Magnolia Duchess (Gulf Coast Chronicles Book #3) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Beth White

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178 pages

English

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Description

Fiona Lanier is the only woman in the tiny Gulf Coast settlement of Navy Cove. While her shipbuilding family races to fill the demand for American ships brought by the War of 1812, Fiona tries to rescue her brother who was forced into service by the British Navy.Lieutenant Charlie Kincaid has been undercover for six months, obtaining information vital to the planned British invasion of New Orleans. When a summer storm south of Mobile Bay wrecks his ship and scatters the crew, Charlie suffers a head injury, ultimately collapsing in the arms of a beautiful mermaid who seems eerily familiar. As Charlie's memory returns in agonizing jags and crashes, he and Fiona discover that falling in love may be as inevitable as the tide. But when political loyalties begin to collide, they'll each have to decide where their true heart lies.

Sujets

Historical fiction

Historical romance

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	12 avril 2016
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781493401666
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0432€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2016 by Beth White
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-0166-6
Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The author is represented by MacGregor Literary, Inc.
Praise for The Pelican Bride
“Rich in historical detail. . . . A fascinating and little-explored historical setting peopled with strongly defined characters and no lack of romance makes an intriguing start for White’s new series.”
— CBA Retailers + Resources
“White’s carefully researched story, set in what would become Mobile, Alabama, is filled with duplicity, danger, political intrigue, and adventure.”
— Booklist , starred review
“With a fast-paced plot full of dynamic characters inspired by the real settlers of the Gulf Coast, . . . White has fashioned a richly layered and engrossing tale.”
— Historical Novel Society
“Fresh as a gulf breeze, The Pelican Bride is the perfect pairing of history and romance. Finely tuned characters and a setting second to none make this a remarkable, memorable story. Beth White’s foray into colonial Louisiana is historical romance of the highest quality.”
— Laura Frantz , author of The Mistress of Tall Acre
“Not your usual setting, not your usual historical romance— The Pelican Bride breaks new ground in the historical genre. Choosing to write a story set in the French colony that became Mobile, Alabama, draws the reader into a new and exciting period. A winning beginning to a new historical series.”
— Lyn Cote , author of The Wilderness Brides series
Praise for The Creole Princess
“The second entry in White’s Southern historical series (after The Pelican Bride ) combines a lushly portrayed, exotic setting with an in-depth portrait of the complex mix of cultures, races, and divided loyalties that defined Gulf Coast residents in the eighteenth century. With its focus on a little known aspect of the American Revolution, this novel will also provide plenty to discuss for history book clubs.”
— Library Journal
“Lyse and Rafael have an instant rapport that will keep readers interested. White skillfully includes thoughtful questions and concerns about Christian approval of slavery, along with difficulties presented when politics threaten to tear families apart, without turning a charming story into a history lesson.”
— RT Book Reviews , 4 stars
Dedication
To Donna Sularin, my Betsy-Tacy friend who wrote stories with me before I knew I could, and who shared her bountiful library of Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden books. My love and admiration know no bounds.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Reader Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Beth White
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
A UGUST 13, 1814 M OBILE P OINT
She could set fire to the letter in her pocket and it would still be true.
Smearing away tears with the heel of her hand, Fiona slid down from her buckskin mare, Bonnie, and landed barefoot in the sand. She led the horse to the water’s edge and splashed along beside her, knee-deep in waves chugging straight up from the Gulf of Mexico. At home, on the bay side of the isthmus, the beach was quieter and gentler, but here on the gulf side the wind tore at her hair and the salt mist stung her eyes. Perfect.
Her brother was on a British prison ship lurking off the coast of North Carolina.
The words from that terrible piece of paper floated like sunspots in front of her eyes. Her twin, the other half of herself, wasn’t coming home this time. Sullivan had been at sea since he’d turned fourteen, and in six years had worked his way up to lieutenant in the new American maritime service. His letters had been full of adventure and optimism, and twice he’d managed a few weeks’ leave between assignments.
But this . . . this was so final.
