Uncertain Magic

Paperback | August 17, 2012

byLaura Kinsale

not yet rated|write a review

Praise for Laura Kinsale:

"Laura Kinsale creates magic."
-Lisa Kleypas, New York Times bestselling author of Seduce Me at Sunrise

"Laura Kinsale has managed to break all the rules...and come away shining."
-San Diego Union-Tribune

"Magic and beauty flow from Laura Kinsale's pen."
-Romantic Times

"Readers should be enchanted."
-Publishers Weekly

A man damned by suspicion and innuendo

Dreadful rumors swirl around the impoverished Irish lord known as "The Devil Earl." But Faelan Savigar hides a dark secret, for even he doesn't know what dreadful deeds he may be capable of...

A woman cursed by the gift of "sight"

Roderica Delamore fears no man will ever want a wife who can read his every thought and emotion, until she encounters Faelan. As the two find their way to each other against all odds, Roddy becomes determined to save Faelen from his terrifying and mysterious ailment. But will their love end up saving him...or destroying her? A breathtaking historical romance filled with poignancy, darkness, love, and an unexpected twist of Gaelic magic...

Pricing and Purchase Info

$4.99 online
$10.99 list price
Out of stock online

From the Publisher

Praise for Laura Kinsale: "Laura Kinsale creates magic." -Lisa Kleypas, New York Times bestselling author of Seduce Me at Sunrise "Laura Kinsale has managed to break all the rules...and come away shining." -San Diego Union-Tribune "Magic and beauty flow from Laura Kinsale's pen." -Romantic Times "Readers should be enchanted." -Publish...

Format:PaperbackDimensions:384 pages, 8 × 5 × 0.68 inPublished:August 17, 2012Publisher:SourcebooksLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:1402237022

ISBN - 13:9781402237027

Look for similar items by category:


Rated 4 out of 5 by from A good read Every now and then, I love to buy those little romance novels and they never dissapoint me. This one was really good too. Action, love, intrigue, everything a girl needs to have a satisfying reading time. Great price too !
Date published: 2014-08-19

Extra Content

Read from the Book

Newmarket Heath, 1797 Roderica Delamore clutched hard at the billowing silk folds of her father's pavilion as the horses came pounding down the turf. The blood-bay stallion was in the lead, a flash of living fire, pulling away from the challenger with each ground-eating stride as the crowd's rumble gathered to a piercing howl. The noise and emotion rose up around Roddy like a breaking wave, beating at her, drowning her, crushing the barriers that she'd built in her mind. Her cursed gift laid her open to everything, the sound, the sight, the combined aggression and excitement of ten thousand screaming spectators. The intensity of emotion threatened to overwhelm her, and she tore the silk with her twisting fingers as she sought madly for some way to block it out. Her parents had been right-she should never have come. She should have stayed home on the quiet Yorkshire estate where her father raised his blooded running stock, safe in the country solitude. She was not ready for this; she'd had no concept of what it would be like to suffer the full force of her talent in the grip of a hysterical crowd. In desperation she narrowed her concentration to the animals, pushing away the tide of human feeling with terrific effort. The trick worked. The impact of the crowd faded and changed, becoming a background roar of sound as Roddy let herself be sucked into the mind of the stallion in the lead, the bright bay, whose will and power filled her like a flood of molten fire. Her world became the world of the racehorse: the taste of copper and foam, the smell of sweat and crushed grass and hot wind; stretching, seeking, ears flicked back to the thunder of the challenger, eyes focused on the terrain ahead, reaching and reaching and reaching forward- The sudden pain struck her as if it were her own. It shot down the stallion's left foreleg, and he broke stride for one fraction of a second, sending the jockey's live weight forward onto the horse's shoulders. The whip flashed, not hitting, but the brandishment was enough. The stallion sprang ahead. The pain increased. It grew, spreading across the animal's chest and striking into his neck and right leg. Still he ran, defying it, his stallion's mind set in aggression and pride-stay ahead, stay ahead, damn the pain-while Roddy pressed her fists to her mouth and bit down until her knuckles bled with vicarious agony. In a back corner of her mind she was aware of fear, a human dread of the moment when the great beast would collapse and take down his jockey and the challenger behind in a savage tangle of flesh and hooves. She'd felt this kind of pain before, at home, when an exhausted gelding had collapsed of heart failure after a twenty-mile race between parish steeples. It was death, close and dreadful, and yet the stallion drove on, opening the lead. His stride lengthened, his black-tipped legs devouring turf like the rhythmic spokes of a giant wheel. As he neared the finish, the crowd noise rose to a crescendo. The pair flashed by Roddy. She was screaming, too, hardly aware of the tears that streamed down her cheeks for the animal's pain and courage, for the will that carried him past the finish a full length ahead of his rival, for the spirit that made him toss his head and fight the restraining hand of his jockey when every single step was anguish. She broke from her hiding place in the pavilion, in the rough stableboy's clothes and the cap she'd worn to conceal her bright blond curls, and pushed with unfeminine force through the mob that closed in on the victor. She reached the stallion just as the silk-clad jockey swung off. A groom ran forward to take the puffing animal's bridle; his hand clashed with Roddy's as they both lunged. Roddy's fingers closed first and she tore the reins away. "Yo!" he shouted amid the din, and made a move to yank them back. Roddy screamed, "Don't move him!" forgetting entirely she was supposed to be a boy. "He'll die if you move him now!" "Are ye crazed?" the groom cried. Roddy stumbled under his shove, then gritted her teeth and held her ground. The stallion stood still beside her, awash in pain. He lowered his head, giving in to weakness for the first time, and at that motion the protests of the groom faded momentarily. But the man's pride was aroused now, his authority questioned. Roddy felt the stallion begin to tremble in delayed reaction. The groom made another grab for the reins. He captured them, pushing Roddy aside as he led the horse forward. The stallion faltered, and went to his knees. All around, a dismayed cry flew up, and then a cheer as the horse clambered back to all fours. Roddy gave the groom a savage look. She felt the man's antagonism, sharp and quick as a stabbing knife in the wash of emotion from the crowd. She knew before he did it that he was going to drag the horse forward again. "Damn you! Don't-" she shouted, and found herself cut short by another voice that sliced across the noise. "Leave it, Patrick. Let him stand." Roddy stiffened, unused to being taken by surprise. She did not turn toward the newcomer-that was habit-but opened her special gift to his mind, expecting to pluck out a name and identity before she even saw his face. Instead, she found only blankness. That jolted her. She focused her gift more sharply. But the other remained a silence, a void, as disconcerting as the space where a newly lost tooth should have been. A bubble of panic rose to her throat. For the first time in her life, Roddy felt herself reaching out instead of turning away, probing for emotion or thought instead of rejecting it. When finally she turned, it was as if she could not quite see the man beside her; only a vague figure, tall and elegant in a black coat and doeskin breeches. She spared a single glance up into his face. His features came into focus with a sudden, wrenching clarity. He stood quite still amid the clamor, watching her intently, his eyes a startling blue beneath thick black lashes- light against dark, like the bright evening sky behind stark silhouettes. The expression on his fiercely carved face was closed, set in lines impossible to read. She blinked stupidly and gaped, like a person set down in a foreign country, unable to cope with an unknown tongue. The silence spread to the watching throng, the real silence, the one her ears heard instead of her mind. Shouts and talk faded into hush. And in the crowd-thoughts behind the silence she found a name. Her eyes widened. She looked quickly toward the stranger from under her lashes. Saints preserve us. Iveragh. The Devil Earl of Ireland.