My Runaway Heart

by Miriam Minger

  “Miriam Minger is a master storyteller who illustrates the full gamut of emotions felt by her characters. Emotions so strong that you are pulled into the pages and into their lives.” – Inside Romance

  MY RUNAWAY HEART

  MIRIAM MINGER

  Copyright © 1995 by Miriam Minger. All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Originally published by Avon Books, November 1995

  Cover Copyright © 2010 by Hot Damn Designs

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9828835-7-0

  Other Electronic Books by Miriam Minger

  Medieval Romances:

  Twin Passions

  Captive Rose

  The Pagan’s Prize

  Wild Angel

  Wild Roses

  Regency Era Romances:

  Secrets of Midnight

  Historical Romances:

  Stolen Splendor

  Defiant Impostor

  Highland Romances:

  A Hint of Rapture

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Prologue

  The English Channel

  April 1813

  "Do we set her ablaze, Cap'n? She's listing so far to port already, it won't take long—"

  "Light the torches."

  The damning words were spoken so low that they were almost sucked up by the roar of the wind, but the captain made no effort to repeat them. And the stumpy Irishman scrambled to obey his command. As another howling gust tore at the captain's hair, the icy sting of salt spray plastering his shirt to his body, he gripped the starboard railing and peered through the gathering dusk at the doomed merchantman, Superior.

  Galleys loaded with officers bobbed around the crippled ship like ducklings reluctant to leave their mother's side, although one longboat had turned into the wind to head for England. A harsh smile touched his face. "What do you say, Walker? Think they'll see the flames in London?"

  "Ha! With all those munitions aboard? Damned if they don't hear the explosion all the way to Boston."

  The captain didn't respond, falling as grimly silent as the raven-haired American standing behind him. Torches hissed to life along the quarterdeck. Bright orange flames curled and clawed at the wind with malevolent fingers. First one, then another, then a dozen torches were hurled across pewter-dark waves to the Superior, her billowing white sails soon writhing like tortured souls in a maelstrom of hellish fire and heat.

  Within moments the upper decks were a roaring pyre of flame and the captain smiled again, his face as tight as his grip on the railing. Hoarse cries of alarm carried to him from the galleys, plaintive wails to the Blessed Virgin careening to the heavens.

  "Yes, pray, damn you," he said under his breath, watching as the frantic officers rowed like fiends to get themselves clear of the burning ship. "Pray as if God had any time for man's piteous affairs."

  Blasphemy, he knew, but he was already damned. He didn't flinch when an earsplitting explosion suddenly rocked the night, the merchantman's foredeck blown to bits into the darkening sky. Red-hot sparks and shards of burning wood pelted the sea like blistering rain. It was only then that he gave the signal to unfurl the sails, and the sleek schooner cut cleanly through the waves, leaving the merchantman to its watery fate. But he kept his eyes riveted upon the flames even as another thunderous explosion ripped in two what remained of the British ship.

  Boiling, seething flames that only fed the inferno in his soul, faces appearing to him against a backdrop of crimson fire and acrid black smoke. The faces of beloved ones long dead and the faces of those he lived to hate. He had lost so much, and what of the years that had been stolen from him? Precious, irretrievable years . . .

  Such fierce rage swept over him that his knuckles whitened, his splayed fingers digging into the railing. A great hiss cut through the wind, hot steam rising like a mist. The sea churned and bubbled around the glowing carcass of what had once been a mighty trading vessel. Then the merchantman was gone, dragged beneath the debris-strewn waves, and with its disappearance he felt the rage begin to subside within him.

  But the soul-deep chill remained. As icy cold as the salt spray stinging his flesh. He turned from the railing, his hands cramped, his fingers numb, and met Walker's gaze.

  "See that the prisoners are fed, blankets all around. The sea is up. It'll be a hard crossing to the Isle of Wight."

  "True, but what better end to a tale they'll be telling their children and grandchildren for years to come? It isn't every day a ship's crew is escorted safely to land while their officers are made to row home. Think they'll place wagers on their captain's skill at the oar?"

  He made no reply to the American's wry response, having grown accustomed long ago to Walker's grim humor. But right now he had no stomach for it. He wanted to be alone. He wanted a brandy. He wanted an entire bottle.

  "Aye, it's him, the cap'n of this ship, didn't I tell you?" A young sailor's excited voice carried from mid-deck, where the Superior's crew stood surrounded by guards. "The scourge o' the entire Channel fleet! 'Tis the Phoenix himself, and wearin' a gold mask to boot, just like they been sayin' in London!"

  "Crimey, lad, hold your tongue! This ain't a blasted Sunday picnic. Can't you see he's lookin' our way?"

  The man they called the Phoenix was looking their way, his jaw growing hard when he saw the older sailor nearly knock the youth to his knees with a harsh cuff to the ear. His strides strong and furious across the listing deck, he had the man by the throat before the astonished fellow could blink.

