Her Wicked Captain: The River Rogues, Book 1

by Sandra Jones

  Her bare feet curled on the blanket as pleasure ran through her. She caressed his cheek. “You’re the one who brought me out here to fish at night. With a blanket. Leaving Asa at home making supper. With no one around for miles. Surely you didn’t expect me to behave otherwise.”

  “I’m only a man, angel.” Pushing the book aside, he moved over her, caging her between his bracing arms. “It’s difficult to resist a perfect opportunity to be alone when I have such a lovely, enchanting wife.”

  She lifted her head, meeting his lips as he leaned down to kiss her. His hand cradled her as he slid his tongue into her mouth, and she heard herself moan with satisfaction. They kissed endlessly with seeking hands and Rory caressing the new swelling of her stomach and breasts as if he couldn’t resist those temptations, either.

  After several moments, she opened her eyes and caught the twitch at the tip of the cane pole. Hell in a handbasket! A fish on the line.

  She slid her arms around Rory, drawing him closer to her body.

  What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  About the Author

  Sandra Jones is the author of historical romance and young adult novels (writing as Sandi Beth Jones). Living in Arkansas with her husband of more than twenty-five years and her cat, she makes her home on a river where she writes to the sounds of mischievous wildlife and daydreams about adventure. Her Wicked Captain is her first American historical romance.

  Sandra loves hearing from her readers. You can find out more about her books here: www.SandraJonesRomance.com.

  Look for these titles by Sandra Jones:

  Coming Soon:

  His Captive Princess

  Running from the past…and running out of time.

  The Fortune

  © 2013 Beth Williamson

  The Malloy Family, Book 9

  French-born Francesca Chastain came to New York with her family to find a better life. Now she is fleeing a nightmare. Her past chases her from New York and she must run, and run hard.

  Her journey to the land of milk and honey is interrupted by the accidental squeeze of a trigger. And the man on the other end of her blunder is a man like none other she’s ever met.

  After three years working Oregon-bound wagon trains, John Malloy has almost saved enough money to start his own horse ranch. And almost met the end of his life at the hands of fiery, green-eyed Frankie, a confusing, frustrating woman who responds to his flirting—then disappears.

  No one is more relieved than Frankie when John races to her rescue, but now they’re trapped in the wild. And the shadows of both their pasts are closing in…

  Warning: Inside you’ll find sexy heat, danger, Old West violence, gun-toting bad guys and an emotional roller coaster. Prepare to fall in love with the Malloys all over again with witty, strong women, stubborn, heroic men and a love that launched a legacy.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Fortune:

  John could hardly believe his ears. Frankie, the spunky little thing, wanted him to help her wash her hair. He didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss her, because sure as hell he’d wanted to kiss her since she landed in the mud under him. Those flashing green eyes, that heart-shaped face, the soft, pillowy breasts that made his hands itch. She was sin incarnate, even covered in mud.

  Now here she sat on the bank of the frigid creek, her hair undone. Although muddy, she had gorgeous hair, thick and wavy with the colors of sunset sparkling in the early morning sun. He’d be a fool to touch her.

  John was obviously a complete fool.

  “Then come closer and lean forward.”

  She did as she was bade, coming close enough he could see the small hairs at the nape of her neck, tiny wisps that moved slightly in the breeze. He wanted to kiss them, breathe in the scent of Frankie, then kiss his way across the pink shell of her ear, her jaw, until he reached the full, ruby lips. Damn. He wasn’t one to get caught up in a woman’s looks, but something about this little French woman set his blood to boil.

  John scooped up water with his hands, running it through her hair, working out the clumps of mud. Her hair was at least three feet long, rich and thick. He could well imagine what it would feel like clean and spread across the sheets.

  Damn, but he’d been too long without a woman. He did not need to get involved with any of the folks from the wagon train, especially virginal young ladies.

  “My neck is beginning to cramp.” She knew how to complain, that was for sure.

  “I got the clumps out. Let me give it a good scrub.”

  Her head felt so tiny in his hands, in contrast to the heavy hair she carried. He scrubbed at her scalp until her hair fairly squeaked. Then he kept at it a few minutes more, feeling perverse at keeping her on her knees in front of him. A lesser man would make a crude remark, but he kept his tongue. For a reason he couldn’t name, he liked her.

  “I would like to stand now, monsieur.”

  He chuckled and squeezed as much water from her hair as he could. “There you go, Frankie. Now toss me your dress and I’ll see what I can do.”

  She swung her hair to the right, which made a slap as it hit her back. Without the cloud of hair, Frankie looked damn young, vulnerable. Then she opened her mouth and the illusion was broken.

