Praise for Margaret Moore
âMs Moore transports her readers to a fascinating time period, vividly bringing to life a Scottish medieval castle and the inhabitants within.â
âRomance Reviews Today on Lord of Dunkeathe
âThis captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end. Itâs a keeper!â
âRomance Junkies on Bride of Lochbarr
âFans of the genre will enjoy another journey into the past with Margaret Moore.â
âRomantic Times BOOKclub
âMs Mooreâ¦will make your mind dream of knights in shining armour.â
âRendezvous
âWhen it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.â
âUnder the Covers
âMargaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.â
âAffaire de Coeur
â[Margaret Mooreâs] writing captivates, spellbinds, taking a reader away on a whirlwind of emotion and intrigue until you just canât wait to see how it all turns out.â
âromancereaderatheart.com
âIf youâre looking for a fix for your medieval historical romance need, then grab hold of a copy of award-winning author Margaret Mooreâs The Unwilling Bride and do not let go!â âaromancereview.com
âYou seem to be a most unusualnobleman.â
âAs you seem to be a most unusual lady.â
Even he could not have said whether he meant that for a compliment or not, but it was true. âIâm impressed with your concern for your sister,â he added as he strolled towards her, and that, at least, was the truth.
Lady Mathilde backed away as if she were afraid. Of him? That was ridiculous â he had given her every reason to believe he would be the opposite of dangerous to her.
The woman before him flushed, but didnât look away. Her mouth was half parted, her breasts rising and falling with her rapid breathing. She swayed forward a bit â enough to encourage him to think she was feeling the same pull of desire and curiosity.
Responding to that urge, he put his hands on her shoulders and started to draw her closerâ¦
Award-winning author Margaret Moore began her career at the age of eight, when she and a friend concocted stories featuring a lovely damsel and a handsome, misunderstood thief nicknamed âThe Red Sheikhâ. Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, Margaret graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, Canada. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team, and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada.
Margaret lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband of over twenty-five years. Her two children have grown up understanding that itâs part of their motherâs job to discuss non-existent people and their problems. When not writing, Margaret updates her blog and website at www.margaretmoore.com
With thanks to everyone who has offered support and encouragement during my writing career, and the readers who buy my books. I couldnât do it without you!
London, Michaelmas, 1243
SIR ROALD DE SAYRESâS nostrils flared with disgust as he stepped over the refuse in the alley in Cloth Fair between the slaughtering yards of Smithfields and the bulk of St. Bartholemewâs Church. Aware of the sword he wore on his left, he firmly clasped the hilt of the dagger stuck in his belt on his right and scanned the alley for the man he was to meet.
âSir Roald!â a coarse Yorkshire-accented voice called out in a harsh whisper. The bulky shape of a big, brawny man stepped into the alley from a shadowed doorway. He wore breeches, tunic and cloak, patched and none too clean.
Roald peered at the figure in the dim light, trying to get a good look at his face. âMartin?â
âAye, sir,â the man replied with a nod of his shaggy head.
Roald relaxed a little, but he didnât take his hand from his dagger. âYou told no one you were planning to meet me here?â
âNo, sir,â the former garrison commander of his uncleâs castle answered.
âAnd you told no one in Ecclesford you were going to London?â
âNot daft, am I?â Martin replied with a hoarse laugh.
Not daft, but not clever, either, Roald thought as he regarded the traitorous fool. âItâs as you promised? The garrisonâ?â
âWill be like lambs to the slaughter. Taught âem next to nowt, and their weapons are olderân my mother. Paid for the worst, told Lord Gastonâwho wouldnât know a decent sword from a pikeâthey was the best.â
And pocketed the difference in price, no doubt.
âThem that are left wonât know how to mount a proper defense, neither,â Martin bragged, the big brute clearly not caring a haâpenny about the fate of his former comrades-in-arms. âTheyâll be running âround like chickens if you march on âem.â
âAnd his daughters? Prostrate with grief, I assume?â
Chuckling like the fool he was, Martin nodded. âThey was weepinâ and wailinâ when I left. They think that father of theirs was a saint or summat.â Martin grinned again, the corner of his wide, ugly mouth lifting. âTold âem I wouldnât take orders from no womenâand I wouldnât, neither, especially that Lady Mathilde.â