  "Strike him again and you're over the side to swim back to England," he growled, his fingers tightening mercilessly around a leathery neck. "Am I understood?"

  Bulging blue eyes stared back at him in raw fear, an Adam's apple gulping beneath his hand. "A-aye, sir, but I meant no harm to the boy. No harm at all, I'd swear on me mother's grave! I-I can't breathe, sir, please . . ."

  "Cap-tain."

  Jarred by the deep, slurred bass which held the faintest note of reproach, he bit back the memories of vicious blows raining upon his own head and ears. With a vehement curse he released the sailor to crumple gasping at his feet, while the other prisoners stared openmouthed at the fair-haired, bearded giant whose height and breadth of shoulder cast a hulking shadow across the deck.

  A gentle giant—half his wits and most of his speech lost to a metal ball still lodged in his brain—who helped to remind him of what shr
eds remained of his conscience whenever it seemed he possessed none at all.

  "Help Walker with the prisoners, Dag."

  His low command greeted with a solemn nod, the captain made for the hold while the deck erupted with activity, blankets being handed out, the savory smell of beef stew tingeing the air. A grim laugh escaped him.

  Warm blankets. Beef stew. Safe passage back to England. Hardly inhospitable treatment from the dreaded Phoenix, legendary plague of the Channel fleet. But, of course, no ship's officers could say such gracious things about him; even now those men pulling for their lives upon wet, slippery oars were probably cursing his name.

  Just as the British Admiralty would be cursing and rattling their shiny dress swords when they heard of the Superior's fate. And the ton, always so quick to grow bored, would have fresh fodder to add to the latest society gossip and scandal. Blast them to hell; he could already hear them.

  Oh, dear, how monstrously wicked! What a horror! Another King's ship burned to ashes upon the sea! Ladies would swoon. Men would bluster. Commotion would reign.

  Blast them all to hell; he would enjoy every bloody minute of it.

  Chapter 1

  "Oh, Corie, I can hardly believe you're here in London! The party was lovely tonight, wasn't it? And you looked so beautiful in that green gown—no, no, sea foam sounds so much better—yes, your exquisite sea-foam gown, and how perfectly it complemented your auburn hair! And Lord Donovan looked so handsome and I'm so happy that everything has worked out for the best—"

  "Lindsay Somerset, you're making me breathless!" her best friend replied. "Aren't you beginning to feel sleepy at all?"

  Lindsay rolled onto her stomach, a sheepish grin on her face as she met Corisande Easton's exasperated gaze.

  No, no, not Corisande Easton anymore, but Lady Donovan Trent, Lindsay reminded herself as she swept white-blond strands from her eyes. And it was all so romantic, so wonderful, she would never tire of hearing the story, never

  "Lindsay?"

  "No, I'm not sleepy, not a bit. How could I be? Tell me everything again, will you, Corie? From beginning to end—how you first met Lord Donovan, when he first kissed you, when you knew you were in love with him. Everything!"

  Fully expecting to be obliged, Lindsay eagerly rose to a cross-legged sitting position in the middle of the huge four-poster bed and tucked her linen nightgown around her knees. She hoped Lord Donovan's last-minute business would keep him from Corisande's side just a little while longer, although from the pink flush on Corisande's cheeks, Lindsay imagined her friend was already anticipating his return. As she followed Corisande's expectant brown-eyed gaze to the door, Lindsay felt a poignant tug at her heart.

  She was so happy for Corisande, truly happy. She thought back to the last afternoon, four weeks ago, they had spent together in Cornwall, just before she had left for London. They had clambered onto a rock and shouted their secret pact to the four winds: neither of them could wed anyone less than the man of her dreams. Had it been only a month ago?

  And now Corisande was already happily married to a man who couldn't be more perfect for her, Lord Donovan. And, from everything Lindsay had seen and heard, one of the most good and honorable gentlemen she had ever met. He had even found it within himself to overlook Corisande's fearsome temper, which made Lindsay smile. She had never known anyone more impassioned than Corisande about helping those less fortunate, her legendary ability to exercise her lungs only rising with the intensity of her beliefs. And knowing Corisande, poor Lord Donovan must have gotten a splitting earful of that temper, but he had fallen in love with her all the same.

  Lindsay closed her eyes, fresh longing tugging deep at her heart. How long before she found the man of her dreams?

  It was already weeks into the Season and still she hadn't met anyone who came close to the husband she envisioned for herself. The dull, self-absorbed, heiress-seeking gentlemen Aunt Winifred kept steering her way were no more valiant adventurers than she was a young woman merely interested in making a suitable marriage. She wanted more, so much more.

  She wanted someone to show her the world, a bold, daring man who would want an equally adventurous woman by his side. And they would be so hopelessly, utterly, in love, nothing would be more important to him than their life together.

