 BROKEN
VOWS
September 2004 (reissue)
Leisure Books
ISBN
978-0843944587
May 1998
Leisure Books
ISBN
978-0843938425
In a small town in Nevada, a preacher's daughter and a champion
boxer loved, then lost. Years later, Rebekah is trapped in a hollow
marriage to a senator, and Rory is bent on destroying him. Neither
can forget the passion they'd once shared, yet neither can forgive
the other for past betrayals--and they have but one chance left for
happiness.
"The lively dialogue, biting repartee and sizzling sensuality
crackles through the pages of this delicious and fast-paced read.
Henke captures your attention from page one and holds it to the very
end with this lively tale. A quick charmer of a read." 4 stars
--Kathe Robin,
RT BOOKclub
"YANKEE EARL is an exciting historical romance that the
audience will enjoy due to the intelligent acerbic exchanges
(perhaps barbs might be more accurate) between the two lead
protagonists. Though similar tales have been told, Shirl Henke's
entry stands out due to the strong cast from the lead dueling duo to
the meddling matchmakers from each respective family to the shocked
Ton not sure how to react to the behavior of Jason and Rachel. This
battle of the sexes is fun to observes as this is one time a tie is
a win for both participants and the reader." -- Harriet Klauser,
The
Best Reviews
"Readers with a taste for unconventional heroines, bold
heroes, and plots made up of equal measures of passion and danger
will find Henke's lusciously sensual Regency wonderfully satisfying."
-- John Charles, Booklist
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Chapter One
"Jason Edward Beaumont, American nobody, is now Earl of Falconridge,"
Rachel Fairchild huffed to herself in disgust.
The gossip circulating about London had reached Harleigh Hall
within a fortnight of his presentation at court. And now he was
expected to arrive for an inspection of his estate. She simply had
to catch a glimpse of him, to take his measure before they were
formally introduced in London next month.
Bad enough that nasty little Mathias would have been the next
earl. At least he was Cargrave's proper English heir. But with his
demise, the marquis now bestowed the title on some colonial upstart.
Just her ill fortune that Harleigh and Falconridge adjoined. At
least she would have known how to handle Mathias had he been the new
earl. She'd bested him at every childhood game, even given him a
thrashing with a hackamore she seized off the stable wall after she
caught him abusing one of his grandfather's horses. They had been
eight years old at the time and he'd been in mortal terror of her
ever since.
Rachel was forced to admit she had that unfortunate effect on
most men. At five feet, six inches with her athletic body, hazel
eyes and dark hair, she was hardly the epitome of English beauty.
Petite blue-eyed blondes with softly voluptuous flesh were all the
rage, but even if she'd fit the physical mold, there was no way the
Honorable Miss Rachel Fairchild would ever have been able to flutter
her eyelashes and play flirtatious games to win a husband as her
younger sisters had.
Ugh, the vapid, simpering conversations, the idle gossip, the
utter frivolity of their lives appalled her. Rachel knelt and ran a
handful of rich brown dirt through her fingers, smelling the
ripeness of summer on the early morning air. How she loved the land,
the rhythm of the seasons from planting to harvest time. "All I ask
of life is to work this fertile soil in peace," she murmured.
Just then the sound of a shot echoed from upstream, followed by
the pounding of horses' hooves, splashing down the creek. She could
hear the clatter of dislodged stones as some fool rode his mount far
too swiftly in such treacherous footing. Why, the horse would most
probably break its legs! If there was anything Rachel abided less
than a fool, it was a rider who abused his mount. She reached for
her bay's reins, then started to swing into the saddle just as
another shot rang out combined with loud male cursing.
"I'll give that sapskull better cause for those oaths," she
gritted, intent on delivering a fine tongue-lashing to the
approaching rider. Rachel was certain he was one of her neighbors,
who were much given to riding down innocent animals for sport, but
before she could get her seat on the skittish bay, a black stallion
burst through a willow thicket headed directly toward her.
Its rider, as big and dark a brute as the horse, attempted to
swerve around her. He might have succeeded, but her bay nickered in
terror and hopped sideways, hooves flailing as it slipped in the mud
at the stream's edge. Rachel was caught with one foot in the stirrup
and one long leg half way over the saddle when the horses collided.
Suddenly she found herself sailing backward, straight into the muddy
bank, where she landed with a thunk. The sound of a gravelly male
voice muttering more dire imprecations registered as she floundered
in the muck. If only she could gather enough wind in her lungs to
screech at the imbeciles, equine and human!
"Reddie, if you weren't already gelded I'd prune you myself," she
muttered through gritted teeth as the bay nickered nervously,
backing into the creek, ready to bolt at further provocation. Unlike
her skittish horse, the big black stood its ground, awaiting a
command after its rider dismounted. As the intruder's high black
boots strode toward her, she crouched on all fours with her hair
hanging in oozing clumps around her face. She peered through what
felt like wet moss hanging on a tree branch. Unwillingly, her eyes
traveled up the long legs attached to the boots, strong horseman's
legs. She raised her head and flipped her sodden hair over her
shoulder. It landed with a nasty plop as her inspection settled on a
most indelicate portion of his anatomy.
