By Dawn Thompson
As the trainer flew up the Cornish coast, Sara observed the tip of her trip: Ravencliff Manor. She was once now its Baroness. yet what kind of guy might rescue her from borrowers criminal by means of marriage, sight unseen, via proxy? evidently, a wretchâthe related kind of guy who saved the curtains drawn and his condo in a kingdom of gloomy disrepair. a similar type of guy who enable a wierd, wolf-like creature roam his grounds as though it have been grasp. after all, Sara may have authorised the idea of the satan himself to get out of Fleet, so she was once resigned to her destiny. Then she met her husband, hair black as sin and a good-looking face, and all her coverage vanished. What unusual curse had befallen Nicholas Walraven, and what secrets and techniques did he disguise? What darkish fortune had introduced her to this position? For sturdy or ailing, she used to be nowâ¦THE RAVENCLIFF BRIDE.
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He carried her up the slimy steps and out of the priest hole as though she weighed no more than a handful of eiderdown. How strong he was, how tender his embrace, as if she were something fragile, subject to breakage, and yet he clasped her to him as though his very life depended upon it. She surrendered to the arms she'd fantasized holding her since she first set eyes on Nicholas Walraven, her husband who wasn't a husband. He would be. If it was the last thing she did on earth… he would be. "You've got that mangy old dog to thank that we found ya," said Nell, sudsing the cobwebs and dust from her hair.
Inch by inch, she felt her way around the cubicle—scarcely larger than a closet—stumbling over what must have sufficed for a bed, and a pile of debris beside the stairs. That, she presumed to be what had broken her fall, since she'd come to in the midst of it. It had spared her a much more serious injury than the lump on her head that she'd evidently gotten on the way down. On the other side of the narrow stairs, she tripped over a small chest against the wall. She felt the top of it, and her hands came away slimed with mildew, but not before she found a little drawer recessed under the carved edge.
Hah! Sara asked if I were a sodomite—not in those words, of course, she was most diplomatic, but that was the gist of it. You know I cannot take her to my bed as I am, and that was what she imagined to be the reason. What am I going to do, Mills? I can't let her stay, and I can't let her leave—not now, not ever. " "Worse than that," said Nicholas. "The feeling is mutual. It's more than I dared hope for, and more than I can stand. She is everything I ever wanted—golden, and fair—eyes like Highland bluebells.