"Final entry in Rose Hunter trilogy is a keeper - wild, passionate and intriguing."
Reviewed by Suan Wilson
Posted April 15, 2005
Romance Historical
At 16, Charlotte Nash's safe world fell apart with the
death of her parents. Her father died at the hands of the
French, while her mother died of a broken heart. Her older
sisters scraped enough money together to send Charlotte to
a prestigious boarding school in order for her to make
connections that would secure her future. Knowing how
temporary life can be, Charlotte decides against finding a
husband and instead chooses to honor her father's memory by
spying against the French. Charlotte's masquerade as an
outrageous flirt, who barely tows the lines of
respectability, fools her sisters and society and allows
her to gather information without suspicion. Dand Ross owes his life to Charlotte's father. Colonel Nash
gained Dand and his two friends release from a French
prison, ensuring his own death. Returning to England, Dand
and his friends realize one among them betrayed their
mission. The vows the young boys took of eternal fidelity
and friendship, at the Scottish abbey where they were
raised, have been broken. Suspicions and accusations keep
the three former friends apart, leaving an empty hole in
Dand's life. Refusing to look back, he continues working in
the shadows for England, while evading his friends. Charlotte summons Dand to aid her in stealing valuable
papers for England. They match wits against a dangerous
enemy while trying to ignore the growing attraction and
passion between them. The final novel of the Rose Hunter trilogy sweeps readers
into the shadowy world of spies and intrigues. Ms. Brockway
gives readers an unlikely pair of lovers. Charlotte is not
the usual heroine as she enters the world of the demimonde
to succeed in her mission, and Dand carries his own
crippling secrets. MY SURRENDER is a wild and passionate
tale that belongs on the keeper shelf.
SUMMARY
Charlotte Nash is the most impulsive of the Nash sisters.
Using her position as one of London's most popular and
naughty debutantes, she assists English spies in conveying
messages that will help them infiltrate Napoleon's inner
circle -- and fulfill the mission her father died trying
to
achieve. But only as a courtesan can she infiltrate
London's most notorious gatherings and retrieve a crucial
document. Is she ready to take part in a deception that
will leave her reputation in shreds? And when Highlander
Dand Ross -- a dangerous, disreputable blackguard --
reappears in her life and offers his aid, dare she accept
it? The exquisite pleasure she finds in his arms might be
worth the price of her surrender, but is the dark
Highlander who loves her so passionately really just
luring
her toward the ultimate betrayal?
ExcerptChapter One Culholland Square, Mayfair July 14, 1806 "La, Mr. Fox, if your eyes occasionally strayed above my
neckline you might find it easier to guess what I am
miming during the game," Charlotte said archly. The
redheaded young man, heir to a merchant's vast fortune and
as of last Wednesday owning a suspiciously acquired
baronetcy, colored violently. Charlotte took no pity. The bran-faced upstart had been
staring at her bosom since he'd arrived in the company of
the young people she'd invited to her town house for games
and refreshments - her first "at home" since she had taken
possession of the fashionable Mayfair address, a
scandalous move since she intended to live as a spinster.
Alone. As Lady Welton was chaperoning the occasion, it was all
perfectly respectable - even though the baroness had
fallen asleep in a patch of sunlight hours before. At
least, Charlotte amended with a nod to her conscience, it
was supposed to have been respectable. But then nothing
she ever did seemed to turn out quite as respectably as
her lineage, lofty associations (she was, after all, the
sister-in-law of Ramsey Munro, marquis of Cottrell, as
well as the renowned Colonel Christian MacNeill) and
delightful manners would suggest. And that, Charlotte fully appreciated, was a great deal of
her appeal. Within Charlotte's charmed circle, things
could be said that one daren't utter elsewhere, a few
steps of the notorious waltz might be demonstrated, the
ladies' gowns were more fashionable and less substantial,
laughter came more freely, and the verbal ripostes that
most unmarried young girls didn't dare serve their
potential suitors Charlotte doled out regularly to hers.
