Authors: Téa Cooper
Lily's Leap
Cover Copy
To the victor go the spoils.
Born into privileged society, Lilibeth Dungarven finds herself married, widowed, and much to her distress, back under her father’s rule, all before her twenty-first birthday. But this feisty and independent young woman has a dream: she is determined to breed the perfect racehorse and restore the family’s flagging fortunes. An accomplished rider, she takes matters into her own hands and sets out to restore the Dungarven horse farm to its former glory.
When the devastatingly attractive Captain Tom and his mismatched band of bushrangers stumble across a mob of the best horses they’ve ever seen, and the daughter of the famed Dungarven horse farm, they know their fortunes have changed. Their catch is worth a king’s ransom. Surely it can’t be too difficult to contain this beautiful young woman with violet eyes and skin-tight riding breeches for seven days?
A Lyrical Press Historical Romance
Highlight
“I suggest you put your guns down. I believe I have you covered.”
Thomas Roscomon wheeled his overworked nag around, peering through the sudden dust haze stinging his eyes.
Bloody hell. What was it? Something wraith-like from a dreamtime story filled his vision.
A horse and rider?
Against the harsh sun, the silhouette shimmered on the deserted road.
Where had it come from?
“Dismount gentlemen, please.” The dulcet tones washed across his consciousness and his eyes widened to match his grin. Not what he expected.
“God’s truth, a woman.”
She most definitely was a woman and could ride if the way she dismounted was anything to go by. Long athletic legs were enhanced by tight riding breeches. Expensive boots too.
“Good afternoon, madam.”
She stepped forward and leveled her pistol at his chest as a mass of dark mahogany curls flicked in response to his greeting.
He stared into her eyes and took in a deep breath, preparing to intimidate her.
Saddle soap and lavender.
His nostrils twitched in appreciation. Standing almost toe-to-toe, violet eyes blazing, head held high she returned his challenge. Defiant and statuesque without a quiver of apprehension or fear.
Lily’s Leap
By Téa Cooper
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Dedication
To my friends in Wollombi who make every day a new adventure.
Acknowledgements
Writing is supposed to be a solitary occupation. It’s not the case - there are so many people who have helped Lily come to life!
First and foremost Carl Hoipo–Wollombi’s very own historian who painstakingly listened to my ideas, admittedly with a slightly quizzical look, and then kept me on a straight and narrow timeline. Romance isn’t his preferred genre but I’m hoping I may have converted him. My thanks also to Priscilla Lawrence of Emu Gully Heritage Stock Horse Waler Stud for her invaluable advice about Hunter horse history and Michelle Nichols of Hawkesbury Library Service for her Windsor knowledge. And special thanks to my long-suffering critique partner Eva Scott for her never ending advice and friendship, and last but not least my patient and incredibly meticulous editor Ann-Marie Smith.
Foreword
Lily’s Leap is a work of fiction. The characters and events live only in my mind but Wollombi really does exist. It is a small time-warp village in the Lower Hunter district of New South Wales and it is my home. When you have read Lily and Tom’s story, look at a map–the Coolawine Trail exists as does Narone Creek and the convict road. You can still drive along The Great North Road built by convict gangs between 1826 and 1836. If you take a turn to your right and follow the road to St Albans you’ll go across the Common and you can stop and take refreshments at The Settlers Arms. The road leads you to Wiseman’s Ferry where you can cross the mighty Hawkesbury River and follow the road to Windsor and thence to Sydney. All that’s missing are the characters, but if you are lucky enough to catch the sunset over Mount Yengo, you’ll understand that nothing much has changed in this part of the world in a long, long time.
Chapter 1
Hunter Valley, Australia 1848
Hot and sweating from her madcap gallop, Lilibeth Dungarven drew the feisty black stallion to a shuddering halt. She pushed the damp curls back from her forehead and tried to ignore the erratic pounding in her breast while she grappled with two conflicting emotions–exhilaration and dread–and dread was winning hands down.
