Ever His Bride

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This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
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EVER HIS BRIDE

Copyright © 1997 by Linda Needham

ISBN: 978-1-940904-01-6

First Big Scrumpy Press electronic
publication: January 2014.

Big Scrumpy Press, PO Box 1519, North Plains,
OR 97133

http://LindaNeedham.com

First published in mass market print edition
by Avon Books, 1997.

The Darkest Heart

His looming form blocks the firelight. His
voice is like midnight fog, shivering along her skin. Yet Felicity
Mayfield must marry hard, cold Hunter Claybourne, or go to debtor's
prison. Boldly, she proposes a bargain to the wealthy financier:
she'll become his wife in name only for one brief year -- if he
allows her the freedom to continue living an independent life as a
roving travel writer.

The Brightest Love

Hunter never suspected a wife would be such a
nuisance. It was supposed to be a simple business arrangement.
Instead, she has invaded his cavernous home -- rearranging the
furniture, winning over his servants, blinding him with sunlight.
Her constant presence is unsettling, her lavender scent everywhere,
her skin a soft temptation. Suddenly it seems only right that she
should wear his ring ... and share his bed. After all, she is his
wife. Yet even as Felicity opens a chink in Hunter's heart, her
exposé of the scandalous workhouses threatens to uncover his
darkest secret, forcing him to choose between his hard-won empire
and the miracle of love.

"The plot twists... are refreshingly
different
from other historical romances, and Claybourne is a
fascinating hero." Nanci Hellmich, USA TODAY

The sexual tension is wonderful
as are
the love scenes which are very "spicy". Great secondary characters,
high drama and a solid backstory makes this a five star book for
me. Recommended! – Reader Review – Amazon.com

My Favorite Book of All Time
-- I bought this book when it
was a new release and I read it until the pages fell out, this is
my fifth copy of this book. Strong hero's with a chink in the armor
has always been my weakness, only next to cute, spicy, quirky
heroines. . . I highly recommend this book, it will always be my
very favorite. Reader Review – Amazon.com

EVER HIS BRIDE is a full-length, historical
romance novel of approximately 100,000 words, available for the
first time as an eBook.

Kentish Countryside, England

1849

“R
un, Culley! Run
hard!”

Felicity Mayfield had a half-crown on the
long-shanked village lad, money she really ought to have kept in
her purse. But she’d finally succumbed to the thrill of the Robin
Hood Race, to the swirl of festive banners, and to all the shouting
and cheering.

As the lad rounded the final curve of the
intricate turf maze, he teetered for a paralyzing moment on the
brink of falling off the narrow, ground-level course into the sandy
trench.

“Hang on, Culley!” Felicity shouted, jumping
up and down like everyone else in the crowd, staying her next
breath as he stumbled forward. But the boy righted himself and
broke through the wildflower garland with a whoop of triumph.

“He won! Bravo, Culley!” She didn’t even know
the lad, but at the moment she was his greatest champion.

Mrs. Duffle patted Felicity on the arm.
“You’re a right lucky young woman today, Miss Mayfield!”

“I’m most grateful for the tip. The boy is
every bit as fast as you said he was.” She was as winded from all
her shouting as young Culley was from his sprinting. “I’ve never
wagered on a footrace before—and I won!”

Mrs. Duffle beamed as if the Robin Hood Race,
the turf maze, the blue sky and the rowdy celebration were all her
own doing. “You’ll come back to Beacon Chase and spend May Day with
us next year, won’t you dear?”

“With great pleasure! And I’ll send all my
loyal readers, too, Mrs. Duffle. You may count on the
Hearth and
Heath
to spread the good word.”

“Lovely to hear, Miss Mayfield. And now I
insist you come take afternoon tea with me at the Knotted Mazel—as
my guest, of course. You’ll find my pigeon pie’s the very best in
the county.”

She was hungry beyond decency; her stomach
rattled like rocks on a washboard, primed by the spellbinding smell
of meat pasties rising from the warren of food stalls that lined
the street.

“I’d be delighted, Mrs. Duffle. Thank you.”
She collected her winnings from the man in a bright yellow hat,
then hefted her portmanteau and followed Mrs. Duffle through the
crowded street, to the cottage inn tucked against a woodland at the
edge of the village.

“Oh, you’ve a lovely setting, Mrs. Duffle.”
She made notes in her head, approving of the riotous flower garden
and the ornately woven ridge of the thatched roof. If the food and
lodging proved as charming as the spacious, sunlit dining room, the
Knotted Mazel would rate an excellent review in her travel gazette.
A perfect spot to recommend for a holiday in the Kent
countryside.

Mrs. Duffle’s tray of good silver clattered
as she set it on the table. “The very same tea served at Windsor
Castle, Miss Mayfield. True China tea, not that secondhand compost
served across the street at the Skipping Toad. Our beds are feather
and our linens the finest. None but the best for my guests at the
Mazel.”

“Delicious!” Felicity spoke overloud, hoping
to mask the indelicate growl from her stomach as the piping hot tea
collided with the emptiness there. Breakfast had been a bite of an
inedible meat pie, purchased before dawn from a stall at Ashford
Station on the South Eastern Main Line, the rest of it discarded
out the window of the moving train. Not the sort of meal to
recommend to her readers.

