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2011, ISBN: 9789727891023
Edição encadernada, ID: 909715634
US: Pocket Books. Mass Market Paperback. 0671739727 Book Description Bronwyn MacArran was a proud Scot. Stephen Montgomery was one of the hated English. He came to Scotland as a conqueror, saw her beauty and was vanquished. But still she would abhor him. She owned a temper hot enough to forge the armors of battle or inflame a valiant soldier's passion. Yet still she would resist him. She became his reason to live, his reason to love. And still she would deny him. But while clan fought clan, while brother took up sword against brother, and the highlands ran with blood -- their destiny was made...and this mighty warrior pledged himself to his woman's pride, her honor and her name -- and made of their love a torch to burn through the ages! Editorial Reviews About the Author Jude Deveraux is the author of more than forty New York Times bestsellers, including Moonlight in the Morning, The Scent of Jasmine, Scarlet Nights, Days of Gold, Lavender Morning, Return to Summerhouse, and Secrets. To date, there are more than sixty million copies of her books in print worldwide. To learn more, visit JudeDeveraux.com. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One 1501 Bronwyn MacArran stood at the window of the English manor house, looking down at the courtyard below. The mullioned window was open against the warm summer sun. She leaned forward slightly to catch a whiff of fresh air. As she did so, one of the soldiers below grinned up at her suggestively. She stepped back quickly, grabbed the window, and slammed it shut. She turned away angrily. "The English pigs!" Bronwyn cursed under her breath. Her voice was soft, full of the heather and mist of the Highlands. Heavy footsteps sounded outside her door, and she caught her breath, then released it when they went past. She was a prisoner, held captive on England's northernmost border by men she'd always hated, men who now smiled and winked at her as if they were intimate with her most private thoughts. She walked to a small table in the center of the oak-paneled room. She clutched the edge of it, letting the wood cut into her palms. She'd do anything to keep those men from seeing how she felt inside. The English were her enemies. She'd seen them kill her father, his three chieftains. She'd seen her brother driven nearly insane with his futile attempts to repay the English in their own kind. And all her life she'd helped feed and clothe the members of her clan after the English had destroyed their crops and burned their houses. A month ago the English had taken her prisoner. Bronwyn smiled in memory of the wounds she and her men had inflicted upon the English soldiers. Later four of them had died. But in the end she was taken, by the order of the English Henry VII. The man said he wanted peace and therefore would name an Englishman as chief of Clan MacArran. He thought he could do this by marrying one of his knights to Bronwyn. She smiled at the ignorance of the English king. She was chief of Clan MacArran, and no man would take her power away. The stupid king thought her men would follow a foreigner, an Englishman, rather than their own chief because she was a woman. How little Henry knew of the Scots! She turned suddenly as Rab growled. He was an Irish wolfhound, the largest dog in the world, rangy, strong, hair like soft steel. Her father had given her the dog four years ago when Jamie'd returned from a trip to Ireland. Jamie had meant to have the dog trained as his daughter's guardian, but there was no need. Rab and Bronwyn took to each other immediately, and Rab had often shown that he'd give his life for his beloved mistress. Bronwyn's muscles relaxed when Rab's growl stopped -- only a friend produced such a reaction. She looked up expectantly. It was Morag who entered. Morag was a short, gnarled old woman, looking more like a dark burl of wood than a human being. Her eyes were like black glass, sparkling, penetrating, seeing more of a person than what was on the surface. She used her lithe little body to advantage, often slipping unnoticed amid people, her eyes and ears open. Morag moved silently across the room and opened the window. "Well?" Bronwyn demanded impatiently. "I saw ye slam the window. They laughed and said they'd take over the weddin' night ye'd be missin'." Bronwyn turned away from the old woman. "Ye give them too much to speak of. Ye should hold yer head high and ignore them. They're only Englishmen, while ye're a MacArran." Bronwyn whirled. "I don't need anyone to tell me how