Oh, and his anatomy was a splendid one indeed, she was forced to
admit. Tall, broad shouldered and narrow waisted, he wore a pair of
tight buckskin riding breeches that left little to the imagination,
and a shirt of fine white linen, open half-way down his chest,
scandalously revealing a mass of thick black hair. Her perusal was
interrupted by a low, rumbling chuckle.
The cheeky devil was laughing at her while she hunkered like some
sow in a mud wallow! "You want for manners as much as for common
sense," she snapped, "knocking me from my mount, then daring to make
sport of your handiwork."
"My apologies, but I had another matter in mind as I rounded the
bend in the creek," he replied, looking over his shoulder warily
before returning his attention to the woman at his feet. "Someone
was shooting at me. Being unarmed, it didn't seem sporting to remain
a stationary target."
She snorted in derision. "You chuckle-head, no one was shooting
at you. 'Twas just some local chawbacons poaching game."
"I don't know how you judge a man's intent in England, but in
America we deem one shot to be an accident. When a second whizzes
past a man's head, he takes it quite personally...unless he
resembles a deer."
"In your case, more like a braying ass," she muttered beneath her
breath, now recognizing his peculiar accent. He had to be Cargrave's
heir. She must stand up and face him. Her height gave her an
advantage over most men but she feared he would not be one of them.
His strong brown hand reached down and took her arm, but before he
could assist her another shot suddenly rent the soft sounds of the
woodland.
"Down," he grunted, squashing her back into the mud and falling
atop her. "You wouldn't happen to have a pistol about, would you?"
Rachel saw stars for a moment as the air once again rushed from
her lungs. The great oaf must weigh over twelve stone! Before she
could reply, he was rolling toward a thicket of mulberry bushes,
dragging her with him.
"Still think our friend is out for venison?" he whispered.
"If you knock every person you meet insensate, then try to squash
them like insects, I should imagine many might resort to firearms in
self defense," she hissed. What the deuce was going on here? Surely
whoever was shooting meant no harm. She called out in the general
direction from which the shot had come, "Halloo, this is Rachel F—"
"Quiet, you little fool! You'll give our position away."
His hand, now covered with mud, smothered off her greeting. She
bit him, then spit the creek slime from her mouth.
He jerked his hand away with a faint oath, then seized her by her
sodden shirt and began to tromp deeper into the most overgrown part
of the brush beside the stream, dragging her along pell mell. "I am
only going to say this once. You will either do precisely as I say
or I really will knock you insensate and carry you—is that
clear?"
Another shot rang out, and a slender sapling a few feet from them
was sheered in half. Still holding on to her shirt, which now had
pulled from its mooring inside her riding breeches, he plunged
farther into the brush, moving with surprisingly quiet deliberation,
following the twisting course of the creek. Now her mouth was dry
with fear. Someone was deliberately trying to hit them—or, more
likely, the charming fellow glowering at her.
They halted behind a stout oak tree. "Well?" he asked with one
black eyebrow raised.
Odious American. She nodded grudgingly.
"I'm going to whistle for Araby. He'll follow the creek until he
reaches us."
She scoffed. "A horse trained to come at your whistle?"
Ignoring her dubious smirk, he continued, "As I jump out and
mount, I'll reach down for your arm. I want you right behind me so I
can kick him into a gallop and take off while I'm pulling you over
the saddle. No time to dawdle."
He was not jesting. "I'm dressed to ride astride. Just let me
jump behind you," she replied. His eyes skimmed over her hips and
down her long legs with what she might have taken for male
appreciation if not for his reply.
"Thank God you're a country wench, not some damned countess, but
I don't want a female covering my back in any case. I'll pull you in
front of me. Be ready."
Then he raised his fingers to his mouth and made a shrill,
ear-piercing whistle that drowned out her retort, after which he
began dragging her along the bank of the stream again. The sound of
hooves splashing through the water quickly followed. Damned if the
black was not obeying! As the horse drew close, her companion broke
from cover and jumped across the rocky stream bed, leaping on the
stallion's back in one fluid movement, a deed a horsewoman such as
Rachel would have admired under other circumstances. But just then
another shot echoed across the water. She simply clawed for his
outstretched arm, allowing herself to be flung over his saddle while
the big horse took off like a cannonball.
