"Another captivating romantic tale in the Black Cobra Quartet."
Reviewed by Kay Quintin
Posted June 16, 2010
Romance Historical
In 1822 in the English Channel, the unconscious body of
Major Logan Monteith, of the East India Company, washes
ashore during a vicious storm. Linnet Trevission and her
young wards rescue the amnesiac officer. As Logan recovers
at Mon Coeur, he dreams of erotic sex that seems all too
real. Linnet cannot deny herself the secret seduction of
the comatose essence of masculinity ensconced in her own
bed. Logan, guessing the reality of his "dream," prompts
Linnet to insist on payment for his care in the form of his
educating her in the ways of sinful pleasure. Linnet has
never expected marriage and believes this to be her one
chance at a sexual experience. Logan is beyond surprised at learning Linnet is sole owner
and Captain of the Trevission Shipping Empire. She insists
on transporting Logan in his hunt for the Black Cobra Cult
and their assassins who left him for dead, while he
searched for the parchment that could destroy their cult
and end their heinous acts in India. Thus begins the sword-
slashing and bloodletting battles against the assassins
during their trek across the country. Surprise is on
Logan's side with Linnet being as proficient with the
swiftness of sword and quickness of mind as any soldier.
Logan and Linnet fall in love, but convincing Linnet to
marry him is another matter. Of course, this argument will
ensue only if they survive the battle ahead of them to
complete their mission. THE BRAZEN BRIDE is another tale in the Black Cobra Quartet
from this talented author. Now that I have read of the
extremely strong-willed and self-sufficient female, Linnet,
I will endeavor to read the other novels in this series.
Prepare yourself for tons of action and quick-witted
thinking and conniving, especially from Linnet. I found
this story to be very colorful and exciting, and I totally
admired Linnet's character and devotion in what she
believes to be right.
SUMMARY
Wounded in battle, forced to abandon ship, Logan Monteith's
mission has gotten off to a shaky start. As he recuperates
in a tiny English village, he finds his respect and desire
for his rescuer, Linnet Trevission, grows with each passing
day. For her part, Linnet's strength and wisdom have made
her a respected leader at home--but there is more to heal in
Logan than physical wounds...her greatest battle now is
convincing him that the connection they feel is real and
everlasting--before it's too late.
ExcerptDecember 10, 1822
One o'clock in the morning
On the deck of the Heloise Leger, The English ChannelHell hath no greater fury than the storms that raked the
English Channel in winter. With elemental tempest raging about him, Major Logan
Monteith leapt back from the slashing blade of a Black Cobra
cult assassin. With his saber countering the second
assassin's strike, using his dirk, clutched in his left
fist, to fend off the first attacker's probing knife, Logan
suspected he'd be learning about the afterlife all too soon. Winds howled; waves crashed. Water sluiced across the deck
in a hissing spate. The night was blacker than Hades, the driving rain a
blurring veil. Falling back a step, Logan swiped water from
his eyes. As one, the assassins surged, beating him back toward the
prow. Blades met, steel on steel ringing, sparks flaring,
pinpricks of brightness in the engulfing dark. Abruptly, the
deck canted-all three combatants desperately fought for balance. The ship - a Portuguese merchantman bound for Portsmouth
that Logan had been forced to join five days before, when,
on reaching Lisbon, he'd discovered the town crawling with
cultists - was in trouble. Battered by pounding waves,
buffeted and tossed on the storm-wracked sea, the ship
wallowed and swung, no longer held into the wind. Whether
the rudder had broken or the captain had abandoned the
wheel, Logan couldn't tell. He couldn't spare the time to
squint through the rain-drenched dark at the bridge. Instinct and experience kept his eyes locked on the men
facing him. There'd been a third, but Logan had accounted
for him in the first rush. The body was gone, claimed by the
ravening waves. Logan struck, saber swinging, but was immediately forced to
block and counter, then retreat yet another step into the
narrowing prow. Further confining his movements, reducing
his options. Didn't matter; two against one in the icy,
pelting rain, with his grips on his dirk and saber cramping,
leather-soled boots slipping and sliding - the assassins
were barefoot, giving them even that advantage - he couldn't
go on the offensive. He wasn't going to survive. As he met and deflected another vicious blow, he
acknowledged that, yet even as he did his innate
stubbornness rose. He'd been a cavalry officer for more than
a decade, fought in wars over half the globe, been through
hell more than once, and survived. He'd faced assassins before, and lived. Miracles happened. He told himself that even as, teeth gritted, he angled his
saber up to block a slash at his head - and his feet went
from under him, pitching him back against the railing. The wooden scroll-holder strapped to his back slammed into
his spine. From the corner of his eye, he saw white teeth flash in a
dark face - a feral grin as the second assassin swung and
slashed. Logan hissed as the blade sliced down his left
side, cutting through coat and shirt into muscle, grazing
bone, before angling across his stomach to disembowel him.