to act," she snapped. Rab, aware of his mistress's distress, came to stand beside her. She buried her fingers in his fur. Morag smiled at her, then watched as the girt moved toward the window seat. She had been placed in Morag's arms when Bronwyn was still wet from her birth. Morag had held the tiny bairn as she watched the mother die. It'd been Morag who'd found a wet nurse for the girl, who'd given her the name of her Welsh grandmother, and who'd cared for her until she was six and her father'd taken over. It was with pride that Morag looked at her charge now nearly twenty years old. Bronwyn was tall, taller than most men and as straight and supple as a reed. She didn't cover her hair like the Englishwoman, but let it flow down her back in a rich cascade. It was raven-black and so thick and heavy it was a wonder her slender neck could support the weight. She wore a satin dress in the English style. It was the color of the cream from the Highland cattle. The square neck was low and tight, showing Bronwyn's firm young breasts to advantage. It fit like skin to her small waist, then belled out in rich folds. Embroidery entwined with thin gold strands edged both the neck and the waist and fell in an intricate waterfall down the skirt. "Do I meet your approval?" Bronwyn asked sharply, still irritated over their quarrel about the English attire. She bad preferred Highland clothes, but Morag persuaded her to wear English garb, telling her to give the enemy no reason to laugh at her in what they referred to as "barbaric dress." Morag chuckled dryly. "I was thinkin' it was a shame no man would be takin' that gown from ye tonight." "An Englishman!" Bronwyn hissed. "Do you forget that so soon? Has the red of my father's blood faded before your eyes?" "Ye know it hasn't," Morag said quietly. Bronwyn sat down heavily on the window seat, the satin of the dress flowing about her. She ran her finger along the heavy embroidery. The dress had cost her a great deal, money that could have been spent on her clan. But she knew they would not have wanted to be shamed before the Englishmen, so she bought dresses that would have been the pride of any queen. Only this gown was to have been her wedding dress. She plucked violently at a piece of gold thread. "Here!" Morag commanded. "Don't destroy the dress because ye're mad at one Englishman. Perhaps the man had a reason to be late and miss his own weddin'." Bronwyn stood up quickly, causing Rab to move protectively to her side. "What do I care if the man never appears? I hope he had his throat cut and lies rotting in some ditch." Morag shrugged. "They'll only find ye a new husband, so what does it matter if this one dies or not? The sooner ye have yer English husband, the sooner we can go back to the Highlands." "It's easy for you to say!" Bronwyn snapped. "It's not you who must wed him and...and..." Morag's little black eyes danced. "And bed him? Is that what's worryin' ye? I'd gladly trade with ye if I could. Think this Stephen Montgomery would notice 'twere I to slip into his bed?" "What do I know of Stephen Montgomery except that he has no more respect for me than to leave me waiting in my wedding dress? You say the men laugh at me. The man who is to be my husband holds me up for their ridicule." She squinted at the door. "Were he to come through there now, I'd gladly take a knife to him." Morag smiled. Jamie MacArran would have been proud of his daughter. Even when she was still held prisoner she kept her pride and her spirit. Now she held her chin high, her eyes flashing with daggers of crystal-blue ice. Bronwyn was startlingly beautiful. Her hair was as black as a moonless midnight in the Scots mountains, her eyes as deep blue as the water of a sunlit loch. The contrast was arresting. It wasn't unusual for people, especially men, to be struck speechless the first time they saw her. Her lashes were thick and dark, her skin fine and creamy. Her lips of dark red were set above her father's chin, strong, square on the tip, and slightly cleft. "They'll think ye're a coward if ye hide in this room. What Scot is afraid of the smirks of an Englishman?" Bronwyn stiffened her back and looked down at the cream-colored gown. When she'd dressed that morning, she thought to be wed in the dress. Now it was hours past time for the marriage ceremony, and her bridegroom had not shown himself, nor had he sent any message of excuse or apology. "Help me unfasten this thing," Bronwyn said. The gown would have to be kept fresh until she did marry. If not today, then at another time. And perhaps to another man. The thought made her smile. "What