  “I do not believe I am the first woman to hear you say that.” She raised both brows. “Do you have experience as a laundress?”

  “I’ve had to wash my own duds for years. I’m sure I can manage to get your frock clean.” He held out his hand, enjoying the play of emotions across her face.

  “It is sturdy, but not canvas like your trousers. Please do not rip it.” She handed him the yellow dress with obvious reluctance.

  The fact she’d entrusted him with what was apparently her only other dress was unexpected. He did his best to get the mud off, using the sand at the bottom of the creek to scour it away. Without soap, it wasn’t going to be shiny clean, but at least it was cleaner.

  “Your sisters don’t have an accent like you.” He was curious about her, although he shouldn’t be.

  “I was ten when we moved from France. The two youngest lost most of their accent, and Josephine is a governess and tutor. She trained herself to lose any trace of France.” She squeezed out her hair. “Wealthy people prefer a French maid or dresser, not a French tutor.”

  John hadn’t had much contact with rich people, but her words had a ring of truth to them. There was a rich man on the wagon train and he was a jackass.

  “What brings you west?”

  She stopped and stared at him, her chin rising into a stubborn tilt. “Why do most settlers?”

  He shrugged. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wasn’t going to push. It wasn’t his business and truthfully, he’d heard too many stories in the last three years. He wouldn’t miss another one.

  When he rose to wring out the dress, she gasped. His gaze flew to hers, noting she had been finger combing her hair and watching him. He wanted to puff out his chest and grin, but her expression stopped him.

  “Do not wring out my dress, monsieur. Bring it here and I will extract the water, si vous plais.”

  He frowned. “You sure are bossy.”

  “My sisters would likely agree with you.” She got to her feet and held out her hands. He noted her wet hair had turned the top of her blue dress almost see-through.

  John should have told her, but damn, he enjoyed the view too much. The devil inside him wanted to know the color of the nipples currently poking at her dress. They weren’t too dark, perhaps pink.

  “Monsieur Malloy, the dress?” She tapped her foot and swung her hair back.

  He couldn’t stop himself, his gaze dropped again to her chest. She followed his stare and gasped, her arms slamming over those tits in a flash.

  “I cannot believe you did not tell me.”

  “I can’t bel
ieve you expected me to.” He grinned, completely unrepentant and enjoying his time with Frankie Chastain immensely.

  “You, monsieur, are no gentleman.”

  “I never said I was.” He tossed the dress, enjoying the wet slap as it landed in her arms. Damn but he felt like laughing.

  Frankie spun on her heel and walked away. Too late John realized he still hadn’t had his hand doctored, so he needed to return to the Chastain wagon. A tiny bubble of excitement tickled his belly. Frankie had definitely put a twist in his tail in the short time he’d known her.

  The end of a curse hides behind a riddle—and the final clue in the heart of a woman.

  The Spirit of the Wolf

  © 2014 Karen Kay

  The Lost Clan, Book 2

  Grey Coyote stands on the knife edge of desperation. An ancient curse dooms his people to a half-life in the mists, neither living nor dead—unless he can solve a deceptively simple riddle. As time runs short, he’s sure the answer lies in beating a white trapper in a game of chance.

  Among the trapper’s possessions, though, is a prize he never expected. A golden-haired woman as beautiful, delicate and stubborn as a prairie rose.

  One moment Marietta Welsford is wondering how long it will take her hired guide to finish his game so she can hurry home to Rosemead, the English estate to which she hopes to lay claim. The next, she is abandoned with a man whose magnetism tugs at her body and soul, and makes her heart out-thunder the storm.

  With so little time to lift the enchantment, Grey Coyote at first views Marietta as a trickster-sent distraction. But as sure as the star that guides him, it soon becomes clear she is the clue that could ultimately free his people…and capture his heart.

  Warning: Sensuous love scenes and unsolvable riddles might cause sleepless nights filled with unbridled passion.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Spirit of the Wolf:

  At last, they reached the top of the little mesa, and as soon as they did so, Marietta was no longer left in doubt as to what was in Grey Coyote’s mind. It wasn’t from necessity that they were here. Indeed not. Grey Coyote had come here by choice.

  Standing quite still, he gazed at the sunset laid out before them. As though only now remembering her, he looked behind him, and Grey Coyote motioned, indicating that she should slip down from the pony.

  Wasn’t he going to help her down? Disappointment washed over her. It was too bad, for she had begun to think of Grey Coyote as a savage sort of gentleman.

  “Sir,” she said, “do you mean not to aid me in getting to the ground?”

  Grey Coyote spun back toward her, and she at once wished she had remained silent. It was one thing to ride next to the man with scant inches of clothing between them; it was another to bear witness to the wide expanse of the man’s muscular and naked chest. Perhaps she would do well to hand him back his shirt.

