By Christina Dodd
"Betrothed within the cradle, Princess Sorcha and Prince Rainger have been destined to rule their nations jointly. Then revolution despatched Sorcha to a distant Scottish convent—and Rainger right into a dungeon so deep rumor claimed he was once dead.
Now chance threatens, and Sorcha needs to trip domestic with an easy fisherman as her companion—Prince Rainger in hide. replaced through his imprisonment from a clumsy lad to a perilous guy, he's made up our minds to win again his kingdom—and the girl he wishes greater than lifestyles itself. yet can he safeguard a lady who believes all people she meets is her buddy, each tavern is a chance to sing bawdy songs, and every flip within the street hides new event? to maintain his princess secure, he needs to hotel to his so much treacherous weapon: *seduction*.
**
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Extra info for The Prince Kidnaps a Bride (Lost Princesses, Book 3)
Example text
The cottage has a few modern conveniences, meaning that an appropriate area was built against the back of the cottage so one needn’t go out into the night or storm to answer the call of nature. In addition, there is also a hand pump in the kitchen to draw water so one needn’t go to the old well outside, whose windlass is in disrepair. Cooking is done on a small cast-iron stove, and bathing and laundry are done in a brass washtub—also in the kitchen, so that the water may be heated on the stove.
Chapter Three Houses will build themselves, And tombstones re-write names on a dead man’s grave. —Andrew Young, “Culbin Sands” Fear is paranoia’s chief handmaiden, and therefore sometimes an evil influence on even the most rational mind. I had calmed considerably by the time I made porridge and brushed out my hair. It takes patience and time to add the oats little by little to boiling salted water. I don’t care for lumpy porridge, and it is my experience that alarm can only be sustained for a short period of time in the absence of any new threats, especially when doing something so prosaic as whisking oatmeal on the stove with a cat looking on.
Apparently Fergus Culbin was the last of the local line of Culbins, and it was widely believed that it was one of his godless ancestors, living in a now-ruined keep, that brought the curse down upon the village. Twaddle, all of it. Nonetheless, Fergus was rumored able to dispense with his shadow when desired, a sure sign of diablerie—or a sign of a cloudy day, but that was less exciting to talk about late at night around the peat fires. And if the subject of Fergus’s wicked ways failed them, they could always talk about me.