Rowena gasped as the savage caught her close.
Her heart hammered her ribs as she stared up into his smoldering black eyes. She knew better than to show fear, but her racing pulse would not obey the command to be still. Swallowing her terror, she took refuge once more in words.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she declared, meeting his stony gaze. “You didn’t hurt me when you had the chance. You won’t hurt me now. You need me too much for that.”
Boldly spoken, but her fluttering heart belied her bravado. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest through her bodice. Her own breath came in shallow gasps, as if she’d been running uphill. Every nerve in her body was taut and tingling, but a strange fascination had taken the place of fear. He was so large and wild and so…beautiful, like an unbroken stallion…!
Praise for Elizabeth Lane’s recent releases
Shawnee Bride
“A fascinating, realistic story.”
—Rendezvous
Apache Fire
“Enemies, lovers, raw passion, taut sexual tension, murder and revenge—Indian romance fans are in for a treat with Elizabeth Lane’s sizzling tale of forbidden love that will hook you until the last moment.”
—Romantic Times Magazine
MY LORD SAVAGE
Harlequin Historical #569
#567 THE PROPER WIFE
Julia Justiss
#568 MAGIC AND MIST
Theresa Michaels
#570 THE COLORADO BRIDE
Mary Burton
My Lord Savage
Elizabeth Lane
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
ELIZABETH LANE
Wind River #28
Birds of Passage #92
Moonfire #150
MacKenna’s Promise #216
Lydia #302
Apache Fire #436
Shawnee Bride #492
Bride on the Run #546
My Lord Savage #569
Other works include:
Silhouette Romance
Hometown Wedding #1194
The Tycoon and the Townie #1250
Silhouette Special Edition
Wild Wings, Wild Heart #936
For PowderPuff
Contents
Prologue
Virginia
February 19, 1573
Black Otter lay in the stinking darkness of the hold where the white men had flung him. Slimed with blood, his wrists and ankles twisted against the iron manacles that held him prisoner. Although he had been viciously beaten, his ribs cracked and purpled, his eyes swollen shut, he felt no pain. He was beyond pain, beyond fear, even beyond grief. The only emotion left to him now was white-hot rage.
A whisper of reason told him that he’d been taken prisoner in the attack on the village, that he’d been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head and carried onto the great, winged canoe where the white men lived.
Reason, darkened by despair, reminded him also that Morning Cloud, the wife of his heart, was dead. His arms had caught her as she fell, her chest shattered by a blast from the mouth of a white man’s firestick. In the space of a single breath her life had slipped away. Too stunned to react, he had been cradling her limp body when the sharp blow had struck his head from behind. He had awakened in shackles.
Morning Cloud, at least, was beyond danger.
