covers of a huge four-poster bed encased in heavy gold velvet hangings, the shell of the man he had once been.
The duke’s valet and most trusted servant, George Middleton, hurried forward on long, spindly legs, his shoulders stooped from years of service and now resignation.
“It is good you are back, my lord.”
“How is he, Middleton?” Royal pulled the tie on his long scarlet woolen cloak and allowed the valet to sweep it from his shoulders.
“I am afraid, my lord, each day he grows weaker. Waiting for Lord Reese to arrive is all that keeps him going.”
Royal nodded. He prayed his brother, two years younger than his own twenty-nine years and a major in the British cavalry, would reach Bransford before it was too late. His third and youngest brother, Rule, had already arrived, home from his studies at Oxford.