“Will you tell me about France?” Michael took a swallow of hot, sweet fortification. The covers had dipped, exposing the curve of a lovely, pale breast. He twitched them back up as Brenna returned their tea to the tray. “Why would you want to know about privation, misery, cold, bad rations, and a lot of stinking, drunken—” Her smile was slight, the first pale glimmer on the eastern horizon of humor. “It’s the same thing. I want to know about you, and if that means accursed Frenchmen and sore, stinking feet, then that’s what it means.” She had him, because he’d reveal every dingy, craven, weak corner of his soul to gain his wife’s trust. Almost. “France was complicated,” Michael said, offering her the tea. “Nobody warns a fellow that war is a great seductress. The handsome uniforms are the start of it. The sprightly tunes come into it too. Then you wake up one morning before you’ve even taken ship, and your job that day is to attend the execution of a deserter, or some poor blighter who took the King’s shilling a few too many times.
What do You think about The Laird (Captive Hearts)?
