A Regency Captain's Prize: The Captain's Forbidden Miss / His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee

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       A

       Regency

       Collection

      MARGARET MCPHEE loves to use her imagination—an essential requirement for a scientist. However, when she realised that her imagination was inspired more by the historical romances she loves to read rather than by her experiments, she decided to put the stories down on paper. She has since left her scientific life behind and enjoys cycling in the Scottish countryside, tea and cakes.

      A Regency Captain’s Prize

       The Captain’s Forbidden Miss

       His Mask of Retribution

      Margaret McPhee

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Epilogue

       His Mask of Retribution

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Endpage

       Copyright

       The Captain’s Forbidden Miss

      Margaret McPhee

       Chapter One

       Central Portugal—31 October 1810

      High up in the deserted village of Telemos in the mountains north of Punhete, Josephine Mallington was desperately trying to staunch the young rifleman’s bleeding when the French began their charge. She stayed where she was, kneeling by the soldier on the dusty stone floor of the old monastery in which her father and his men had taken refuge. The French hail of bullets through the holes where windows had once stood continued as the French dragoon troopers began to surge forwards in a great mass, the sound of their pas de charge loud even above the roar of gunpowder.

      ‘En avant! En avant! Vive la République!’ She heard their cries.

      All around was the acrid stench of gunpowder and of fresh spilt blood. Stones

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