Instinct had him flattening against the railing; the blade
cut, but not deep enough. Not that that would save him. Lightning cracked, a jagged tear of brilliant white
splitting the black sky. In the instant's illumination,
Logan saw the two assassins, dark eyes fanatically gleaming,
triumph in their faces, gather themselves to spring and
bring him down. He was bleeding, badly. He saw Death, felt it - tasted ashes as icy fingers pierced
his body, reaching for his soul. He dragged in a last gasp, braced himself. Given his
mission, given his occupation for the last several years,
St. Peter ought at least consider letting him into Heaven. A long forgotten prayer formed on his lips. The assassins sprang. Crack!! Impact - sudden, sharp, catastrophic - flung him and the
assassins overboard. The plunge into turbulent depths, into
the churning icy fury of the sea, separated them. Tumbling in the watery dark, instinct took hold; righting
himself, Logan struck upward. His dirk was still in his left
fist; he'd released his saber, but it was tied to his belt
by its lanyard-he felt the reassuring tap of the hilt on his
upper thigh. He was a strong swimmer; the assassins almost certainly
weren't - it would be a wonder if they could swim at all.
Dismissing them - he had more pressing concerns - he broke
the surface and hauled in a huge breath. He shook his head,
then peered through the water weighing down his lashes. The storm was at its height, the seas mountainous. He
couldn't see beyond the next towering wave. The ship had been in open water in the middle of the Channel
when the storm had hit, but he had no idea how far the
tempest had tossed them, nor any clear idea of direction. No
idea if land was close, or� He'd been losing blood when he'd hit the water. How long he
would last in the cauldron of icy waves, how soon his
already depleted strength would give out- His hand struck something-wood, a plank. No, even better, a
section of the ship's side. Desperate, Logan grabbed it,
grimly hung on as the next wave tried to slap him away, then
gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up and onto the
makeshift raft. The cold had numbed his flesh. Even so, the cut down his
side sent burning pain lancing through his entire body. For a long moment, he lay prone on the planks, gasping,
then, gathering his ebbing strength, steeling himself, he
inched and edged further onto the planks, until he could
lock his right hand over the ragged front edge. His feet
still dangled in the water, but his body was supported to
his knees; it was the best he could do. The waves surged. His raft pitched, but rode the swell. Beneath the lashing roar of the storm, waves crashed. Cheek
to the wet wood, he listened, concentrating, and confirmed;
the waves were crashing against something near. The ship was, he thought, wallowing in the unrelieved
blackness to his right. Breaking up. Sinking. Given how he
and the assassins had been flung, the impact must have been
mid ship. Whipping up his failing strength, he lifted his
head, searched, saw debris but no bodies - no other
survivors - but only he and the assassins had been so far
forward in the prow. Lightning cracked again, and showed him the ship's bare
masts silhouetted against the inky sky. As the simultaneous clap of thunder faded, Logan heard a
sucking, rushing sound. Recognizing the portent, he peered
at the ship. The listing, tipping, capsizing ship. Out of the night, the main mast came swinging down� He didn't even have time to swear before the top of the mast
thumped down across him and the world went black. * * * "Linnet! Linnet! Come quickly! Come see!" Linnet Trevission looked up from the old flagstones of the
path that ran from the stable to the kitchen door. She'd
left the stable and was nearing the kitchen garden; directly
ahead, the solid bulk of her home, Mon Coeur, sat snug and
serene, anchored within the protective embrace of stands of
elm and fir, bent and twisted into outlandish shapes by the
incessant sea winds.