  She gulped instead.

  Frowning up at her, he asked, “Help you to the ground? Do you have an affliction that does not allow you to jump off the pony on your own?”

  She bit her lip. “No, I can jump.”

  His frown deepened.

  “It is only,” she continued, “that in my society, a gentleman helps a lady down from her mount. It is considered good manners.”

  Grey Coyote nodded. “And so you think I am ill-mannered?”

  “Well…”

  “This is not a custom in my country. Here, most women would be offended if I offered help. Here, a woman might wonder why I was assisting her instead of attending to my duty to guard her.”

  “Really?”

  “Hau, hau, it is so. She might even be angered if I tried to aid her, for in her mind, for me to do this, would be as to say that she was not worthy of defending.”

  “Truly?” Marietta gazed off at the panorama of beauty. “It’s strange, isn’t it?”

  “Strange?”

  “How different are some of our customs.” Bringing her attention back to the matter at hand, she started to vault down from the pony. But she had only begun when he was there in front of her.

  He tossed her a lighthearted grin. “Let me help you.”

  She laughed.

  Looking up at her, he stopped cold, staring at her as though she had sent a poisoned arrow to his heart. His smile faded, and time seemed to have developed a warp, for she could have sworn it stood still.

  He recovered swiftly enough, and without further hesitation, his hands came around her waist, and he lifted her easily from the pony. On the descent, she rubbed against him, the action sending a jolt of energy surging through her body.

  Briefly, he held her closely, and then with a chuckle and a shake of his head, he said, “I never realized how clever is the white man.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hau, hau, it is so.”

  “And what makes you say that?”

  He grinned. “A red man would need a very big reason to hold a woman such. But the white man excuses himself with manners. Hau, hau. I think the white man is very clever, indeed.”

  Marietta, too, grinned. “Indeed.” Gazing up at him, she stepped out of his arms.

  For a fleeting moment, their eyes met, held. Then, unexpectedly, he turned away.

  To her surprise, she felt suddenly bereft. “Mr. Coyote,” she said, stepping up to him. “Did I say something to offend you?”

  “Hiya, you did not. In truth, I am uncertain that you could do something which would offend me. But I came here to see this.” He gestured toward the western side of the prairie, where the sun was announcing its departure by means of a glorious, golden sunset.

  Marietta gazed the way he indicated, and saw that the sun, which had been hidden from them most of the day, was practically screaming at them now. As they gazed outward, the sun sent streaks of light upward through clouds, clouds that were awash in various shades of golds, reds, pinks, blues and greys. Moreover, the sky itself was painting the once brown-drab prairie, transforming it into shades of amber and scarlet, the land appearing as though it were a gigantic mirror, set afire in color.

  Then the strangest thing happened. Coming down onto his knees and lifting his hands to the sky, Grey Coyote began to sing.

  Watching, Marietta stood aghast. The moment was unusual, yes, for Marietta was not accustomed to men opening their arms and breaking out into song. But unaccountably, the event was also stunning, and she hardly dared breathe, afraid she would disturb its remarkable charm.

  In due time, she allowed herself to take a breath as she gazed toward the west. From here one might very well be able to see forever. In truth, so much space was there, she felt as though her soul expanded.

  It was then that it came to her. Grey Coyote was praying. He had climbed all this way to do no more than communicate with his Creator. Was he even now thanking the Lord for the beauty set here before them?

  Looking on, Marietta was aware that her throat felt tight, and worse, there was a tear forming in her eye. Not because of him. No, more likely it was because of the enchantment of the prairie, or maybe even the crisp feel of the pure air. Or perhaps it was no more than the incessant wind, which was now blowing directly in her face.

  How curious to discover such artistry here, here where there was nothing but the earth, the sky, the winds. Unforeseen, unexpected, the beauty seemed to take hold of her.

  “It reminds me of you,” said Grey Coyote, and Marietta was awakened to the knowledge that it had been several moments since he had stopped singing.

  “What was that?” she asked. “What did you say?”

  “The sunset.” He pointed outward toward the west. “It is golden like your hair, red like your cheeks, pink like your lips. You should be called Little Sunset, I think. Even now, your hair reflects the colors, looking as though it is set afire.”

  The praise was simply said, yet it was one
of the most excellent compliments she had ever received. Certain she was blushing, Marietta turned away.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B

  Cincinnati OH 45249

  Her Wicked Captain

  Copyright © 2014 by Sandra Jones

  ISBN: 978-1-61922-375-2

  Edited by Jessica Corra

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2014

  www.samhainpublishing.com