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"Jane Feather is an accomplished storyteller...rare and wonderful." -- Daily News of Los Angeles Informationen zum Autor Jane Feather is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of Almost a Bride, The Wedding Game, The Bride Hunt, The Bachelor List, Kissed by Shadows, To Kiss a Spy, The Widow’s Kiss, The Least Likely Bride, The Accidental Bride, The Hostage Bride, A Valentine Wedding, The Emerald Swan, and many other historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the South of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has more than ten million copies of her books in print. Klappentext The first novel in the captivating Brides Trilogy, in which three unconventional young women vow they will never marry-only to be overtaken by destiny. Bride #1 is the outspoken Portia. . . . It's bad enough that seventeen-year-old Portia Worth is taken in by her uncle, the marquis of Granville, after her father dies. As the bastard niece, Portia knows she can expect little beyond a roof over her head and a place at the table. But it truly adds insult to injury when the Granvilles' archenemy, the outlaw Rufus Decatur, hatches a scheme to abduct the marquis's daughter--only to kidnap Portia by accident. Portia, who possesses more than a streak of independence as well as a talent for resistance, does not take kindly to being abducted--mistakenly or otherwise. Decatur will soon find himself facing the challenge of his life, both on the battlefield and in the bedroom, as he contends with this misfit of a girl who has the audacity to believe herself the equal of any man. . . . Don't miss the other novels in Jane Feather's captivating Brides Trilogy: THE HOSTAGE BRIDE | THE ACCIDENTAL BRIDE | THE LEAST LIKELY BRIDE Leseprobe Edinburgh, Scotland December, 1643 Acrid smoke billowed around the windowless room from the peat fire smoldering sullenly in the hearth. The old crone stirring a pot over the fire coughed intermittently, the harsh racking the only sound. Outside, the snow lay thick on a dead white world, heavy flakes drifting steadily from the iron gray sky. A bundle of rags, huddled beneath a moth-eaten blanket, groaned, shifted with a rustle of the straw beneath the sticklike frame. "Brandy, woman!" The crone glanced over her shoulder at the hump in the corner, then she spat into the fire. The spittle sizzled on the peat. "Girl's gone fer it. Altho' what she's usin' to pay fer it, the good Lord knows." The bundle groaned again. A wasted arm pushed feebly at the blanket, and Jack Worth struggled onto his elbow. He peered through slitted eyes into the smoke-shrouded room. Nothing had improved since he'd last looked, and he sank back into the straw again. The earth floor was hard and cold beneath the thin and foul-smelling straw, pressing painfully into his emaciated body. Jack wanted to die, but the flicker of life was persistent. And if he couldn't die, he wanted brandy. Portia had gone for brandy. His enfeebled brain could hold that thought. But where in the name of Lucifer was she? He couldn't remember what time she'd gone out into the storm. The blizzard obliterated all signs of time passing, and it could as well be midnight as dawn. His pain-racked limbs were on fire, his eyes burned in their sockets, every inch of his skin ached, and the dreadful craving consumed him so that he cried out, a sound so feeble that the crone didn't even turn from the fire. The door opened. Frigid air blasted the fug, and the smoke swirled like dervishes. The girl who kicked the door shut behind her was wire thin yet exuded a nervous energy that somehow enlivened the reeking squalor of the hovel. "Brandy, Jack." She came to the mattress and knelt, drawing a small ...
