The Flower And The Sword
10th ANNIVERSARYBetrayed! The word cut deeper than any broadsword, for Rogan St. Cyr had been played false by the woman to whom he had given his heart. Yet the beautiful Lily was still his bride, and now she would pay for her treachery with her very freedom.Though he held her prisoner, far from the comfort of family or friends, Lily longed to ease the pain that tortured her warrior husband. For she knew that deep inside his hardened soul lay the embers of their love, longing to be brought back to life.
Читать The Flower And The Sword онлайн беплатно
Table of Contents
Special thanks to our well-wishers,
who have contributed their congratulations and support.
“The best historicals, the best romances. Simply the best!”
—Dallas Schulze
“Bronwyn Williams was born and raised at Harlequin Historicals. We couldn’t have asked for a better home or a more supportive family.”
—Dixie Browning and Mary Williams, w/a Bronwyn Williams
“I can’t believe it’s been ten years since Private Treaty, my first historical novel, helped launch the Harlequin Historicals line. What a thrill that was! And the beat goes on…with timeless stories about men and women in love.”
—Kathleen Eagle
“Nothing satisfies me as much as writing or reading a Harlequin Historical novel. For me, Harlequin Historicals are the ultimate escape from the problems of everyday life.”
—Ruth Ryan Langan
“As a writer and reader, I feel that the Harlequin Historicals line always celebrates a perfect blend of history and romance, adventure and passion, humor and sheer magic.”
—Theresa Michaels
“Thank you, Harlequin Historicals, for opening up a ‘window into the past’ for so many happy readers.”
—Suzanne Barclay
“As a one-time ‘slush pile’ foundling at Harlequin Historicals, I’ll be forever grateful for having been rescued and published as one of the first ‘March Madness’ authors. Harlequin Historicals has always been the place for special stories, ones that blend the magic of the past with the rare miracle of love for books that readers never forget.”
—Miranda Jarrett
“A rainy evening. A cup of hot chocolate. A stack of Harlequin Historicals. Absolute bliss! Happy tenth Anniversary and continued success.”
—Cheryl Reavis
“Happy birthday, Harlequin Historicals! I’m proud to have been a part of your ten years of exciting historical romance.”
—Elaine Barbieri
“Harlequin Historicals are charming or disarming with dashes and clashes. These past times are fast times, the gems of romances!”
—Karen Harper
To a wonderful writer, my sister and my best friend, Mary.
To my good friends and fellow writers: Betty, Carol, Helen, Kate, Kay, Krisann, Lorie, Mary Anne and Peter. And to Karen Kosztolnyik—big thanks!
Another voice, rich and bold, cut through the silence of the chapel.
“I am afraid she cannot marry, Father, for she already has a husband.”
Lily’s head shot up, and she whipped around toward the voice. That voice! It could only be…
Rogan stood directly in front of her, staring with a thunderous expression.
Rogan. Rogan was here. Alive. Impossibly, blessedly alive. Staring at her with a terrible, evil-looking smile twisting his lips. His eyes gleamed silver by the dim flames of the candles. Trust him to appear in such a shocking manner, Lily thought, so smug and poised and magnificent!
Cornwall, England
February 1197
Lily sat perfectly still in the gathering darkness of dusk, back straight, hands folded and unmoving on her lap. She stared unblinkingly into the void of shadows crowding her chamber, blind to all the world had to offer.
Pain cradled her in its arms like an old friend, not fooled by her dry eyes and composed face.
Tomorrow she would wed a man she had met only once. A kind man with a gentle smile, whom she could never love, for all her love was dead.
She did not understand yet how all her happiness had crumbled into ashes. Or why. She was not even certain she was to blame, yet guilt ate at her soul and melded with her broken heart.
The man she loved was gone, and with him all her dreams…
Cornwall, EnglandJuly 1196
“My God, look at it,” Andrew said to his brother. Rogan St. Cyr squinted up at the horizon.
The castle of Charolais perched on the brink of a seaside cliff, a dark sentinel standing watch over the raging surf below. Like its infamous neighbor, Tintagel, Charolais was a functional fitting together of cold, gray stone. Spartan, perhaps, but not grotesque. Rather, its awesome presence owed more to the atmosphere lent by the savage elements of its surrounding: restless sea, rolling skies and gray, barren moor that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Rogan felt a clenching deep in his gut. It had been a long time since he could last recall being nervous. Oh, a certain intensity gripped him just before battle, even after so many times, but nerve-jangling anxiety was something to which he was not accustomed.
Not for the first time, he reflected that he was not the man for the duty awaiting him. He had no skill at diplomacy, nor did he possess a glib tongue adept at tripping over subtleties and false praise. He was a warrior—he had never been anything else—but he was also a man of honour and that was why he had come.
