Marguerite de Fleurignac is hiding in the French countryside
where her family's chateau has burned to the ground. As a
noblewoman, she must be careful because she is being hunted
by those who want to kill her. These are important members
responsible for the revolution that cause many to be
arrested and sent to the guillotine to die. Marguerite,
along with her ex-lover, Jean-Paul, who is the son of the
botanist of the Royal Gardens are part of an underground
network called la Fleche, where they help smuggle émigrés
across the channel and into England. Marguerite's father, is
a mad genius hiding in Paris and is also being hunted by a
select group of individuals because he maybe responsible for
a group of assassinations England.
Guillaume LeBreton, and his twelve-year-old servant boy
Adrian Hawker, come across Marguerite and take charge of
her. She lies and tells them she is Maggie Duran, a former
governess. Guillaume is actually an Englishman by the name
of William Doyle who works as a spy for the British Service
and has been sent on a mission to find Maggie's father. He
will gain Maggie's trust and protect her. Maggie is wary of
this LeBreton, who is very large, hulking, and has a long
wicked scar on his cheek. But in order to arrive safely in
Paris, she looks toward Guillaume to help her, although she
acts as if she doesn't need his aid. He is more than willing
to help because he knows Maggie will lead him to her father.
As Maggie, Doyle and Hawker travel the dangerous roads to
Paris and then enter the city where one wrong move can get
them kill, they are unaware that there are others watching
them closely that may or may not want them dead. Maggie
can't help but succumb to Gillaume, who continues to lie to
her. They try their best to find a small piece of happiness
in one another arms, but the horrors of the revolution may
keep them apart forever.
Joanna Bourne has such an amazing skill at writing strong
characters, descriptive settings and a mature and passionate
love story. She uses a great amount of historical research
to have penned an amazing book such as THE FORBIDDEN ROSE.
Fans of Ms. Bourne's past books have met Maggie and Doyle
before. THE FORBIDDEN ROSE is a prequel; their story of how
they met. Not only do we see how France was full of unrest
during the time of the revolution, but how no one can trust
anyone, not even children. This is especially shown with
Doyle's young charge, Adrian Hawkins, who also has made
quiet an impression in the two books that were released
prior to THE FORBIDDEN ROSE. He is one such character that
you can't help but be in amazement of at such a young age,
including his adversary, a young girl who lives in a brothel
and works in some capacity to lend aid to Maggie's cause.
Ms. Bourne's way with words, dialogue and deep devotion and
love Maggie and Doyle have for one another will blow you
away. THE FORBIDDEN ROSE is a passionate and near all
consuming tale filled with suspense and wonderful insights
on the human psyche. This is one historical romance that is
a must read and proves yet again how masterful of a writer
Joanna Bourne has become.
A glittering French aristocrat is on the run, disguised as a
British governess. England's top spy has a score to settle
with her family. But as they're drawn inexorably into the
intrigue and madness of Revolutionary Paris, they gamble on
a love to which neither of them will admit.
Excerpt
Paris 1794
She was alone, suddenly, with Guillaume LeBreton.
He stood, being inscrutable, which was one of his talents.
In the stark white robe he became dark and exotic. The long
folds and draped sleeves made a mandarin of him.
How does he pass unnoticed through the streets of the
city? It is as if a lion joined a pack of dogs and none of
them remarked upon it. “Did you follow me from my
house?”
“Something like that. You didn’t make any secret where you
were going.”
“It was a perfectly useless thing to do, following me. It is
over between us. We know it is impossible. We said
farewell.” She ran out of words abruptly.
“I changed my mind.”
He did not move, except to breathe. He was like an idol that
was made of smooth, brown stone, but also alive. His hands
were in the knot of his belt. It was a little to the side
and tied twice. He would take less than a moment, untying it.
She picked up her comb to have something to do with her
hands. Set it down again. She would feel more comfortable if
he talked more.
“I see your plan,” she said. “You do not want me to regret
parting with you. You have come to give me another hour of
your company so I shall become delighted not to see you
again. There is a logic in this. If we were to live cheek by
jowl for a week, I would wish you in Parthia or on that
island in the Pacific where the birds are the size of dogs
and have never learned to fly.”
He paid no attention to what she was saying. He loosened the
knot that tied the belt of his robe.
“There is no reason to take your clothing off in that
menacing and improper way. We will do nothing whatsoever
that requires a lack of clothing. When I said you should
stay, I . . .” I was not looking at your body. I was not
thinking about it. I cannot think clearly when you are
nearby. “I meant that we should talk.”
His robe was loose in long, strong lines down his body. Like
columns. He took three slow steps and he was beside her. She
did not try to move. He lifted her toward him until their
skin touched.
Fragile restraints broke everywhere in her mind. She placed
her hands fl at upon his chest and shoved cloth aside so she
could kiss him there.
She could not speak. Not at all. Her muscles made decisions
without consulting her brain. Her body flared into fire.
Heat raced through her blood, curled low in her belly,
rushed to fill the empty spaces of her mind.
He was warm and naked. Her hands fumbled with the edges of
his robe, opening it upward, across his shoulders,
deciphering the message of dark hairs and brown skin and the
ridges of bone and muscle that were the body of Guillaume
LeBreton. If she thought too much about this, she would push
him away and stop this. She did not want to let him go, so
she did not think.
Where had her robe gone? How had it become untied? It did
not matter in the least.
She was distracted. So distracted. It was as if her fingers
could see color. The deep tans of his neck. As if the rough
prickles of his neck became visible when she explored him
there. He was too vivid for mere feeling. He consumed every
sense.
I should not do this . . . She did not say that
aloud. She did not even think it loudly.
He stroked her body, all the way up and down the length of
her. He spread his hands on her hips. Rough palms molded her
skin, held to her bone, as if she were sculpted and he were
the artist. Awe spoke from his hands. He found her
beautiful. More than beautiful. It was as if he worshipped.
He was sweet and forbidden fruit. Forbidden to her in ten
thousand ways. A single desperate indulgence. She had set
him aside and walked away in pain, knowing the exact limits
of her freedom. Now she came home to find forbidden fruit
growing, unexpectedly, in her garden. Guillaume.
Kisses deep inside her mouth. Kisses that traveled happily
across her lips. Kisses that strayed over her face and down
her throat so that she raised her head, eyes closed, and
gasped for air. Anticipated, anticipated, waited with every
stitch of her being for the next small nip, the next lap of
his tongue. He was a man who understood many nuances of
loving a woman with his mouth.
She trembled, thinking that, and pressed herself against him
and she was lost in him.
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