Thus, Charlotte's set-down of the goggle-eyed Mr. Robinson
brokered as many giggles among the females as guffaws from
the males. "Sorry. Don't know what I was thinkin'," Mr. Robinson
sputtered. "I don't think thought entered much into it, do you?"
Charlotte asked sweetly, giving rise to another round of
scandalized laughter. "Come, my friend, let us practice
looking at a lady's face ... no, no, no! Not my lips - the
whole of my face. See? Two brows, a pair of oddly colored
eyes, an inconsequential nose, a rather too decisive chin.
Ah! There. Bravo!" The young ladies and gentlemen, acknowledged by all to be
by far the fastest set of unmarried young people in the
ton, clapped appreciatively and Mr. Robinson, as
determined to be one of them as he was to charm Miss Nash,
found the self-confidence to laugh at himself, bowing in
turn to her and the rest of the company. The byplay ended, her guests began taking turns at
charades again and Charlotte, realizing that the punch
bowl was growing woefully low, popped out into the
corridor to find a maid. She had gotten no further than
the kitchen door when a masculine voice hailed her in
breathless tones. Knowing all too well what would follow, she turned around.
But it was not Mr. Robinson. It was Lord LeFoy. Tall,
sandy-haired Lord LeFoy. Well, here was a surprise. She'd
thought he had all but offered for the Henley girl. "Miss Nash," he breathed, coming toward her with his hands
outstretched. She waited politely. His hands, finding none
waiting to secure, fell to his sides. "Yes?" "I must have a moment of your time." "Yes." "Alone." She glanced tellingly around the short corridor. "Yes." He frowned. Apparently this was not going as he'd hoped.
Poor Lord LeFoy. Things seldom did where she and gentlemen
were concerned. At least, for the gentlemen. "You had something you wished to impart of a private
nature?" she prompted. "Yes," he said, nodding eagerly. "Yes. I ... I ..." "Yes?" "I adore you!" "Ah." He reached down and grabbed one of her hands, snatching it
to his lips and pressing an ardent kiss to the gloved
surface. "I am your slave. Ask me anything, anything, and
I shall do it. I am yours to command. I worship you, you
angel, you devil!" "Like Lucifer?" she asked, letting her hand lie like a
dead thing in his. Really, to encourage him would be too
cruel, and she already had a bit too much of a reputation
for heartlessness. Added to which, she rather liked the
Henleys. They would be relieved of a great deal of worry
with the marriage settlement Lord LeFoy's father would
offer. "Eh?" Lord LeFoy blinked owlishly. "Angel and devil. If I have my catechism correct, only one
being qualifies on both counts and that is Lucifer." "Ah. Yes. No. I meant that you are an angel but that your
angelicness bedevils me." He seemed quite pleased with
this explanation. "You must be mine!" "Oh, dear. Are you declaring yourself, Lord LeFoy? Because
I would rather think not, if you wouldn't mind. I like
you, you see. And I should lead you a merry chase if we
were to wed." At his blank expression she gave a little
sigh. "Allow me to enumerate my shortcomings," she said
kindly. "I haven't it in me to be faithful. I detest
jealousy and possessiveness in any degree and should react
strongly and in a possibly scandalous fashion if presented
with either. I should think I would be deuced expensive to
keep. Added to which I have no desire now, or in the near
future, to produce offspring." She smiled pleasantly. Lord LeFoy's round eyes grew rounder. She could almost see
Reason trying to assert itself in that beleaguered
expression. But then Reason was not a man's strong suit
when he had decided he must have something. "I don't care. I adore you!" "Of course you do," she answered, patting the hand still
clutching hers. "The point isn't what you feel. It is what
is best. I should hate for your adoration to turn to
misery. I dislike being around miserable people. They are
tiresome. And it would turn to misery. Your father ...?"
