Mad Jack: Bride Series by Catherine CoulterMad Jack: Bride Series by Catherine Coulter

Mad Jack: Bride Series

byCatherine Coulter

Mass Market Paperback | January 5, 1999

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The fifth book in the Bride Saga from the #1 New York Times bestselling author.

Winifrede disguises herself as a male valet to Grayson St. Cyre’s aunts, but when Grayson discovers the truth, he uncovers feelings he never imagined
he possessed.
Catherine Coulter is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the FBI Thrillers featuring husband and wife team Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock. She is also the author—with J. T. Ellison—of the Brit in the FBI series. She lives in Sausalito, California.
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Title:Mad Jack: Bride SeriesFormat:Mass Market PaperbackDimensions:352 pages, 6.66 × 4.19 × 0.93 inPublished:January 5, 1999Publisher:Penguin Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0515124206

ISBN - 13:9780515124200

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Read from the Book

St. Cyre Town HouseLondon, 1811March 25th GRAYSON ALBEMARLE ST.Cyre, Baron Cliffe, read the single page one more time,then slowly crumpled it in his hand. Some letter, hethought, as he threw the ball of paper into the fireplace.Not many words on the page, but most of the few therewere vicious and malevolent. He watched the paper slowlycrinkle around the edges, then burst into bright flame.He walked out of the drawing room and down the longcorridor toward the back of his home. He opened the doorto the library—his room—all somber and warm and filledwith books and little else. The heavy, dark gold velvet draperieswere drawn tightly against the night, the fire low andsluggish because none of the servants had known he wouldbe coming into this room at this time.They all thought he’d left five minutes before to visit hismistress.He thought of the damned letter and cursed, but not asfluently as his father had when he was so drunk he couldscarcely walk. He sat down at his desk and took a piece offoolscap from the top drawer, dipped the quill into the inkpot, and wrote: If I receive another threat from you, I willtreat you as you deserve. I will beat you senseless and leaveyou in a ditch to die.He signed his initials, GSC, slowly folded the paper, andslid it into an envelope. He walked to the elegant Spanishtable that sat against the wall in the entrance hall and placedthe envelope onto the ancient silver salver that his butler,Quincy, cleaned every other day, at one o’clock in the afternoon,without fail.He wondered as he walked in the cold, clear, early springnight to the apartment of his sweet Jenny what would happennow.Probably nothing. Men of Clyde Barrister’s stamp werecowards.Carlisle ManorNear FolkstoneMarch 29thThere was nothing more to say, damn her. He was pantingwith rage at her, the ungrateful little bitch. He couldn’t helphimself. He raised his hand to strike her, then got hold ofhimself. ‘‘If I hit you, Carlton will know it and perhaps notwant you.’’She whimpered, her head down, her hair straggling longand tangled and sweaty down the sides of her face.‘‘Silent at last, are you? I never thought I’d see you muteas a tree. It’s refreshing for once not having to listen toyour complaints and see those looks of yours. Silence andsubmissiveness are very charming in women, in you especially,though I’m just now seeing them for the first time.Well, perhaps it’s over, eh? Yes, you’ve finally given up.You won’t go against me anymore.’’She said not a word. When he grabbed her chin in hishand and forced her head up, there were tears in her eyes.But still he frowned. He stared down at her hard, stillbreathing hoarsely from his pacing and yelling. But his facewas no longer as flushed as it had been a minute before,and his voice no longer trembled with rage when he spoke.‘‘You will marry Sir Carlton Avery. He will return tomorrowmorning. You will smile shyly at him and tell him thatit is your honor to become his wife. I have given him myblessing. The marriage settlements are agreed upon. Everythingis done. You will not disobey me, or when I next seeyou, I will make you very sorry.’’He grabbed her chin again, saw the tear streaking downher cheeks, and smiled. ‘‘Good,’’ he said. ‘‘Tonight youwill bathe and wash your hair. You look like a slut fromDrury Lane.’’ He swiftly left her bedchamber, hummingwith his victory. Still, because he didn’t want her to forgetthat he was serious, he slammed the door behind him. Sheheard his key grate in the lock. She heard his heavy-bootedfootsteps receding down the long corridor. She drew in adeep breath, looked upward, and said, ‘‘Thank you, God.Thank you, God.’’He’d forgotten to retie her hands.She lifted her hands, looked at the ugly, raw bruises onher wrists, and began to rub feeling back into them. Shebent over to untie her ankles, then rose slowly from thechair where she’d been trussed up like a criminal for threedays. She relieved herself and quickly downed two glassesof water from the carafe that sat on her bedside table. Herbreathing calmed. She was very hungry. He hadn’t allowedher any food since the previous evening.But he’d forgotten and left her hands untied. Perhaps hehadn’t forgotten. Perhaps he believed he’d finally brokenher and tying her hands didn’t matter. Well, she’d tried tomake him believe that. To hold her tongue had cost herdearly. To squeeze tears out of her eyes hadn’t proved sodifficult.Would he come back? That got her into action morequickly than having Farmer Mason’s bull Prixil racing towardher across the south field would have. She had toleave in the next three minutes, perhaps sooner.She’d thought of this so often during the long hours ofthe past three days, had meticulously planned it, modifiedher plans, pictured everything she would be able to carryin the small, light valise.The next two minutes she spent tying the ends of hertwo sheets together, slinging them out of the second-floorwindow, and praying that she would fit through the tall,narrow opening. No doubt she was thinner now than shehad been three days ago. She’d stared at that window offand on during the past three days, knowing it was her onlyway out. She would have to squeeze through it. She hadno choice at all.She managed, barely. When she was dangling six feetabove the ground, she looked briefly back up at her bedchamberwindow, then smiled. She let go and rolled whenshe landed on the soft, sloping ground. When she stopped,shook herself, and found that she’d gained only a fewbruises from her jump, she looked back at her home oncemore, its lines soft and mellow beneath the brilliant lightof the half-moon. A lovely property, Carlisle Manor, onethat had belonged to her father, Thomas Levering Bascombe,not this bastard, not this man who’d married hermother after her father had died. And now Carlisle Manorwas his, all his, and there was nothing anyone could doabout it.With luck she wouldn’t be missed until the morning. Unlesshe remembered and came back to tie her hands. Thenthings would be a bit more difficult.At least Georgie was far away from here, all the way upat York, and thus would be safe from their stepfather’s ragewhen he discovered that his pigeon had escaped the cage.His pigeon also knew where to go.

Editorial Reviews

"Coulter is excellent at portraying romantic tension between her heroes and heroines." -MILWAUKEE JOURNAL“A good storyteller…Coulter always keeps the pace brisk.”—Fort Worth Star-Telegram“Ms. Coulter is a one-of-a-kind author who knows how to hook her readers and keep them coming back for more.”—The Best Reviews“Coulter is excellent at portraying the romantic tension between her heroes and heroines, and she manages to write explicitly but beautifully about sex as well as love.”—Milwaukee Journal“Coulter instinctively feeds our desire to believe in knights in shining armor and everlasting love—historical romance at its finest.”—BookReporter.com“One of the genre’s great storytellers.”—Kansas City Star“One of the masters of the genre.”—The Newark Star-Ledger“Catherine Coulter is one of the best authors of exciting thrillers writing today.”—Midwest Book Review