At present, however, in the aftermath of the storm that had
swept over them last night, the winds were mild, coyly
coquettish, the winter sun casting a honey glow over the
house's pale stone. "Linnet! Linnet!" She smiled as Chester, one of her wards - a tousle-headed
scamp of just seven - came pelting around the side of the
house, heading for the back door. "Chester! I'm here." The boy looked up, then veered onto the stable path. "You have to come!" Skidding to a halt before her, he
grabbed her hand and tugged. "There's been a wreck!" His
face alight, excitement and more bubbling in his voice, he
looked up into her eyes. "There are bodies! And Will says
one of the men is alive! You have to come!" Linnet's smile fell from her face. "Yes, of course." Swiping
up her skirts - wishing she'd worn her breeches instead -
she strode quickly toward the back door, inwardly reviewing
the necessary tasks - tasks she'd dealt with often before. On the southwest tip of Guernsey, dealing with shipwrecks
was an inescapable part of life. Chester trotted at her side, his hand gripping hers - too
tightly, but then his father had been lost at sea three
years ago. As they neared the kitchen door, it opened to
reveal Linnet's aunt, Jemima. "Did I hear aright? A wreck?" Linnet nodded. "Will sent Chester - there's at least one
survivor. I'll go straightaway - can you find Edgar and the
others? Tell them to bring the old gate, and the pack of
bandages and splints." "Yes, of course. But where?" Linnet looked at Chester. "Which cove?" "West one." Grimacing, Linnet met Jemima's eyes. Of course it would be
that one - the rockiest and most dangerous. Especially for
whoever had been washed up. "Broken bones, almost certainly." Nodding briskly, Jemima waved her off. "Go. I'll have
everything ready here when you get back." Linnet met Chester's eyes. "Let's race." Chester flashed a grin, let go of her hand, turned and ran
back around the house. Both hands now free, Linnet gathered her skirts and set out
in pursuit; with her longer legs, she was soon on Chester's
heels. The path cut through the surrounding trees, then out
across the rocky expanse that bordered the edge of the low
cliffs. "Hold up!" Linnet called as they rounded the southern
headland of the long northwestern side of the island and the
west cove opened up below them. Chester halted at the top of the path - little more than a
goat track - that led down to a strip of coarse sand. Beyond
the sand lay rocks, exposed now the tide was mostly out, a
jumble of tumbled pieces from fist-sized to small boulders
that formed the floor of the cove. The cove wasn't all that
wide; two promontories of larger, jagged rocks enclosed it,
marching out into the lashing gray waves. Looking down, Linnet saw three bodies, two flung as if
carelessly discarded on the rocks. Those two were dead - had
to be given the contortions of limbs, heads and spines. The
third she could only catch glimpses of; Will and
Brandon-another two of her wards-were crouched over the man. Aware of Chester's pleading look, Linnet nodded. "All right
- let's go." He was off like a hare. Linnet kilted her skirts, then
followed, leaping down the familiar path with an abandon
almost Chester's equal. As she descended, she scanned the
cove again, noting the flotsam thrown up by the storm; to
her educated eyes the evidence suggested that a good-sized
merchantman had broken up on the razor-sharp rocks that
lurked beneath the waves out to the southwest. Reaching the sand, Chester bounded toward Will and Brandon.
Suppressing the urge to follow, Linnet carefully made her
way out onto the rocks, and confirmed that the other two men
were indeed dead, beyond her help. Two sailors by the look
of them, both swarthy. Spanish? Leaving them where they lay, she picked her way through the
rocks back onto the sand, then walked to where the third
body lay close to the cliff. His back to her, Will looked up and around as she neared,
his fifteen-year-old face unusually sober. "He was on this
piece of siding, so we lifted it and carried him here." Halting, she dropped a hand on Will's shoulder and answered
the question he hadn't asked. "It was safe to move him if he
was already on the planks." Shifting her gaze from Will's face, she got her first look
at their survivor. He was lying on his stomach on the
section of planking, a wet tangle of black hair screening
his face. He was large. Big. Not a giant but in any company he would
rank as impressive. Broad shoulders, long heavy limbs.
Running her gaze down his spine, she frowned at the bulge
distorting his sodden coat. Bending, she reached out and
touched it, traced. "It's a wooden cylinder in oilskins," Will said. "It's
slung
in a leather holder with a loop through his belt. We think
his arms must go through other loops to hold it in place." Linnet nodded. "Curious." Had he been carrying the cylinder
secretly? With it nestled between the long muscles on either
side of his spine, if he'd been upright, the fall of his
coat would conceal it, Straightening, she ran her gaze down his legs, but saw no
evidence of breaks or wounds. He was wearing breeches and a
loose coat, the sort many sailors wore. His right arm was
extended, the fingers of his large hand curled around the
front edge of a plank. His other hand, however, lay level
with his face, fingers locked in a death-grip around the
hilt of a dagger. That seemed a trifle odd for a shipwreck. Conscious of her pulse thudding - the run to the cliffs
shouldn't have made her heart beat so rapidly - she bent to
look at the dagger. Not just a dagger, she realized - a
dirk. The fine scrollwork on the blade was exquisite, the
hilt larger than that of most knives, with a rounded stone
set in the crosspiece. Reaching down, she pried long, hard,
ice-cold fingers away from the hilt, then handed the dagger
to Will. "Hold that for me." The man hadn't stirred; not a single muscle had so much as
tensed. Linnet drew back, aware of her instincts twitching,
flickering in definite warning, yet for the life of her she
couldn't make sense of the message. The stranger was all but dead - indeed, she wasn't sure he
wasn't-so how could he be dangerous? From his position kneeling on the other side of the
planking, Brandon said, "He's got a sword, too. On this
side." Linnet circled the man, looked where Brandon pointed, then
crouched and unhooked the lanyard that attached the weapon
to the man's belt. Drawing the blade carefully from under
the man's leg, she straightened, studied it. "It's a saber - a cavalry sword." She'd seen enough of them
during the war, but the war was long over, the cavalry
largely disbanded. Perhaps this man had been a trooper, and
after the war had turned to sailing? "We think he's alive," Brandon said, "but we can't find any
pulse, and he's not breathing - well, not so you can tell." Leaving the saber with Brandon, Linnet returned to Will's
side. The man's head lay turned that way. "He must be alive because he's bleeding," Will said. "See?"
