Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Teaser chapter
JOANNA BOURNE
Berkley Sensation Titles by Joanna Bourne
Praise for
THE FORBIDDEN ROSE
“With exceptional characters, brilliant plotting, a poignant love story, and clear, realistic descriptions, this engrossing, provocative romantic adventure could easily make revolutionary France a more popular setting . . . Intriguing, refreshing, and rewarding.”
—Library Journal
“Bourne is a magnificent writer. If she were a chef, you’d eat slowly to enjoy each bite. With her books, you savor every word.”
—Salon.com
“Sometimes . . . [I] forget what a truly great book looks like—and then I read one like The Forbidden Rose . . . It’s fantastic.”
—All About Romance
Praise for
THE SPYMASTER’S LADY
An American Library Association
RUSA Reading List Award Winner for Romance
One of the Top 100 Romance Books of All Time
as Voted in 2010, All About Romance
2009 RITA Finalist for Best Historical Romance
“What a terrific story! One of the most unusual, resourceful, and humorous heroines I’ve ever met, a spy to swoon for, and a great twisty plot with a sense of genuine danger.”
—Diana Gabaldon, New York Times bestselling author of
An Echo in the Bone
“Love, love LOVED it!”
—Julia Quinn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of
Just Like Heaven
“Wow, what a captivating, unique heroine! Joanna Bourne’s voice is distinct, fresh, and engaging.”
—Madeline Hunter, New York Times bestselling author of
Dangerous in Diamonds
“A breathtaking adventure that kept me turning pages with breathless anticipation. Joanna Bourne is a master of romance and suspense! I can’t wait to read her next book!”
—Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author of
Goodnight Tweetheart
“This is a flat-out spectacular book . . . I cannot say enough good about The Spymaster’s Lady. It is smart, masterful writing and I cannot wait to see what Bourne does next.”
—All About Romance
“As a long-time reader of romance I can say that it is a rare novel that leaves me speechless. Yet, this rather new author has done just that . . . What makes this book truly stunning is the beauty of the writing. Everything about the book is a revelation . . . This is no ordinary romance novel. Give yourself time to savor this read. It took me nearly two sleepless nights to finish it—and then I wanted to start reading it all over again.”
—Rakehell
“A masterful work . . . The storytelling is amazing but the writing is simply superb . . . I was awed by the writing, captivated by the heroine, thrilled by the plot, intrigued by all the secondary characters, and I cannot praise this book high enough. It is hard to believe this is her first book and I have only one question: What’s next?”
—The Book Smugglers
“Spectacular . . . What a struggle I had with writing this review. I know some ask what are the hardest reviews to write and I am convinced, after drafting and redrafting this one, it is the review of the book that you love. Because as a reader, I am trying to convey the beauty that is someone else’s writing so that others will see the same beauty. The best thing I can say to readers is to go to the bookstore and read the first chapter.”
—Dear Author
“Clever banter . . . A refreshing and unexpected plot . . . A heaping measure of sexual chemistry . . . An irresistible read.”
—American Library Association
(2009 RUSA Reading List Award Winner for Romance)
Praise for
MY LORD AND SPYMASTER
Winner of the RITA Award for Best Regency Historical
“Bourne’s latest espionage-based series historical entices with subtle subterfuge and heated romance. Glimpses of the leads’ sordid pasts add depth, and Bourne’s consummate way with a story line and an explosive denouement do the rest.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A very, very good historical romance featuring complex and flawed characters far out of the typical wallpaper mode . . . Bourne is an undeniably powerful new voice in historical romance.”
—All About Romance
“Ms. Bourne proves to be an excellent storyteller. [Jess is] one of the most complex and interesting heroines I’ve seen in a long time.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A fantastically clever tale with twists and turns aplenty. The setting and characters will have you quickly entrenched in the time period, and the witty dialogue and steaming sexual tension will keep you happily wrapped in Ms. Bourne’s world.”
—Romance Junkies
“This tale drenches itself in sexual tension so taut that there are times you can hardly catch your breath . . . Steeped in rich historical atmosphere and superbly written, My Lord and Spymaster is a definite all-nighter and must-read for anyone who relishes a really good book. You won’t be disappointed.”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Another notch in Joanna Bourne’s belt for a job well done. No, not just well—but excellently well.”
—Romance Reviews Today
Berkley Sensation Titles by Joanna Bourne
THE SPYMASTER’S LADY
MY LORD AND SPYMASTER
THE FORBIDDEN ROSE
THE BLACK HAWK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE BLACK HAWK
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / November 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Joanna Watkins Bourne.
Excerpt from The Spymaster’s Lady by Joanna Bourne copyright © by Joanna Watkins Bourne.
Hand lettering by Ron Zinn.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN : 978-1-101-54557-7
BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Karen
Acknowledgments
To my wonderful editor at Berkley, Wendy McCurdy, and my agent, Pam Hopkins, of Hopkins Literary Associates. You have always believed in me. Thank you.
I am grateful to my patient beta readers: Leo Bourne, Mary Ann Clark, Laura Watkins, Madeline Iva, and Wendy Rome. I owe much to the support and friendship of the excellent folks at the Compuserve Books and Writers Community: Diana Gabaldon, Deniz Bevan, Jen Hendren, Jenny Meyers, Donna Rubino, Beth Shope, and others too numerous to mention. The Beau Monde, a special-interest chapter of RWA, has provided endless expertise on all things 1800-ish. Anything I got right is because of these wonderful people. All mistakes are my own.
One
1818
London
THE PAST CAUGHT UP TO HER IN THE RAIN, IN BRADDY Square, six hundred yards from Meeks Street.
