A Desperate Widow
Once a penniless orphan, Evelyn D’Orsay became a countess and a bride at the tender age of sixteen. But the flames of revolution forced her to flee France, with the aid of a notorious smuggler. Recently widowed and without any means, Evelyn knows she must retrieve the family fortune from France for her daughter’s sake—but only one man can help her…the smuggler she cannot forget.
A Dangerous Spy
Jack Greystone has been smuggling since he was a small boy—and he has been spying since the wars began. An outlaw with a bounty on his head, he is in hiding when he becomes aware of the Countess’s inquiries about him. He is reluctant to come to her aid yet again, for he has never been able to forget her. But he soon realizes he’ll surrender anything to be with the woman he loves….
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author Brenda Joyce
“Merging depth of history with romance
is nothing new for the multitalented author, but here she also brings in an intensity of political history that is both fascinating and detailed.” —RT Book Reviews on Seduction
“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns
in her characters’ personal lives.” —Publishers Weekly
“Another first-rate Regency, featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama…Joyce’s tight plot and
vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.” —Publishers Weekly on The Perfect Bride (starred review)
“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters, Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”
—Booklist on The Perfect Bride
“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor
and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.” —Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last
“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight, which keeps this hefty entry absorbing,
and her fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.” —Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride
Surrender
Brenda Joyce
This one’s for Tracer and Tricia Gilson—
thanks for making my world of horses such a great place!
Contents
PROLOGUE
Brest, France
August 5, 1791
HER DAUGHTER WOULD not stop crying. Evelyn held her, silently begging her to be quiet, as their carriage raced through the darkness. The road was rough, especially at their frantic pace, and the constant lurching and jostling did not help. If only Aimee would sleep! Evelyn feared they had been followed; she was also afraid that her daughter’s cries would cause suspicion and bring undue attention to them even if they had successfully escaped Paris.
But Aimee was frightened—because her mother was frightened. Children could sense such things. But Evelyn was afraid because Aimee was the most important thing in her life, and she would die to keep her safe.
And what if Henri died?
Evelyn D’Orsay hugged her daughter, who had recently turned four, harder. She was seated in the front of the carriage with the driver, Laurent, her husband’s valet, now turned jack-of-all-trades. Her husband was slumped in the backseat, unconscious, seated between Laurent’s wife, Adelaide, and her own ladies’ maid, Bette. She glanced back now, her heart lurching with alarm. Henri remained deathly white.
His health had begun to fail him sometime after Aimee had been born. He had also become consumptive. Was his heart failing him now? Could he survive this mad, frightening dash through the night? Would he survive the Channel crossing? Evelyn knew he needed a doctor, desperately, just as she knew this wild carriage ride could not be helpful to him.
But if they could make it out of France, if they could make it to Britain, they would be safe.
“How far are we?” she whispered. Luckily Aimee had stopped crying; in fact, she had fallen asleep.
“I think we are almost there,” Laurent said. They were speaking French. Evelyn was an Englishwoman, but she had been fluent in French even before she had met the Count D’Orsay, becoming his child bride almost overnight.
The horses were lathered and blowing hard. Fortunately, they did not have much farther to go—or so Laurent thought. And it would soon be dawn. At dawn, they were to disembark with a Belgian smuggler, who was awaiting them even now.
“Will we be late?” she asked, keeping her tone low, which was a bit absurd, as the coach rattled and groaned with the horses’ every stride.
“I think we will have an hour to spare,” Laurent said, “but not much more than that.” He glanced briefly at her, his look a significant one.
She knew what he was thinking now—they were all thinking it. It had been so hard to escape Paris. There would be no going back, not even to their country home in the Loire Valley. They must leave France if they were to survive. Their lives were at stake.
Aimee was sound asleep. Evelyn stroked her soft, dark hair and fought her own need to weep with fear