He lifted the clothes along the man's side, and a rent
parted, exposing pale flesh and a long nasty cut. A recent cut. Crouching beside Will, Linnet looked, and recognized a sword
slash. That explained the dirk and saber. While Will held
the clothes, she leaned closer, examining the wound,
following it up - to the side of the man's breast. Thick
muscle had been sliced through. Tracing the wound down, she
sucked in a breath when she saw bone - a rib. But that was
lower, where there wasn't so much muscle between taut skin
and ribcage. "He's bleeding," Will insisted. "See there?" Linnet had noted the pale pinkish liquid seeping from the
cut. She nodded, not yet ready to explain that that might
simply be seawater oozing back out of the wound, tinged with
blood that had bled out before. Before the man died. Yet it was possible he still lived. The sea had all but
frozen his flesh; any bleeding would be extremely slow, even
were he alive. Continuing to trace the wound, she discovered it curved
inward, angling down and across the man's belly. She
couldn't see further than the side of his waist, but a gut
wound�if he had one, he was almost certainly dead,
whether
he'd already died or not. Lying as he was, the pressure of his body, combined with the
effects of the icy sea, might have held the wound closed,
inhibited the usual bleeding. She glanced at Brandon's face, then at Will, alongside her.
Chester was hovering at her shoulder. "I need to check the
wound across his stomach. I need you to help me ease this
side of him up - enough for me to look." The boys eagerly reached for the man's left shoulder, his
side. Settling on her knees, Linnet placed Brandon's hands
on the man's shoulder, positioned Will's hands beneath the
left hip, set Chester ready to help support the shoulder
Brandon would lift. "All together, then." Linnet licked her
lips, said a little prayer. She was too experienced in
matters of life, death, and the sea to allow herself to
become invested in a stranger's survival; she told herself
it was for the boys' sake that she hoped this stranger
lived. "Now." The boys heaved, pushed, propped. As soon as they had the
man angled up and steady, Linnet ducked down, close to the
heavy body, peered beneath to trace and follow the wound -
then exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she'd held.
Easing back, she nodded. "Let him down." "Will he be all right?" Chester asked. She couldn't yet promise. "The wound is less deep over his
belly - no real danger. He was lucky." A scenario was taking
shape in her mind - a picture of how the man had received
such a wound. It should have been a killing, or at least
incapacitating, slash. He'd escaped death by less than an
inch, just before his ship had wrecked. "But he's still not really breathing," Brandon said. And she still wasn't sure if he was alive. Linnet checked
for a pulse in the man's wrist, then in his strong throat.
There was none she could detect, nor any discernible rise
and fall of his chest - but all that could be due to being
close to frozen. There was no help for it; shuffling nearer,
with one hand she brushed back the fall of black hair hiding
his face, bent close, focused - and stopped breathing. He was heart-breakingly, breath-takingly beautiful. His
face, all clean angular lines and sculpted planes, embodied
the very essence of masculine beauty - there was not a soft
note anywhere. Combined with the muscled hardness of his
body, that face promised virility, passion, and direct,
unadorned, unadulterated sin. Such a face did not belong to a man given to sweetness, but
to action, command, and demand. Chiseled lips, firm and fine, sent a seductive shiver down
her spine. The line of his jaw made her fingertips throb. He
had winged black brows, a wide forehead, and lashes so black
and thick and long she was instantly jealous. She'd frozen. The boys shifted uneasily, watching, waiting for her verdict. As usual her instincts had been right. This man was - would
be - dangerous. To her peace of mind, if nothing else. Men like this - who looked like he did, who had bodies like
his - led women into sin. And into stupidity. Dragging in a breath, she forced her eyes to stop drinking
him in, forced her mind to stop mentally swooning. She
hesitated, needing to get nearer - and too rattled to
lightly risk it. Maintaining her current, already too-close distance, she
held her fingers beneath his nose. And felt nothing. Turning her hand, she held the sensitive skin of her wrist
close, but could detect not the smallest waft of air. Lips thinning, mentally muttering an imprecation against
fallen angels, she leaned down, close, in - angled her cheek
so that it was a whisker away from his lips� And felt the merest brush of air, a breath, an exhalation. She eased back, straightening on her knees, and stared at
the man's face for an instant longer. Then she turned to the
wound in his side, checked again. And yes, that was blood,
not just seepage. "He's alive." Chester whooped. The other two grinned. She didn't. Getting back to her feet, she looked down at
trouble. "We need to get him up to the house."
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