are ye plannin'?" Morag asked, her hands at the back of Bronwyn's dress. "Ye've a look of the cat that got the cream." "You ask too many questions. Fetch me that green brocade gown. The Englishmen may think I'm a bride in tears at being snubbed, but they'll soon find the Scots are made of sterner stuff." Even though she was a prisoner and had been for over a month, Bronwyn was allowed the freedom of Sir Thomas Crichton's manor. She could walk about the house and, with an escort, on the grounds. The estate was heavily guarded, watched constantly. King Henry had told Bronwyn's clan that if a rescue attempt were made, she would be executed. No harm would come to her, but he meant to put an Englishman in the chiefship. The clan had recently seen the death of Jamie MacArran as well as of his three chieftains. The Scots retreated to watch their new laird held captive and planned what they'd do when the king's men dared to try to command them. Bronwyn slowly descended the stairs to the hall below. She knew her clansmen waited patiently just outside the grounds, hiding in the forest on the constantly turbulent border between England and Scotland. For herself she did not care if she died rather than accept the English dog she was to marry, but her death would cause strife within the clan. Jamie MacArran had designated his daughter as his successor, and she was to have married one of the chieftains who had died with her father. If Bronwyn were to die without issue, there would no doubt be a bloody battle over who would be the next laird. "I always knew the Montgomerys were smart men," laughed a man standing a few feet from Bronwyn. A thick tapestry hid her from his view. "Look at the way the eldest married that Revedoune heiress. He'd hardly got out of his marriage bed when her father was killed and he inherited the earldom." "And now Stephen is following in his brother's footsteps. Not only is this Bronwyn beautiful, but she owns hundreds of acres of land." "You can say what you like," said a third man. His sleeve was empty, his left arm missing. "But I don't envy Stephen. The woman is magnificent, but how long will he be able to enjoy her? I lost this fighting those devils in Scotland. They're only half human, I tell you. They grow up learning nothing but plunder and robbery. And they fight more like animals than men. They're a crude, savage lot." "And I heard their women stink to high heaven," the first man said. "For that black-haired Bronwyn I'd learn to hold my nose." Bronwyn took a step forward, a feral snarl on her lips. When a hand caught her arm, she looked up into a young man's face. He was handsome, with dark eyes, a firm mouth. Her eyes were on a level with his. "Allow me, my lady," he said quietly. He stepped forward to the group of men. His strong legs were encased in tight hose, his velvet jacket emphasizing the width of his shoulders. "Have you nothing better to do than gossip like old women? You talk of things you know nothing about." His voice was commanding. The three men looked startled. "Why, Roger, what's wrong with you?" one asked, then stared over Roger's shoulder and saw Bronwyn, her eyes glittering in stormy anger. "I think Stephen had better come soon and guard his property," one of the other men laughed. "Get out of here!" Roger ordered. "Or shall I draw my sword to get your attention?" "Deliver me from the hot blood of youth," one man said wearily. "Go to her. Come, the outside is cooler. The passions have more room to expand in the out-of-doors." When the men were gone, Roger turned back to Bronwyn. "May I apologize for my countrymen? Their rudeness is based on ignorance. They meant no harm." Bronwyn glared at him. "I fear it is you who are ignorant. They meant great harm, or do you consider murdering Scots no sin?" "I protest! You're unfair to me. I have killed few men in my life and no Scots." He paused. "May I introduce myself? I am Roger Chatworth." He swept his velvet cap from his head and bowed low before her. "And I, sir, am Bronwyn MacArran, prisoner to the English and, of late, discarded bride." "Lady Bronwyn, will you walk with me in the garden? Perhaps the sunshine will take away some of the misery Stephen has foisted upon you." She turned and walked beside him. At least he might keep the guards from tossing rude jests at her. Once they were outside, she spoke again. "You speak Montgomery's name as if you know him." "Have you not met him yourself?" Bronwyn whirled on him. "Since when have I been afforded any courtesy by your English king? My father thought enough of me to name me laird of Clan MacArran, but your king thinks