The Bride Fair. Cheryl Reavis

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The Bride Fair - Cheryl  Reavis


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      They were at eye level.

      Had she noticed the piercing blueness of his eyes before? Perhaps not. Perhaps she didn’t dare register such things, because he would become a man and not merely an enemy.

      His eyes were so sad—that, she had noticed. He was looking at her so gravely.

      Such pain.

      What happened to you? she thought.

      Maria had no sense that he reached for her, nor she for him, but she was in his arms somehow. He held her tightly, both of them caught in whatever this moment was. Their foreheads touched; their breaths mingled. And suddenly his mouth was on hers. She gave a soft moan, completely overwhelmed by the feel and the taste of him. It was as if she suddenly couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t touch him enough, kiss him enough. She had never felt such need, such hunger….

      Acclaim for Cheryl Reavis’s recent historicals

      The Captive Heart

      “A sensual, emotionally involving romance.”

      —Library Journal

      “A compelling tale that will keep you on the edge of your seat.”

      —Rendezvous

      Harrigan’s Bride

      “…another Reavis title to add to your keeper shelf.”

      —The Booknook

      1992 RITA® Award Winner

      The Prisoner

      “…a Civil War novel that manages to fill the reader with warmth and hope.”

      —Romantic Times

      #604 MISS VEREY’S PROPOSAL

      Nicola Cornick

      #605 THE DRIFTER

      Lisa Plumley

      #606 DRAGON’S KNIGHT

      Catherine Archer

      The Bride Fair

      Cheryl Reavis

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Available from Harlequin Historicals and

      CHERYL REAVIS

      Harlequin Historicals

      The Prisoner #126

      The Bartered Bride #319

      Harrigan’s Bride #439

      The Captive Heart #512

      The Bride Fair #603

      Other works include:

      Silhouette Special Edition

      A Crime of the Heart #487

      Patrick Gallagher’s Widow #627

      * One of Our Own #901

      * Meggie’s Baby #1039

      * Mother To Be #1102

      * Tenderly #1147

      Little Darlin’ #1177

      The Long Way Home #1245

      “To the red-shod one—with humble thanks.”

      Contents

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Epilogue

       Author Note

      Chapter One

      Salisbury, N.C.

      June, 1868

      Who is this woman?

      Colonel Max Woodard watched as the train conductor pointed her in his direction, then stood waiting for her to make her way across the crowded railway platform. The question stayed in his mind as she approached, and it became more and more obvious that she was not happy about having to seek him out. Four years of war and two subsequent years of occupation duty among the vanquished Southerners had made him more than adept at recognizing their barely veiled contempt. Her enmity didn’t surprise him in the least. The fact that she was about to speak to him in broad daylight and in clear view of any number of the townspeople did.

      “You are Colonel Woodard?” she asked without hesitation. She was wearing black—most of the women in the South seemed to be in a kind of perpetual mourning. Or perhaps it was a matter of economics. Perhaps there was nothing but black cloth available to people who had little money to buy even the necessities.

      The woman’s voice had a slight tremor in it. Not enough to disarm him, but enough to pique his curiosity as to the cause.

      Anger? Fear?

      More the former than the latter, he decided. He took the liberty of staring at her. She was too thin and small-breasted for his taste. And she was probably younger than she looked. He had found that to be the case with many of these Rebel women, and he knew from personal experience that near starvation did little to preserve the bloom of youth.

      She had ventured out without her bonnet or her shawl, and she was slightly damp from the intermittent rain that had come in fits


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