Mary McBride – Quicksilver's Catch (страница 1)
Table of Contents
“I landed in…in…a damn mule pie!”
Marcus burst out laughing. He couldn’t help himself. Now that he knew it was mostly Amanda’s dignity that was injured, he felt intensely relieved. Even when she cursed him and smacked his arm hard enough to make him lose his balance, he couldn’t stop laughing.
“That’s you, then?” he said, chortling, crinkling up his nose and sniffing dramatically.
“Oh, please.” She pitched him a look of pure, undiluted murder. But it was dry murder now. The tears, thank God, were gone.
“I hate you, Quicksilver. I truly, truly do.” She shook her fists at the sky. “Just look at me! I’m sitting here all crippled and smelling to high heaven, and all you can do is laugh like a damn, demented hyena!”
Dear Reader,
All of us at Harlequin Historicals would like to wish Mary McBride a warm congratulations on making the
A devil-may-care nobleman finds redemption in the arms of the only woman who can heal him, in Margaret Moore’s
Fleeing Britain and marriage to an elderly preacher, an English adventuress becomes involved with an American spy in our fourth title for the month,
Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you’ll keep a lookout for all of our books, wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Quicksilver’s Catch
Mary McBride
is a former special-education teacher who lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband and two young sons. She loves to correspond with readers and invites them to write to her at: P.O. Box 411202 St. Louis, MO 63141.
“Miss Amanda says she doesn’t want to eat, ma’am.” Bridget flexed her knees, as much to steady herself on the moving train as to show proper respect to her elderly and exceedingly rich employer.
“Poppycock.” Honoria Grenville snatched a hanky from her black sleeve and waved it brusquely at the maid. “My granddaughter hasn’t eaten a bite since we left Denver yesterday. Give her the tray, Bridget.”
“Oh, but, ma’am…”
“Now.” Mrs. Grenville’s voice was as adamant as the rap of her ebony cane on the floor of her private Pullman Palace car.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bridget flexed her knees again, stifled a sigh of resignation, and made her way toward the curtained sleeping compartment. Rich people. They baffled her and made her very nervous.
“Won’t you have a bite of supper, Miss Amanda?” she crooned, a bit hesitantly, through the closed drapes as she hoisted the large silver tray shoulder high and slipped it between the brocade folds. When there was no response, Bridget bit her lip and stepped back.
Then, suddenly, it was raining. Peas and carrots!
“That will be quite enough, Amanda.” The old woman’s cane came down, denting the tray. “Bridget, did she hear me? Tell my granddaughter I won’t tolerate this behavior any longer.”
A muffled shout came from behind the curtains. “Tell my grandmother I heard her, Bridget. And tell her the minute she stops keeping me prisoner and lets me go back to Denver to marry Angus McCray, she won’t have to tolerate my bad behavior anymore. I’m going to marry him, Grandmother. Did you hear me? Did she hear me, Bridget?”