I have too little sense to even choose my own husband. No, I have not seen this Stephen Montgomery, nor do I know anything about him. I was told one morning I was to marry him. Since then he has not so much as acknowledged my presence. " Roger lifted a handsome eyebrow at her. Her hostility made her eyes sp, Pocket Books, 1991, Jonathan Cape, 1993. Paperback. Good. Paperback in good condition, lean to spine where read. 1993 Johathan Cape paperback. In the late 1550s a Basque adventurer named Lope de Aguirre set out in search of El Dorado. He joined an expedition led by Pedro de Ursua and embarked upon a great journey that would take them across the whole width of South America from the Pacific to the Atlantic. In 1987 Stephen Minta set out on the trial of this expedition. Drawing on the writings of the chroniclers of that time, on eye-witness accounts and on more modern literary allusions, he reconstructs the adventure, charting its tempestuous progress along the Amazon where death and destruction lay in its wake. He relives the atmosphere within the ranks as, in the face of increasingly hostile terrain, illness and inadequate supplies, hopes and aspirations give way to treachery and dissent. The author's own journey takes him from Cuzco in Peru, "a city where you can feel the pain of oblivion", across the Andes, through the heart of Amazonia until Peru "vanishes" into Brazil, then to Margarita Island, off the mainland of Venezuela. In each town and village he evokes a strong sense of history which, combined with anecdotes and unexpected encounters, makes this a remarkable story in itself. Minta moves between 16th-century and contemporary South America; he draws parallels as he goes and enriches our understanding of this land and its people, past and present. - used books, secondhand books, out of print books, hard to find books, for sale, second-hand books, college books, student books, nonfiction, first edition, , non-fiction books delivered world wide. Excess postage may be required for books over 1 kg in weight outside the EU. ISBN 0-224-02470-1 0224024701., Jonathan Cape, 1993, Rosyln, New York: Detective Book Club, 1970. Hard Cover. Good/No Jacket as Issued. Rosyln, New York: Detective Book Club, 1970. Good/No Jacket as Issued. Rosyln, New York: Detective Book Club, 1970. Good/No Jacket as Issued. The Case of the Crimson Kiss Earl Stanley Gardner Preoccupation with her own happiness prevented faith Allison from seen a surge of a bitter hatred in Anita's eyes. So Fay, wrapped in the warmth of of romantic thoughts, went babbling on to her roommate, her tone loosened by the double cocktail which Anita had prepared before dinner. " I'd known I loved him for a long time," she said," but honestly, Anita, it never occurred to me that Dane was the marrying kind. He had had that one unfortunate affair, and he'd always seem so detached and objective about things. Of course, underneath all that reserve he's romantic and tender. Anita, on getting a break I don't deserve. " Anita Bonsal, having pushed her dinner plate to one side, toyed with the stem of for a cocktail glass. Her eyes were pinpricks of black hatred which she was afraid to let Fay Allison seat. " you've fix a date?" she asked, concentrating on the rotating basis of the glass. " Just as soon as Aunt Louise can get here. I want her to be with me. I. . . And, of course, I want you, dear . " " Tomorrow or the next day, I think. I haven't heard from her definitely. " El Rancho Rio Mignon G. Eberhart Some time in the night a shrill wail like jerring, high-pitch laughter Mady. For a moment the wicked mockery seemed to encircle her, as if there were malicious faces somewhere near, familiar yet unfamiliar, mocking, too. Then she woke more fully and knew that it was only the Night cry of coyotes. Craig Wilson, her husband, had warned her about them and said not to be alarmed. All the same sounds were eerie and seem very near, but the half-dream of half-seen faces disappeared. Greg had said that some times, especially at the approach of the cold winter months, coyotes loped out, in their queerly awkward yet speedy gait, from the hills or a dry arroyo. They were predatory; they swooped upon on El Rancho del Rio, sometimes, if they could, they stole fowl; usually in the ranch dog drove them away. As she listened, she heard the and indignant and bark of the ranch dog. The high-pitched, jeering coyote laughter died away. It was as if the civilization, in the way of a domestic dog had driven savagery back, at least for the night. 