  "Are you thinking of him?"

  Lindsay opened her eyes, Corisande's soft question making her smile wistfully. "Always. I'm just beginning to wonder if he exists at all."

  "Exists at all? That doesn't sound like the indomitable Lindsay Somerset I know." Corisande drew her knees up beneath the embroidered counterpane and studied her friend, even while her skin seemed to grow more heated at the thought of Donovan's imminent return. "I noticed several agreeable-looking young gentlemen ogling you at the party tonight—"

  "A boring, ridiculous bunch, the whole lot of them. Olympia has poor Aunt Winnie so cowed she doesn't dare allow any but the most spineless sort near me—just the sort Olympia would absolutely adore as a son-in-law. Someone she'd have no trouble tying into an obliging, sniveling, intimidated knot. Well, I'll have none of my step-mother's plans for me. None of it!"

  "That's good to hear." Corisande couldn't help smiling at the indignant look on Lindsay's face—amazing, that even a frown couldn't mar her friend's flawless beauty—and the defiance sparking her brilliant blue eyes. "I almost feared your leaving Cornwall had sapped that adventuresome spirit I recall so well. I'm pleased to see that I was wrong."

  "Sapped it?" Lindsay gave an unladylike snort. "I feel as if I'm about to burst! I simply can't wait to strike out on my own, I told you that in my letters. There must be so much more to this city than balls and assemblies and seeing the same people night after night." Lindsay uncrossed her legs and leaned earnestly toward Corisande, a sudden look of regret in her eyes. "Not that your party tonight wasn't lovely, Corie."

  "I'm not offended."

  "No, no, it was wonderful, and so very kind of Lord Donovan's friends to give you both a proper wedding ball. But what would be even more wonderful is if you could stay in London for just a while longer, even a few more days, and you and Lord Donovan could chaperone me instead of Aunt Winnie—"

  "Our ship sails in the morning, Lindsay, you know that," Corisande broke in gently. "Donovan is so eager to reach Lisbon, to see his daughter, Paloma, again. It's a miracle that the child was found. Donovan spent nearly everything he had to find her. It's so hard to believe that I'll soon have a little daughter to care for, to love."

  "Oh, dear, how ridiculously selfish of me." Lindsay sat back on her heels, feeling doubly ashamed. "I'm sorry, Corie. I've waited so long to come to London and it is wonderful being here, but Aunt Winnie is so determined to honor all of Olympia's wretched demands—where I'm to go, who I'm to meet, what I must wear—"

  "And you haven't thought of clever ways to thwart that old termagant before?"

  Lindsay met Corisande's gaze, a gamine's grin spreading over her face. "Oh, I can recall a time or two."

  "Like sneaking from your father's manor around midnight to come and help me land smuggled brandy and lace handkerchiefs? Lord, if Lady Somerset knew her stepdaughter had a knack for fair trading that any man in Cornwall could hope to boast of—"

  "Or for filching a bit of food from the pantry to help you feed the tinners and their families."

  "A bit of food? Sacks of grain, buckets of potatoes, loaves of fresh baked bread?"

  Lindsay shrugged nonchalantly, her grin widening. "Any way I could help you, I was glad to do it."

  "And you'll be able to help yourself, too; you just have to keep your eyes open for the right moment. You weren't gifted with that wild imagination to let it go to waste. You'll soon think of something."

  "And so I will, but enough of me, Lady Donovan. I believe you were going to tell me again how you and your husband met, and only three days after I left Porthleven. Threatened him with a pitchfork, as I recall?"

  "Well, I was waving one around, but it was his fam
ily's agent, Henry Gilbert, I was aiming for and—"

  "And I would have thought to find my beautiful wife asleep at this late hour considering we're to set sail first thing tomorrow morning."

  Lindsay gasped at the sight of Lord Donovan leaning casually against the door, the man so tall and strapping she was astounded she and Corisande hadn't heard his footsteps down the hall. Her face burning, she snatched up the fringed India shawl she had worn to the guest chamber, whirling it around her shoulders as she scooted off the bed.

  "Oh, dear, it's all my fault," Lindsay hastened to explain, her eyes darting from Lord Donovan's amused gaze to Corisande's face. Her dearest friend was positively beaming, Corisande looked so happy to see her husband. "We were talking and I kept asking Corie so many questions. Truly, she would have been asleep long ago if not for me."

  And truly, Lindsay realized with chagrined relief as she hurried barefoot to the door, her shawl clutched modestly under her chin, she could have been back in her room already for all the notice Lord Donovan gave her. Tall and as swarthily dark as a Gypsy, he moved to the bed even as Lindsay darted past him, his near-black eyes settling warmly upon his wife. Lindsay felt her face grow hotter, her wish thundering more fervently deep inside her breast that someday soon she might meet a man who had eyes only for her.

  "Good night, Corie. Lord Donovan."