Sadly ever after . . . unless some dreams really do come true?
Elinor Burkenstock never believed in fairy tales. Sure, she’s always been a fool for love—what woman isn’t? But Elinor knows the difference between fiction and truth. Daydreams and reality. True love and false promises. . . . Until the unthinkable happens, and Elinor’s engagement is suddenly terminated and no one, least of all her fiancé, will tell her why.
Sir Michael Rollins’s war-hero days seem far behind him when, after one last hurrah before his wedding, he gets shot and his injuries leave him in dire shape. He wants nothing more than to marry Elinor, the woman of his wildest dreams. But Elinor’s father forbids it . . . and soon Michael is faced with a desperate choice: Spare Elinor a life with a broken man or risk everything to win her heart—until death do they part?
Sworn to protect the crown, a Knight of the Swan must never surrender—not even to love . . .
England, 1415. Ordered never to leave the lonely tower on her family estate, Lady Clarice Margrave is suddenly set free when her home is plundered. Now she is determined to discover the truth behind her father’s alleged treason. But an act of daring only propels her into a new prison, with the very knight who destroyed her home as her keeper. Sir Ranulf, Lord of Sedgewic, is ruthless in his inquisition, though there is a searing tenderness in his touch. Is it possible her bold jailor is the Red Wolf of whom her father spoke—and the one man she might be able to trust?
As a knight, Ranulf never questions his troth, but his beautiful prisoner stirs his heart and mind like no other. Clarice is achingly vulnerable—and extremely closed-mouth about her possible ties to the plot against the king. Duty demands he keep his distance, though he yearns to take her to his bed and adore her until he discovers what lies within her heart. And he would—if he weren’t in danger of losing his own . . .
His skin itched, recalling the feel of her curvaceous hips as he dropped her into the bed. Memories of hidden shapes, hips, and but- tocks flashed before him. Ranulf squinted at the maiden. Correction: make that woman, you fool.
His blood sizzled with the memories of accidentally brushing against curves that should not be on one fresh from the nursery.
Thanks to the pressure in his breeches, he rose on unsteady legs. “I—ah—believe you will have to tend to the binding after all.” He moved from the bed and brushed against a tattered piece of embroi- dery. Picking it up, he smoothed out the stiffened fabric, bloodied from the wound it had staunched earlier. The bits of thread formed a design he had seen before. What were they?
Frowning, he tucked the discarded bit of satin under his belt and turned for the door. “I’ll have Erwina return with a bite of food for you.”
“Wait!” she pleaded. “You . . . you cannot mean to keep me here.”
Ranulf stopped, his hand resting on the latch. Unwilling to let go of the door, he looked over his shoulder.
In her effort to sit up, the fur had slipped to reveal the gentle slope of creamy skin. ’Twas all he could do to keep from returning to her side and press a kiss to the nape of her neck. His resolve firmly in place, he looked closely at his captive. He could not ignore the truth. No longer was the patient a mere innocent. This woman, lying so invitingly in his bed, played a game of deception. And uncovering deception was what he did best.
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