8vo - over 7¾" - 9¾" tall. <br/><br/> <br/><br/>, Detective Book Club, 1970, Novato, California, U.S.A.: New World Library, 2011. Book. Very Good. Trade Paperback. ISBN: 978-1-57731-956-6, Penned numbers to the inside rear cover, very little wear overall. Text is clean. 'After learning to ride horses as an adult, [the author] quit her office job in Washington DC and moved to rural Texas to open the racehorse adoption ranch LOPE (LoneStar Outreach to Place Ex-Racers). Since then, LOPE has helped transition more than 750 thoroughbreds into new homes. In this riveting account, [the author] encounters dozens of unruly racehorses, all with special needs, unusual histories, and distinct personalities. She takes readers for a thrilling ride through the horse-racing world filled with offbeat horse people, colorful Texas culture clashes, veterinary melodramas, and surprising life lessons. Reardon may have saved these horses' lives, but they saved hers as well.' 189 pages.., New World Library, 2011, Verlag des Bibliographischen Instituts, Leipzig, 1870. Hardcover. Good/No Jacket. Set of three books. Seven volumes. Complete. In German throughout. Classic Teutonic font. All half bound in mud-coloured leather with matching cloth faces. The reference number and price apply to ALL three books (full set). Volume 1: "Die Unfange dess Spanischen Theaters von M. Rapp - Der Portugiese Gil Vincente - Der Undaluse Lope de Nueda ; Volume 2: Cervantes'Zwischenspiele von Hermann Kurz - "Das Chegericht" - "Gauners Wittwerstand" - "Die Ulcaldenwahl von Daganzo" - "Der salsche Biscayer" - "Das Wundertheater" - "Die beiden Schlapperzungen" [these comprise book one]. Volume 3: Schauspiele von Lope de Vega I von M Rapp - "Konig Mamba: Ein Boltsschauspiel" - "Der erste Fajardo: Ein historisches Schauspiel" - "Columbus : Ein Boltsschauspiel" - "Demetrius : Ein historisches Schauspiel" ; Volume 4: Schauspiele von Lope de Vega II von M. Rapp : "Die verschmahte Schone: Eine Bolschauspiel" - "Reichthum und Urmuth oder Die Blumen des Don Juan" : Ein Lustspie"- "Die schone Tolederin oder Uber die Brucke geht's durch's Wasser : Ein Lustspiel" - "Zwischenspiele" [these comprise book two]. Volume 5: Schauspiele von Lirjo de Molina von Ludwig Braunfels - "Tirso de Molina (Gabriel Tellez): "Don Juan, der Berfuhrer von Sevilla, oder der steinerne Gast" - "Die fromme Marta: Ein Luftspiel". Volume 6: Schauspiele von Calderon de la Barca von Ludwig Braunfels und Moriz Rapp : "Das Festmahl des Belfazer : Frohnleichnamsspiel" - "Hute dich vor'm stillen Wasser: Ein Luftspiel" - "Gomez Urias: Ein romantisches Schauspiel". Volume 7: Die letzen Bluten der altspanischen Buhne von M Rapp : "Der gestrenge Gerichtsherr : Ein Boltsschauspiel von Moreto" - "Garcia von Castagnar : Ein Boltsschauspiel von Rojas" - "Die verdachtige Wahrheit : Ein Luftspiel von Alarcon" [these comprise the third book]. All three books are benign. They have mild shelving wear and some scuffing. However, they are placid and tidy. The contents have some age-related tanning but are otherwise clean, clear, tight, assured, generous. fk, Verlag des Bibliographischen Instituts, Leipzig, 1870, House of El Dieff, Inc., New York, bookseller's catalogue, 1965. Printed wrappers, papsr cover-label, 4to, 29 cm,.  pp, plates. 65 items. An impressive catalogue, with each item described on a single page and illustrated on the facing page. Among the subjects noted were: Barrie; Besant; Betjeman; Bodenheim; Boisserée; Bratby; Burns; Byron; Churchill; Covarrubias; Cummings; Conan Doyle; Fitzgerald; Flaubert; Flint; France; Franklin; Frost; Gogol; Graves; Green; Hardy; Henley; Hitler; Homer; Robert Herrick's Poetical Commonplace Book; Hugo; Jonson; Joyce; Kennedy; Kitchin; Lawrence; Lin Yutang; Mansfield; Miller; Moore; Picasso; Piranesi; Pope; Portraits & Self-Portraits; Robinson; Rochester; Rouault; Sandburg; Shakespeare; Shaw; Shelley; Steinbeck; Stendhal; Stevenson; Thomas; Tolstoy; Lope de Vega; Walpole; Washington; Werfel; Wolmark; Wright. Wrappers torn at foot of rear joint, otherwise Good., House of El Dieff, Inc., New York, bookseller's catalogue, 1965, 1965, publisher? . Near Fine. 2003. Later Printing. Softcover. 9727891020 . 3a edicao. Pictorial wrappers [about 8" x 7.75"], saddle-stapled, 48 pages. 2 sheets of variously colored, numbered, smiley face stick-ons laid in. Near Fine copy. ., publisher? , 2003
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EAN (ISBN-13): 9789727891023
ISBN (ISBN-10): 9727891020
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Ano de publicação: 2003
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Número ISBN/EAN: 9727891020
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