She’d been wary as a wild bird all the way across London. No footstep echoed her own. Nobody showed a flicker of interest. But she knew someone was following. She had been a spy a long time.
Her gun was no use in this wet. She kept her knife in hand, ready, under her cloak.
In the end, it did no good. The square was a confusion of housemaids scurrying home and clerks bent under their umbrellas, resentful. They emerged out of the rain, brushed by, and disappeared into a landscape of gray. A young messenger boy ran toward her, his jacket pulled up over his head, a slouching cap hiding his face. Ordinary. He was wrapped in ordinary.
At the final instant, she sensed intention. She twisted. Slashed out with her knife. Hit him through the cover of his coat he twirled in her face. Heard him gasp. She felt the jolt and shock as his body slammed into her. She had a glimpse of his face. His knife scraped her chest, missing the blow to her heart, cutting her clothing. Cold pain speared up her arm.
He pushed her away and ran past, his boots splayed side to side, scattering gravel. It was the mark of the assassin to strike and run.
She dropped the knife and took her arm where she’d been cut. Sapriste. Her hand came away red. The blood went pale with rain and washed from her palm even as she looked at it.
I’m bleeding. She pressed her arm tight to her ribs. Her dress was cut through. The slice down her arm ended in one single, deep jab. It had hit something important and the blood spilled out.
So small a thing to let the life out of her body. It barely hurt at all. Just death. Only death.
So she hurried. She let her cloak slip off. She held her blood in, trying to buy another few minutes. But all her time was seeping away.
Meeks Street was north of the square. The Service chose a quiet street. No one entered unless he had business there. Number Seven was halfway down. She staggered onward, not trying to keep dry or be inconspicuous or watch for enemies. Trying to make the last hundred yards.
She had expected death to be more spectacular, somehow. She had thought it would come at the end of a long Game, with the last roll of the dice still spinning and everyone watching and holding their breath for her. She’d be caught and shot by one army or another. It had seemed the most fitting end.
She’d expected the simplicity of the firing squad. Its neatness and order. Its finality. Instead, she was bleeding to death on an ugly English street, and she had no idea why.
Now she’d never find out. Even the question faded as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
Gray curtains of water wove in the wind. Two men barreled by, almost knocking her down. They were English gentlemen, seeing no one and nothing beyond themselves. They’d find blood on their coats when they got home and mourn their spoiled clothing and never know what had happened an inch under their noses.
She’d made them bloody aristos. Funny. It struck her as funny.
Nobody noticed her dying. Every door was closed. Every curtain drawn.
She passed low walls, punctuated by stone posts. Then she was at Number Seven. She knew the way even when she couldn’t see very well. The door was painted green. The knocker was a bronze rose. She covered it with her bloody hand and banged down hard and went back to holding her blood in.
She leaned on the door, her forehead against the green paint. It is strange that it does not hurt. I have been in pain so many times. This final time it does not hurt at all.
Really, she was not ready to die. She had a long list of things to do.
The door opened and she had nothing to lean upon. The ground crested upward to meet her. The rug was scratchy on her cheek, surprisingly hard. She felt herself rolled over. She was looking up at a woman, not much more than a girl. She didn’t know this one, did she?
Hands pushed her own hands away and came down strong around her arm, at the wound. Someone shouted. She could tell it was shouts from the urgency of it. It sounded distant in her ear.
When she opened her eyes again, he was there. Black hair and a thin face, dark as a Gypsy. Serious eyes.
She said, “Hello, ’Awker.”
“Hello, Justine,” Hawker said.
Two
SHE DID NOT DIE ON THE DOORSTEP. SHE HAD NOT died more times than she could count. Perhaps this would be another.
She opened her eyes. After a while she knew where she was. She was lying on the dining room table at Meeks Street, looking up at silver loops and flowered sconces holding half-burned candles. The ceiling was white, molded plasterwork with garlands of leaves.
She heard Hawker say, “Will she live?” and the long, rude, impatient man who was a surgeon replied, “How the hell would I know? Now get out of my light.” She could not tell if this reassured Hawker, but it gave her considerable comfort. Surgeons were honest butchers. She did not trust polite doctors with their slimy patter of Latin and their soft hands.
The table was flat and hard under her. She hadn’t noticed them cutting her clothes away, but she was naked. Several people held her down. It was Hawker who took her left shoulder and looked into her face.
Dark closed down upon her. She was in the heart of the pain. Had to get away. Had to. She fought.
The surgeon said, “Keep h
er still, damn it.”
Hawker said, “Chère. Ne me quitte pas. Look. Look at me. Ici.”
Light came back. He was above her, his clever, handsome face grave. Hair fell in his eyes. Hard eyes. They had been old and cynical when he was a boy. “Look at me. That’s right.” His fingers dug into her shoulder. “Be still. You’re here with me.”
“I didn’t want to come here,” she said.
“I know. Quiet, now. Chouette, look at me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Did she even say that? It was too much effort.
“She’s fainted,” someone said. “Good.”
She had not fainted. She saw shadow and darkness, heard their voices, felt—oh yes, she felt—the pain. But it was as if it happened to someone else, several feet away.
A man said something. Hawker answered, “. . . before the blood washes away. Find out where this happened. Pax, I want you to . . .”
The surgeon did not pause in hurting her. “See if there’s anybody left out in the rain who needs me. Every time you people—” and he said, “Hold that,” to someone.
She said, “I was not fast enough. I must tell you. The papers . . .”
“Later,” Hawker said. “Talk later.”
She was not going to die, then. Not possibly. Hawker, of all people upon the earth, would awaken her and force her to speak if her life were ending and she had only minutes left. He would be brutally efficient, wringing the last morsel of words out of her, if she were dying. One could depend on him.
The Black Hawk Page 1
