Pure romance...everlasting love...
By Penelope Marzec
Historical/Colonial/Revolutionary War
$3.99 eBook/$13.99 print
ISBN:978-1-940099-70-5
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She'll risk everything to save him...
Agnes, a blacksmith, runs the forge while her father fights in
the Continental Army. The morning after the Battle of Monmouth,
she discovers a wounded British soldier in her barn. Despite the
risk, she vows to heal him as she believes a good Samaritan
should. Edwin, third son of the Duke of Dalfour, was supposed to
become a barrister. He opted to run away and join the army. Shot
on a mission to deliver the general’s message, he wakes in
Agnes’s barn unaware of how he got there and missing his horse.
If he is caught, he could be hung, but Loyalists are also
searching for British deserters. If anyone discovers he is the
son of the Duke, he is doomed. Agnes tells everyone Edwin is her
mother’s cousin, but she soon finds herself falling in love with
him. When Loyalists kidnap her sister, Edwin vows to bring the
child back from the British held camp. Can Agnes trust him? Or
is he using her sister as an excuse to return to his company?
Will Agnes ever see her sister again? And will Edwin break her
heart?
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$3.99 Ebook
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EXCERPT
Copyright
2013 © Penelope Marzec
Done with the milking, she led the cow
and the calf outside to the fenced pasture. She returned for the
milk and heard the groan again. Louder and more distinct, it
emanated from the last stall.
She grabbed the rake hanging on
the wall. Danger lay in moving an injured animal and she needed
to protect herself from sharp teeth and claws. With her heart
pounding and perspiration dripping from her brow, she tiptoed to
the back of the barn.
She did not find a wild,
suffering animal. Stunned, she blinked her eyes several times to
be sure she had not fallen into a dream or a nightmare. On the
hay lay a British soldier, her enemy, with a musket at his side.
Blood and mud stained his red wool coat and white breeches.
Her pulse raced, and her initial
reaction was to turn and run. She swallowed instead as she
studied him. His eyes were closed and he had not shaven in days.
He had fine features and a headful of coal black hair tied
neatly at the nape of his neck with a strip of leather.
Though one of the king’s
minions, she thought him a handsome young man. She used the rake
to drag the musket away from him. Muscular and tall, he would
have no trouble overpowering her if he woke from his stupor.
She picked up the weapon, aimed
the muzzle at him, and shouted. “Who are you?”
He whispered through cracked
lips as he clutched his blood-soaked britches. “Water.”
“How did you get in here?”
“W…water.” His fever-glazed eyes
rolled back in a distressing manner. She judged him to be little
older than her own eighteen years.
“Did you fight in the battle
yesterday?”
“Water…wa…”
“Where is the rest of your
company?” Uncertainty crept through her. In his current
condition, he did not present a threat. She lowered the musket.
Though not a single breeze
stirred in the morning air, he shivered violently in his thick
red wool jacket.
She glanced toward the open door and
listened. Hearing no one else approach, she turned to set the
weapon against the wall in the adjoining empty stall. Behind
her, the soldier’s groaning increased. She whirled to find him
clawing at the ground, dragging himself toward her.
Fear knotted in her chest as he
reached out to grab her foot. She stepped back. The width of his
shoulders bore testament to his strength. If he caught her, he
might not let go.
“My…horse.” His demand came out
as a tortured whisper.
Agnes fought to keep herself
from trembling. She would not allow this enemy to see her alarm.
“You have no horse.”
He made a strangled sound in his
throat, closed his eyes, and went still. Panic curled up her
spine. Though he remained a foe, she did not want him to pass
away in her barn.
Swallowing her dread, she knelt
beside him and found the pulse in his neck. The slow but steady
beat reassured her. She studied his chiseled features while
smoothing the errant tendrils of his midnight hair from his
face. His ragged beard tickled her fingertips.
He radiated vitality despite his
infirm state. She found soft pleasure in simply gazing upon him,
an odd reaction for her since she had little time for any such
indulgence.
Agnes forced herself to tear her
attention from his handsome face. She noticed the elbow of his
red wool jacket had torn and the cuff had fallen away. A few
ragged threads marked the places where fine brass buttons had
been.
Until now, she believed herself
immune to a man’s appearance, but when she pressed her hand
against her breast, the pounding of her heart surprised her. It
must be because he had caused such a fright for her at first.
“’Tis a pity you fight on the
side of the British.” She gave a mighty shove and rolled him
over onto his back. A small, folded sheet of paper slipped out
of his jacket. Frowning, she picked it up and opened it, but she
did not understand the message. Was it written in a foreign
language? She tucked the note into her pocket.
Aware of her duty to call for
the local militia to remove the soldier, she hesitated. He would
be taken prisoner in a rough manner, be tortured for
information, and receive little or no care for his injuries. If
he lived, he would be traded for one of the Patriot prisoners
held by the British.
If he
lived…
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