She hung across his thighs like a sack of turnips. Every bounce
jarred her belly and further winded her as they sped down the creek,
then cut into an open meadow several dozen yards ahead. When he
finally slowed the black and checked the perimeter of the woods,
assuring himself that they were out of firing range, she squirmed
from his grasp and slid unceremoniously down his leg to the ground,
still disconcertingly able to smell the faint aroma of male musk
combined with horse. Oddly, it unsettled her, but she attributed the
reaction to her aching stomach and the wild ride.
Rachel had never felt at such a disadvantage in her life as she
did at that moment, looking up at the arrogant Yankee Doodle. In
spite of his muddy appearance, he merely looked ruggedly handsome,
not slimy and unkempt as she did. He had a dimple at one side of his
mouth when he grinned, which he was doing now, as if he understood
exactly how she felt. Never one to allow an opponent the first move,
she notched up her chin proudly and faced the insufferable devil.
"You must be the one they're calling 'the Yankee Earl' in
London."
"Jason Beaumont, at your service, countess," he replied with a
mocking toss of his head. The sunlight danced off the blue-black
highlights in his shaggy hair.
Does he know? She stood frozen for a moment as he slid
effortlessly from the black
"How are you privy to what goes on in the ton? This is quite a
rustic place for gossip about the Quality."
"And, of course, you assume I'm a rustic wench," she replied
sweetly. She was dying to know if giving him her name would elicit
any response, but decided it would be better to take him by surprise
at the ball next month.
He cocked his head and crossed his arms over that broad naked
chest. "You speak like a countess and possess the arrogance of one,
but I vow I've never seen a female this side of the Atlantic dressed
in britches."
She enjoyed the puzzled expression in his dark blue eyes. "Oh,
but you have seen 'females' in britches in America?"
"Yes...among my blood brother's people."
"Blood brother?" she echoed. What sort of barbarian society did
he come from?
"The Shawnee. They're Indians."
"Savages! You compare me to savages!"
"Not at all," he replied. "They have far better manners than
you."
She raised her hand to slap his face but he caught her wrist,
enveloping the slender bones in one big hand. "Tut, don't tempt
fate, m'dear. My Shawnee brothers may have better manners but I
don't."
"Let me go," she gritted out, suddenly aware of how isolated they
were here and how big he was, towering over her not inconsiderable
height. She knew how to defend herself and had done so against a
fair share of country ruffians over the years, but this fellow was
unsettling in a far different way.
He was holding her much too near that bare, hairy chest. Rachel
seemed unable to take her eyes from one small droplet of
perspiration as it wended its way down his throat into that black
forest. How would it feel to touch it, feel the crisp spring of it?
To feel the hard muscles beneath? Before she could stop herself, she
blurted out, "You're a fine one to cast aspersions on my manners,
going about half naked. At least my body is decently covered."
He released her, chuckling as he said, "Covered, yes, but as to
decently..." His eyes roamed slowly over her curves, which were
far more tantalizingly revealed by her soaked shirt and pants than
she could have imagined. In spite of the voluminous cut of the
shirt, the mud and creek water had molded the soft cloth like second
skin to breasts, belly and hips.
She preferred riding astride in britches when working on the
estate, in spite of scandalizing the local gentry, but Rachel knew
it was not acceptable for any woman, least of all one of Quality, to
wear men's apparel. Flushing because of that—certainly not
because of his opinion, or the way he affected her—she replied,
"A pity that poacher was such a poor marksman. A few holes in that
thick colonial hide might let some of the wind out."
With that, she spun on her heel and stalked across the meadow
toward home, feeling his mocking blue gaze burning a hole in her
backside. She felt compelled to place some distance between them.
Just for now. I'll exact my revenge when next we meet, she consoled
herself, refusing to admit how the Yankee lout upset her
equilibrium.
Suddenly his black pulled up beside her and he leaned down,
murmuring to her, "Crude 'colonial' that I am, I should not leave a
woman stranded without her horse."
... "I shall manage," she said without looking up. "My home
is but a short distance."
"Ah, but I must accompany you," he insisted. "Indeed, we can ride
as we did before. You make a fine baggage, countess."
"What brilliant flash of wit...and you need not even pick
your nose to prime your brain pan. A marvel for so great a lobcock!"
***
With his mocking laughter echoing in her ears she plodded
doggedly toward Harleigh Hall. It was only a mile or so distant, no
difficult walk...if only her boots did not squish with every
step she took. That wretched Reddy would by now be munching hay in
his stall, all safe and dry.
She cursed the horse...and the Yankee.
But she would never ride in any fashion with her body pressed
against any portion of his, especially that bare chest. Just
thinking of it made her shiver in spite of the heat. She ignored him
when he reined in and sat, leaning on the saddle, watching her stomp
toward the manor house nestled in the valley below. "Stubborn
wench," he called out after her retreating figure. "We'll meet
again, countess."
A threat or a promise? She smirked. If only you knew, you crude
colonial clod. Rachel Fairchild would have a surprise or two up her
lace-covered sleeve when next they did meet.
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