She laughed at the thought of the lecherous Earl of
Mallestrough as her father-in-law. "I suspect I should
have to lock the bedroom door against him whenever you
left the house. Not a very winning prescription for
matrimonial harmony, now is it?" At the mention of his father, Lord LeFoy went quite still.
At least he respected her enough not to challenge her
estimation of his sire. "No, no," she said. "We are far better off as we are now
with you adoring me and me wallowing in it. Very romantic.
And more civil, too, because this way neither your
adoration nor my wallowing in it need interfere with our
lives. You will wed Maura Henley, who will make a lovely
bride and a fine mother for your children and who will
never throw your things from her room or cause a scene at
Almacks. You shall be very happy. Except that for my
vanity's sake, might you occasionally be gentleman enough
to sigh wistfully when we meet in public so that I might
happily hear it?" "You would make a scene at Almack's?" he breathed in
horrified wonder. "Oh, I should think eventually it will become inevitable,
don't you?" she asked sweetly, tilting her head. He dropped her hand. "Begad, yes. You would. You will." "Now, before some of the others decide that this little
conversation amounts to your having compromised me, you
had best return while I see to the punch bowl," she said
brightly. He gulped, turned, hesitated, and turned back. "Ah. Thank
you, Miss Nash. You are a very ... levelheaded woman." She leaned forward and whispered, "Don't tell anyone." Lord Lefoy nodded, just as eager to leave as he had been
to press his suit five minutes ago, and all but trotted
back to the parlor, leaving Charlotte to raise her eyes
heavenward with a mumbled word of thanks. She had no sooner begun down the corridor once more when
her maid, a pert, sharp-eyed girl named Lizette,
appeared. "I beg your pardon, Miss Nash, but there's a ...
man here that insists on seeing you." A man. Not a gentleman. And not a tradesman or Lizette
would have dealt with him herself. Charlotte's curiosity
was piqued. "Who is this man?" "He says he's a thief taker, Miss Nash, and come with word
of some jewels he's recovered." Lizette's pretty, round
face scrunched in consternation as she scoured her mind
for memory of missing jewels. She wouldn't find any.
Probably because Charlotte wasn't missing any jewels.
Charlotte's heart began beating faster and a shiver ran
along her skin. "Where is he?" "I didn't know where to put him, so I put him in the
morning room, miss." "Very well," Charlotte said. "Please explain to my guests
that I may be a while." Without waiting to see that her orders were obeyed,
Charlotte followed the hall to the morning room and
entered. Her heart was still racing. "Thief taker?" Amused, Charlotte slowly circled her
favorite chair where Dand Ross slouched, legs straight
out, his shoddy boot heels crossed on the clean surface of
her favorite inlaid table. His unannounced appearance
filled her with excitement. Not that she would tell him
that. He would preen, or worse, be amused. And it was only
because he always brought with him an air of tantalizing
danger that she reacted thus. She hadn't known she would find danger so ... appealing
when she'd entered Dand Ross's shadowy world. But she
could not deny it, any more than she could resist it.
Though she was loath to let Dand know the degree to which
she looked forward to his unheralded arrivals. She tapped one perfectly manicured nail pensively against
her lips as if pondering a conundrum before leaning
forward and sniffing delicately. Her face alit with sudden
inspiration. "I have it ... Lizette misheard you. You must
have said rat taker!" He looked up at her through thick chocolate brown
lashes. "You know, Lottie, me love," he said
thoughtfully, "they are actually wearing bodices in Paris
these days instead of just admitting to the concept." His gaze fell on her daring decolletage before lifting to
meet hers. She returned it calmly. If he expected to raise
a blush in her cheeks, he was doomed to disappointment.
More men than she could easily count had ogled her not-all-
that-bountiful bounty without so much as warming her
cheeks. Besides, in the years since they'd met and in dozens of
meetings since, he had sometimes teased her with a feigned
sexual interest, but he had never acted on his bold words.