But dear Mrs. Duffle spread a mouthwatering
tea for her, then sat with her and talked in an unbroken stream
about her grown and gone sons, grandchildren, her late, unlamented
husband, and her scandalous sister who’d married a man half her own
age. A gregarious, eccentric innkeeper, her favorite kind, and one
of the top reasons she liked her job so well.

She was just biting into a steaming,
jam-filled scone when the front door of the shop slammed open to
the sharp glare of the afternoon, darkening the details of the two
figures standing together in the portal.

“Sheriff Hinchcliffe!” Mrs. Duffle clapped
her hands together and laughed. “That was quite a race your Culley
won!”

The man’s chest strained with pride at the
buttons of his waistcoat. “Yup. Proud of the boy,” he said,
sauntering into the room, rubbing his palms together.

“Ooo, I know that look, Sheriff.” Mrs. Duffle
drew a steaming plate beneath the man’s nose. “You’ve come for a
helping of my pigeon pie.”

The gangly man beside him hissed something
into his ear. Hinchcliffe straightened and pushed the plate aside.
“Actually, Mrs. Duffle,” he said, “I’ve come for that pigeon over
there.” He pointed toward Felicity.

Felicity blinked and glanced over her
shoulder. But there was no one behind her. The man was pointing
right at her! For no reason at all, that last bite of scone turned
to lead. She stood up, wincing at the scrape of her chair across
the stone floor as the sheriff made his way toward her.

“You came here for me?” Her mouth had gone
dry as dust. She was an utter stranger to Beacon Chase, had only
arrived that morning from Dover to make her notes on the village’s
traditional May Day celebration. Few people knew she was here, and
even fewer cared. Perhaps the constable needed only to ask her a
few questions.

But Hinchcliffe stopped a scant yard from her
table and fixed her with a cold, professional stare.

“Are you sure this is the right girl,
Cobson?” he asked from the corner of his mouth, still watching
Felicity with a deep-browed suspicion.

Cobson joined him, cocking his head at her as
though sizing up a two-headed goat on display at the faire. “A
young woman, seven-and-a-half stone. Five feet three’ish tall,
wheat-blond hair, green eyes. Yessir. Just as the bailiff
said.”

“Just as
what
bailiff said?” As
dumbfounded as she’d ever been in her life, Felicity tried to make
herself seem taller, and a bit bigger around. “Who are you,
sir?”

The constable plunged his thumb into the fob
pocket of his waistcoat and squinted at her. “Tell me, girl, is
your name Felicity Mayfield?”

Mrs. Duffle sucked in a long, awe-filled
breath. “That it is, Constable! That’s the name she gave me when
she started talking to me with her notepad and all her fancy words
about listing the Knotted Mazel in some kind of travel gazette.
What wicked thing has she done?”

“I’ve done nothing wicked, Mrs. Duffle.”
Felicity felt very alone at the moment, and wished suddenly that
she had a warm place to run home to. “If these gentlemen will tell
me their business—”

“I have here an arrest warrant for a Felicity
Mayfield.” Cobson held up a folded document.

“For me? An arrest warrant?” Felicity fought
the ridiculous urge to dodge her way between the tables and out the
door. “Why? What have I done?”

“Cobson, here, is an officer of the Queen’s
Bench, and is authorized to take you to London—”

“To London?” Her fear quickened alongside her
suddenly racing heart, her pulse pounding in her ears. “On what
charge?”

Cobson snapped open the document and
displayed it for her. “On the charge of criminal debt, Miss
Mayfield.”

“Debt?” A huge weight lifted from her
shoulders making her laugh at the notion. “I’m afraid you have the
wrong person, Mr. Cobson. I owe nothing to anyone!”

Hinchcliffe snickered and poked Cobson with
his elbow. “I’ll bet you’ve heard that tune sung a few times,
eh?”

Cobson snorted. “And all the verses. If I’d a
penny for every time, I sure’s hell wouldn’t be doin’ this job!
You’re comin’ along with me, Miss Mayfield.” He reached for her,
but Felicity stepped backward into Mrs. Duffle.

“I will not go anywhere with you, Mr.
Cobson!” She’d heard quite enough of this nonsense, gathered her
anger into a hard knot of indignation to help shore up her wobbling
knees. “This charge is entirely false.

Cobson shrugged. “Not mine to judge,
miss.”

The scone she’d just eaten began to churn as
she turned to Hinchcliffe. “Sir, you can’t let this man haul me
away! What if he’s here to kidnap me and force me to do his
will?”

“I’m sure you’re innocent of the charge, Miss
Mayfield,” the constable said, shaking his head in conspicuously
false sympathy. “And I know this is a great miscarriage of justice.
But a warrant is a warrant.”

“Let me see that!” She tore the warrant out
of Cobson’s hands. The page was official-looking; the script overly
frilled, but it read quite clearly, “Felicity Mayfield to be
arrested for criminal debt owing to Mister Hunter Claybourne,
London.”

Felicity looked up at Cobson, more confused
than ever. “Claybourne?
The
Hunter Claybourne?”