She knew what the British did to prisoners of war. Grandpére Antoine’s stories of Revolutionary War days, when he’d been held in the guardhouse at Fort Charlotte, were burned in her brain. Short rations, rancid water, little sleep. Beatings.
She shuddered. Their older brother Léon said a prisoner exchange might be arranged. But who would do that for an insignificant young lieutenant from the backwaters of West Florida?
There had to be a way. Every day since Sullivan left home, she’d prayed for his safety, and God had protected him so far.
There must be a way.
She threw her arms around Bonnie’s damp neck, pressed her face into the warm hide, and let the tears come. Please, God, don’t take my brother.
Bonnie blew out a breath and stood patiently, while the waves rolled in, rocking Fiona, wetting her dress from the knees down. Eyes closed, she let her thoughts drift to long-gone, lazy summer days when she and Sullivan had wandered Navy Cove beach, crab buckets banging against their legs and never a care in the world. Then came the year she went to England with Aunt Lyse and Uncle Rafa, leaving Sullivan behind. By the time she returned, he’d become a sea-crazy young man, determined to travel the world on anybody’s ship that would take him.
With a sigh, she looked up at the steely sky. What was done couldn’t be undone, even by prayer.
The wind picked up, a gust that nearly knocked her off her feet, so she took up the reins once more. Grabbing Bonnie’s mane, she hiked up her sodden skirts and swung astride the horse’s bare back. Her impulsive ride to the beach was going to make her late getting supper together. Yesterday’s storm had put the men behind at the shipyard. They’d be working until dark tonight and would come home hungry as bears.
She’d ridden a ways down the beach, lost in thought, when Bonnie suddenly shied and stopped. Absently Fiona kicked her in the ribs. Bonnie shook her head and refused to move.
“What’s the matter, girl?” Fiona leaned to the side. Bonnie had almost stepped on a pile of seaweed all but covered with wet sand.
Wait, not seaweed. Material. Clothing. A body. A roll of surf washed up, stirred the folds of cloth, but the body did not move. Dead?
Oh, please not dead.
She slid down, throwing the reins to keep Bonnie in check. The body was facedown and hatless. A young man, judging by the thick, wet dark hair. Kneeling, she flipped him over just as another wave crashed in, sousing her. Coughing, shivering, she struggled to her feet and grabbed the man’s arms to drag him farther up onto the beach. He was tall and muscular, unbelievably heavy, inert as a sack of potatoes, and the tide was rolling in fast, but she managed to get him out of the reach of the waves. Bonnie wandered after her, snuffling in irritation.
“I know,” she panted. “This wasn’t in my plan either.” Léon was going to grumble about supper being late.
She let go of the young man’s arms and dropped to her knees, then put her ear to the wet wool covering his chest, praying for a rise and fall of breath. Maybe . . . maybe there was a faint thud under her cheek.
Tugging and shoving, she got him turned over, facedown again, and pressed the heels of her hands against his back. Push, push, push, wait. He didn’t move. She tried again.
He seemed to be dead.
She sat there with her hands flat against the broad back. What would her brothers have done? She’d heard them talk about breathing into the mouths of men pulled from the sea. Should she try that?
All but blinded by tears, she hauled the poor man onto his back and pushed his hair back from his face to look at him.
She stifled a scream. “Charlie!” Grabbing his face in shaking hands, she tried to make sense of what made no sense. Charlie Kincaid would be across an ocean, in England, not washed up on a beach in West Florida. “Charlie, Charlie, don’t be dead! Father in heaven, don’t let him be dead!”
Not knowing what else to do, she put her mouth to his and breathed, willing him to come to life. Again she blew air into his lungs. When nothing happened, she sat up panting, searching the familiar but man-grown face. The same, but not the same, as the boy she had known nine years ago. His face had lengthened with slashing angles of brow, cheekbone, and jaw, and he’d grown into the commanding nose. But there were the same ridiculously long, dark eyelashes and a mouth made for smiling and teasing a bookish, horse-crazy little girl.
“Wake up, Charlie,” she muttered, “or I’m going to tell your grandfather you’re ditching your lessons again.”
She bent to seal his lips with hers again, but his chest lurched under her hands. He gave a strangled cough, and water bubbled from his mouth. Relieved, terrified, Fiona scrambled to shove at his shoulder and back until she had him half turned. He continued to cough, weakly at first, then with hoarse, agonized gasps. Fiona pounded his back with all her strength, helping him rid his lungs of the suffocating seawater. “Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die.”
Finally she heard him whisper something.
She paused to bend close to his lips. “What?”
“Sto . . .” He wheezed.
“What?”
“I said st . . . stop hitting me,” he choked out. “Headache.”
Abruptly she straightened. “You’re alive! Oh, thank God, you’re alive!”