Excerpt of No Turning Back by Deanna Jewel

North Yorkshire, England, 1775

Michael 'Nathaniel' Clairmont, the Fourth Duke of North
Yorkshire, crumpled the missive he’d received from his
fiancée’s parents as he raked his fingers through his
shoulder length hair. Fear tightened his chest as he
stepped to the door and called to his squire. "Prepare
Caesar, now!"
Stepping back into the room, he addressed his longtime
friend, Anthony Faulkner. "I’m going to see Lady
Stockholm’s parents. Clarissa is missing. Are you with me?"
Faulkner jammed his tricorn hat atop his head. "Bloody
right I am!"

Moments later, after meeting with the Stockholm’s, Michael
urged his bay Barb to greater speed along side Anthony’s.
An unnatural scattering of branches and leaves strewn about
the road ahead caught his attention. He reined Caesar and
dismounted for a closer look. Footprints of horses and men
marred the dirt and led deeper into the woods where the
underbrush lay trampled and broken.
After tethering Caesar to a branch, he motioned for
Faulkner to follow him along the path. A piece of green
silk shimmered atop a briar bush, and Michael grabbed up
the soft material. It was the color he’d last seen on
Clarissa. The fragrance of jasmine assailed his senses. His
eyes widened in recognition of the scent...the same one
Clarissa wore!
He gripped the material in his fist. Bile rose in his
throat as fear knotted his gut. Though afraid of what he’d
find ahead, he pushed forward; low-hanging branches slapped
at his face and caught at his shoulder-length hair. He
pushed the foliage out of his way and tromped the
underbrush in his desperate search.
When he reached out to block another branch, a silk
stocking skimmed his face and he grabbed the stocking for
inspection. Michael looked at Faulkner’s worried face,
swore under his breath and moved on but a foreboding
feeling ate at his senses, almost like being watched.
He couldn’t miss a gown strewn atop the bushes. The shock
that tore throughout his system stopped Michael dead in his
tracks, his muscles recoiling in reaction. Meticulously
arranged over the waist-high bushes, as if in preparation
for wear, lay a dark green silk gown, a vicious tear low in
the neckline. His gaze moved slowly over the material.
Tightness gripped his chest, feeling as though someone had
reached in and squeezed his heart, the pain so intense it
burned. He touched Faulkner’s arm, and gritted his
teeth. "It’s the gown Clarissa wore at the ball last
night," he said in a gut-wrenching rasp. His gaze searched
the area until the very thing he wanted to avoid seeing lay
before him. His body froze.
A bare, delicate ankle peeked from beneath the underbrush.
Lunging forward like a wild beast, ravaging the area,
throwing branches and uprooting ferns, he uncovered her
body...clad only in her white satin chemise, splattered
with her own blood.
His tortured scream echoed throughout the surrounding
forest as he fell to his knees beside her battered body.
Praying she might hear, he whispered her name. Touching her
bruised cheek--he found it still warm. A flicker of hope
ignited within his heart as he pressed his fingertips
against the slim column of her throat. Moments later,
finding no trace of a pulse, that slight flicker of hope
extinguished itself. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts
at who could be her killer.