Rule's Bride. Kat Martin
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KAT MARTIN
‘Kat Martin is one of the best authors around!
She has an incredible gift for writing.’
—Literary Times
‘This steamy trilogy opener is an enjoyable mixture
of tension and romance…make[s] the next
books worth waiting for.’
—Publishers Weekly on Royal’s Bride
‘Royal’s Bride is so good, I have high hopes for the rest of this series!’ —Romance Reader at Heart
‘Kat Martin dishes up sizzling passion and true love,
then she serves it up with savoir faire.’
—Los Angeles Daily News
‘Ms Martin keeps you burning the midnight oil as she
sets fire to the pages of Heart of Fire… Don’t miss this fabulous series! It is definitely a winner.’ —Reader to Reader
‘[Reese’s Bride] is hot, sexy and mesmerising. The pages are rich with history, taut with tension and steaming with passion.’ —RT Book Reviews
‘I loved this book! Kat Martin is a consummate
storyteller and this book is terrific!’
—The Romance Reader’s Connection on Royal’s Bride
Rule’s
Bride
THE BRIDE TRILOGY
Kat
Martin
MILLS & BOON
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To my editor, Susan Swinwood, for her help
with this series. It’s a pleasure to work with you.
Prologue
Boston, 1857
They say good things come to those who wait, but Rule Dewar wasn’t so sure. Standing in the long marble hallway at Griffin Heights, his employer’s palatial estate on the outskirts of Boston, Rule waited nervously while the stonefaced butler rapped on the study door.
Ignoring the urge to adjust the knot on his cravat and smooth his hair, he straightened at the sound of muffled footsteps approaching from the opposite side of the door. The door swung open and the man inside the study smiled, clearly anticipating his visitor’s arrival.
“Rule! Come in, my boy. I appreciate your stopping by on such short notice.” Howard Griffin, head of Griffin Manufacturing, makers of high-quality armaments, welcomed him into the study, a vast, book-lined chamber that took up a goodly portion of the west wing of his mansion.
Rule walked past him into the room. “It wasn’t any trouble. I was just going over some of the design change proposals you asked me to look at.”
Griffin, in his early forties and nearly as tall as Rule, had a solid build and reddish-brown hair. He walked over to a pair of polished mahogany doors and slid them open. Hidden within was a sideboard lined with bottles of expensive liquor and cut-crystal decanters on gleaming silver trays.
“So what did you think of the new designs?” Griffin asked as he took down a pair of crystal glasses and set them on the sideboard.
“I agree with your assessment. I believe eventually the smooth bore will be replaced entirely by the rifled barrel. Which means we should consider changing the percentages of each kind of musket now being produced.”
Griffin smiled, clearly pleased, though Rule had the impression business was not what the man had asked him there to discuss.
“Care for a whiskey?” The older man held up a decanter filled with golden-brown liquid. “Or perhaps you would rather have something else.”
Rule preferred brandy, a slightly less potent beverage, but the Americans seemed to like the stronger liquor and he had grown accustomed to the taste. “Whiskey is fine.”
Griffin poured both of them a drink and handed one of the glasses to Rule, who took a sip, the burn of the alcohol easing a little of his tension. Not all, though. Giving in to the urge, he ran a hand over his wavy black hair to smooth the windblown strands back into place. It wasn’t every day his boss, the wealthy owner of the company, invited him into his home.
Griffin didn’t ask him to sit down but guided him toward a window overlooking the garden. Though early in the year, spring blossoms had begun to peek through the soil, and the winding brick pathways were meticulously maintained.
Griffin swirled the liquor in his glass. “In the time you’ve worked for me, Rule, you’ve done an excellent job. I made a wise decision in hiring you.”
“Thank you, sir.” In spite of the fact he was only four-and-twenty, he had been given an impressive amount of responsibility, mostly a result of his Oxford education, which seemed to impress the Americans, but also because of his pedigree.
Rule wasn’t stupid. Being an English aristocrat gave him entry into the top levels of society on both sides of the ocean. Being the brother of a duke opened an amazing number of doors and Rule was willing to use every advantage to further his career.
Griffin turned to stare out the window. In the distance a marble fountain sprayed water into the bright spring sunshine. There was something in his manner that seemed in contrast to his usually dynamic nature.
“I believe you’ve met my daughter, Violet.”
“Yes, sir, on several occasions. Lovely girl.”
“She is young yet, only sixteen, and a bit of a tomboy. My fault, that. I never had a son, so I indulged her.”
Rule’s gaze followed Griffin’s to a huge sycamore on the right side of the fountain. Beneath the branches, Violet Griffin sat in a rope swing, laughing as she pushed herself higher and higher into the air, her full skirt and petticoats billowing out around her stocking-clad ankles. She had a heart-shaped face, a boyish figure and hair the color of new copper pennies.
“As I was saying, she is young yet, but she looks a great deal like her mother—God rest her soul—and in time I believe she’ll turn into quite a beauty.”
“I’m sure she will.” Rule sipped his drink, having no idea how the gangly young girl would look when she grew up and wondering where the conversation was leading.
Griffin turned. His gaze zeroed in on Rule’s face. “Unfortunately, I won’t be around to watch that transformation.”
Rule’s head came up. “Sir?”
“I’m dying,