A prickle of anxiety trickled down her spine as she tried to make sense of the muffled noises reverberating through the dry Australian bush. She cupped her gloved hand behind her ear and leaned forward, straining to make sense of the sounds and voices. She should have listened to the repeated warnings of her father, displayed a little more sense and stayed on the road. Clenching her knees against the horse, she edged Nero closer to the shelter of a stand of spotted gums when a glint of reflected sunlight drew her eye.
A mounted figure stood in the middle of the dirt road waving a pistol. Despite the hat pulled low shadowing his face, the stock-whip crack of his words registered deep in her belly.
“Bail up! Guns down and off the horses.”
“What do you think you…?” Her words died, constricted by the tension in her throat.
Wait
.
Think
. The commands ran through her mind.
Surely no one would dare steal such a valuable mob of horses? They were branded. Everyone in the colony knew the Dungarven brand. To lose the horses was unthinkable. Her father had poured his life and soul into the famed cattle and horse stud. Years of breeding–the first pure Wordsworth bloodlines. Then months spent convincing her father she was capable of managing the sale and the trip to Sydney. And now a hold up!
It would not happen.
Not if she had anything to do with it.
* * * *
“I suggest you put your guns down. I believe I have you covered.” The honeyed tones broke the silence and Thomas Roscomon wheeled his overworked nag around, peering through the sudden dust haze stinging his eyes.
Bloody hell. What was it? Something wraith-like from a dreamtime story filled his vision. He pushed his hat back on his head.
A horse and rider?
Against the harsh sun, the silhouette shimmered on the deserted road.
Where had it come from?
“Lower your gun, Will.” He shrugged his shoulders at his accomplice. “We’ve been trumped.” A shoot-out was not an option on the open road; any passing trooper or traveler could be injured.
“Dismount gentlemen, please.” The dulcet tones washed across his consciousness and his eyes widened to match his grin. Not what he expected.
“God’s truth, a woman.” His accomplice’s cry broke the stunned silence. He stifled his splutter of laughter. Will was right. She most definitely was a woman and could ride if the way she dismounted was anything to go by. Long athletic legs were enhanced by tight riding breeches. Expensive boots too.
“Good afternoon, madam.”
She stepped forward and leveled her pistol at his chest as a mass of dark mahogany curls flicked in response to his greeting.
He stared into her eyes and took in a deep breath, preparing to intimidate her.
Saddle soap and lavender.
His nostrils twitched in appreciation. Standing almost toe-to-toe, violet eyes blazing, head held high she returned his challenge. Defiant and statuesque without a quiver of apprehension or fear.
By God! She was tall for a woman.
“Sir, you are threatening our progress and jinxing the horses. Brandishing a gun constitutes robbery under arms.”
Impressive.
“Captain Tom, at your service, Miss Dungarven.” He executed a slight bow.
Her start of surprise at his use of her name gave him the opportunity he’d hoped for.
Now or never.
His hand shot out, fast and fluid, and grabbed her wrist. The fragility of her bones startled him but he clamped her pistol arm to her body and pulled her hard against him. He encircled her tiny waist with his arm.
The warmth of her filled him, her ragged breath was moist against his neck and the softness of her breasts pressed against his body. A shiver of anticipation slithered through him. Unable to hold back, he pulled her closer as desire ignited his blood.
Her slim, lithe shape softened and molded to his. It was too much. He fought to ignore the rush of blood to his groin and realized how he could gain control of the moment, and himself. He flexed his hand and ran it down from her waist and over her taut buttocks. Her muscles flickered in response.
One quick twist and her pistol fell. He was a fool, breaking a basic law of the road–an errant loaded pistol could cause untold damage. It took an eternity to skitter across the sandy roadway and he waited, dread sitting like a hard lump in his stomach, for the blast.
Her body strained against his and he envisaged the devastation the random bullet could create.
Finally the pistol came to rest with a shuddering sigh against a pile of tinder-dry leaves. Before he could react, the rumble of her relieved laughter resounded against his chest.
“Check,” she said and strained against his grasp.