He was the consummate professional: detached, cynical,
uninvolved. She studied him as he tipped a glass of claret into his
mouth. The years had broadened him and lengthened him and
hardened him, too, but he still had that loose-knit, damn-
your-eyes sort of grace one saw in the more successful
tomcats. Dusky brown hair, hooded smoky brown eyes, a lean face
with a wide mouth and thin lips and a square jaw that
currently hid beneath a thick beard along with a piratical
scar. Though he cheerfully admitted that mark had been the
result of falling off a ladder while stealing apples and
not the dueling wound she had once imagined. She wasn't certain she believed him. She wasn't certain of
what she really knew about Dand and what he wanted her to
believe she knew. He kept his own counsel, his feelings -
if he had any - well hidden. "Really?" she drawled sweetly. "Well, we are at war and
there are embargos on and I consider it my duty to see
that my dressmaker doesn't stress the economy overmuch by
any extravagant use of material." "Such patriotism, Charlotte," he rejoined dryly. "I am
struck dumb by your sacrifices. Or should I say sacrifice
in the singular? It doesn't look as if you are denying
yourself too much in the way of creature comforts." His ironic gaze traveled about the exquisitely decorated
sitting room, touching on the slate blue walls accented by
the clean lines of white painted woodwork and on to the
furniture: the settees with their beautifully fluted legs
upholstered in bishop's blue watered silk, the open-backed
chairs carved into elegant lyres, the pillows and cushions
fitted in expensive jonquil-colored brocade. At a japanned
side table his perusal checked on a riot of yellow roses
and waxy white gardenias that spilled from an enormous
Chinese urn. "Are those yellow roses?" "You recognize them." "Oh, yes." His voice was quiet. "I nourished them with my
blood. Where did you get them?" "They came from the plant you and your companions gave us
so many years ago. I brought cuttings with me from York.
First to the Welton's town house and now here," she
said, "to remind me of the good old days. You should see
the sensation I cause when I dress them in my hair or use
them to decorate what I think of - apparently erroneously -
as my bodice." She grinned. "I do so like causing a
sensation. Besides, they suit the decor," she added,
surveying the room with satisfaction. "New address. New paint. New furniture," Dand was
murmuring as he too, looked around. "One must ask oneself:
Is it quite respectable, though? A young woman living
alone?" "Oh, I don't think so," she answered glibly. "But then ...
what do I care for respectability when it only ties my
hands and prevents me from being as useful to you and your
associates as I am here, alone?" "So practical, Lottie. You've become rather a tough little
article, haven't you?" "I should like to think so." "I know you would," he said with a lazy smile. "How many
hearts have you broken this week, cruel little Miss Nash?" "Hearts?" She pondered. "None. Pride? A few." "Poor bastards." He set the goblet by his feet and tipped
his chair back, balancing on the back legs and crossing
his hands across the hard, flat plane of his belly. After all these months, she still could not get over the
wonder that he was one of England's premier secret agents.
It seemed so improbable. Disreputable, devious, and
dangerous - she couldn't believe that her first impression
of him emerging from the shadows in Father Tarkin's
library had been so off the mark. There had been an instance then, before a word had even
been spoken between them, when their eyes had met and her
breath and heart had stilled. Time had disappeared and
she'd felt she could live there, held forever in his
bright, fierce gaze. Except then he had spoken -
dismissing her, dismissing that instant of communion. Ah,
well. It was all fantastical anyway. There were no sacred
bonds, no deeper union. There was purpose and duty. And
that was more than enough to anchor a life. "Still. Something must have prompted your change of
address," Dand persisted. "What happened, Lottie? Did you
finally perpetrate some social crime even the Baron and
Lady Welton couldn't overlook? Did you wear diamonds
before noon? Don the same gown twice in a month?" he
asked. "Tell me. What did you do that made the Weltons
hide the front door keys so you couldn't run tame about
their house?" "Nothing at all. It is simply that Maggie Welton had the
audacity to get married," she answered airily. "And her
husband, poor creature that he is, refused to invite me to
live with them.
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