Amidst a struggle for inheritance and a title, love and family triumphâagainst all odds!
Twin sisters
Kirsty McMahon is traveling to Australia with her heavily pregnant, widowed twin, Susie, to help her locate the babyâs great-uncle.
A castle inâ¦Australia!
Angus Douglas is no ordinary uncleâheâs a Scottish earl with a faux-medieval castle and millions in the bank. The adventure has only just begun.
A whole lot of romanceâ¦
Kirsty and Susie are suddenly embroiled in an inheritance battle and a bid to save the castle from destruction, yet amidst all this, the twins each find the one big thing that has been missing from their lives.
Marion Lennox was born on an Australian dairy farm. She moved onâmostly because the cows werenât interested in her stories! Marion writes for the Medical Romance>⢠and Harlequin Romance>® lines. In her non-writing life, Marion cares (haphazardly) for her husband, kids, dogs, cats, chickens and anyone else who lines up at her dinner table. She fights her rampant garden (sheâs losing) and her house dust (sheâs lost!). She also travels, which she finds seriously addictive. As a teenager, Marion was told sheâd never get anywhere reading romance. Now romance is the basis of her stories; her stories allow her to travel, and if ever there was one advertisement for following your dream, sheâd be it!
You can contact Marion at www.marionlennox.com
HOW did you knock on the front door of a medieval castle? And what was such a castle doing in a remote Australian fishing community?
Dr Kirsty McMahon was worried and tired and it was starting to rain. The castle doors looked as if theyâd take a battering ram to open them, and using the incongruous intercom-thing produced nothing. Her tentative knock sounded ridiculous. She knocked harder and gave a hopeful shout but there was no response.
Enough. Sheâd been stupid to come. Susie was complaining of cramp. She and her twin would find a hotel in Dolphin Bay and broach the castle walls in the morning. If she could get Susie back here.
Then she paused as a sudden flurry of barking sounded on the other side of the gates. Was someone coming?
The vast timber doors opened an inch, and then wider. A lanky brown dog of indiscriminate parentage nosed its way out. A hand gripped its collar. A manâs hand.
She took a step back. This place seemed straight out of a Gothic novel. The castle was set high on the cliffs above the sea, with purple-hazed mountains ringing the rear. In the mist of early evening, Kirsty was almost expecting to be met by a pack of ancient hunting dogs, anchored to armoured warriors with battle-axes.
âBoris, if you jump up on anyone youâll be toast.â
She blinked. The owner of the voice didnât sound like an axe-toting warrior. The voice soundedâ¦nice?
The doors swung wider and she decided the adjective nice wasnât strong enough.
Her warrior was gorgeous.
Six feet two. Mid-thirties maybe? Aran sweater, faded jeans and battered boots. Deep brown, crinkly hair, ruffled just the way she liked it in her men.
Her men? Robert? The thought almost made her smile and she had no difficulty at all turning her attention back to her warrior.
What else? He had a craggy face, strongly boned and weathered. His eyes smiled at the edges even when he wasnât smiling. His body wasâ¦excellent.
Oh, for heavenâs sake, she was standing outside a ridiculous Australian castle thinking lustful thoughts about a strange manâs body? All her life sheâd fought to stay in control, and now, when everything was teetering, the last thing she needed was the complication of a male. Back home she was dating nice, safe Robert, whoâd stay being nice and safe for as long as she wanted. She was in control. She was married to medicine.
But her warrior was definitely gorgeous.
âUmâ¦hello,â she tried.
The stranger was hauling his dog back, giving her a chance to catch her breath. Behind the man and dog she could see the castle forecourt. This, then, was why thereâd been no response. Sheâd knocked on what was essentially the fortress gates.
And behind the gates⦠The castle was a lacy confection of gleaming white stone, turrets and battlements. Kirsty was practically gaping. It was so ridiculously seventeenth-century-meets-now that it was fantastic. It was also set so far back from the gates that, if the intercom wasnât working, it must have been sheer luck that anyone had heard her call.
She needed to stop gaping.
âWhat can I do for you?â the man asked, and she attempted to sound coherent. Sort of.