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eBook Category: Romance/Historical Fiction
eBook Description: Charity O'Shea may be a weary bar maid, but still has her wits about her. When she overhears talk of the Tempest Treasure, she installs herself as a maid at Cresthill Manor, hoping to find the gold herself. But then the roguish Keelan appears in the middle of her treasure hunt and throws her plans into chaos. Now they're running for their lives, and trying very hard not to lose their hearts. Can a rogue and a con artist find their happily ever after?

eBook Publisher: Harper Collins, Inc./HarperCollins e-books
Fictionwise Release Date: August 2007

4 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [Secure eReader (recommended)/Mobipocket/Microsoft Reader/Adobe - What's this?]: SECURE MOBIPOCKET FORMAT [203 KB], SECURE MICROSOFT READER FORMAT [314 KB] - Requires Microsoft Reader 2.1.1 for PCs, or Microsoft Reader 2.2.2 on Pocket PC 2002 handheld devices. Some older Pocket PCs can be upgraded. Learn More., SECURE EREADER (RECOMMENDED) FORMAT [195 KB], SECURE ADOBE FORMAT [1.5 MB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [409 KB]
Secure Adobe: Printing enabled, Read-aloud DISABLED
Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
Microsoft Reader ISBN: 9780061466007
Adobe Reader ISBN: 9780061465987
Mobipocket Reader ISBN: 9780061465994
eReader ISBN: 9780061466014

"Colder than a sea witch's arse," Keelan muttered and stumbled again, nearly falling face first in the sodden bog. A cold northwesterly drove rain, hard and fast, into his face, soaking the tunic beneath the threadbare waistcoat he held bunched tight at his throat. "And I would be knowing," he added, then snorted at his own wit, dubious though it was. But whose humor would not be a bit stale given the circumstances? It had been raining since well before dusk. His last meal was little more than a cherished memory, and he was still mourning the loss of the small fortune he'd left the three gentlemen with whom he'd been gaming some days past. But the term gentlemen was loosely used indeed. Not one of them had cracked a grin the entire evening. On the other hand ... He tripped again, righted himself, stumbled on. What they lacked in frolicking good natures they more than made up for in coin ... and size. Arms as big around as Keelan's legs. Necks the size of ... The toe of his saturated boot caught on something unseen in the darkness. He lurched forward, stopping his fall with his hands and feeling sheep droppings squish between his frigid fingers.

"Ahh," he said, rolling onto his back and laughing into the hard-driving rain. Where there were sheep droppings there were sheep, as ol' Toft was wont to say, Keelan thought, and grinned into the stinging deluge before struggling to his feet. Shuttling up a slippery incline, he gazed into the little dale that fell sharply away. It was as dark as the devil's broom closet below him, but dotted here and there among the sweeping hillocks were clumps of woolly gray. Sheep. Better known to the wayward Scotsman as dinner on the hoof.

Slipping back down the hill a scant few inches, Keelan fumbled with the ancestral sporran that hung from his waist. Opening it was no simple task, for his fingers had gone numb and stupid with the cold. His muscles were cramped and aching, but his night vision did not fail him. Still, dipping a dart into the corked vial was an onerous chore. Neither was it simple to fit the tiny weapon into its wooden tube. Yet he managed.

And voilą! Less than an hour later, the world seemed a brighter place. Quite literally in fact, for Keelan of the Forbes was squatting on his haunches before a small but optimistic fire. There was even a roof of sorts above his head. Granted, that roof was supported by slightly less than three walls and might well tumble in on him with any careless move. But 'twas daft luck that had led him to this dubious shelter in the first place, and he would ever greet good fortune with a merry "good day" when he happened upon it.

His ancient kinsmen had been entirely wrong. This was his path, despite their dire warnings. Who were they to warn him anyway? Their own lives had been fraught with dangers. Hiltsglen?the Black Celt. O'Banyon?the Irish Hound. And Toft?the Wanderer. They had tried to pretend they were naught but ordinary Highlanders, but he knew better from the moment he first met them. Saw the eerie strangeness in them just as he saw it in himself. But while their gifts were astounding?Hiltsglen's granite courage, O'Banyon's bestial strength, Toft's inexplicable abilities?Keelan's own talents seemed to be somewhat more humble. Sleeping, for instance. He was first-rate at sleeping. Well, that and chicanery. The Irish Hound had headed north looking for a healer and found naught but Keelan, a scheming Highlander just up from a lengthy nap.

Oh aye, Keelan had descended from these men of the mist, but he had somehow failed to inherit their...