Shores Of Love

Shores Of Love
Alex Ryder

The brave-heart bride!Washed up on the shores of a remote Scottish island, Avalon Rivers was desperate to return home. Only she hadn't taken into account the island's well-known legend - that the Cheif of the Clan's bride would come to him from the sea.The islanders had hailed her as the Cheif's bride-to-be and, what was more, tall, sexy, and rich Fraser of Suilvach, Lord of the Deer and Eagles, was going along with their plans. He had made up his mind, it seemed: Avalon was going to be his bride - whether she liked it or not… !

Table of Contents

Cover Page (#uc4b650ed-2abc-57d6-b6d4-3d26872936a2)

Epigraph (#u4b8f43a4-c87e-5f8c-a166-a3c6e2489483)

About the Author (#u51e1e4d0-4ada-5bba-89af-dba4c75c3f5b)

Title Page (#uba357230-963f-5792-bd37-7a4f9168d2a2)

CHAPTER ONE (#u6e0740dd-ec31-5b17-8305-6e90a62f8dee)

CHAPTER TWO (#ueda78701-79a1-55cb-bcf5-12d9a66dea3c)

CHAPTER THREE (#uc22ecce4-2b3f-5588-847b-fd547d99a290)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

ALEX RYDER

was born and raised in Edinburgh and is married with three sons. She took an interest in writing when, to her utter amazement, she won a national schools’ competition for a short essay about wild birds. She prefers writing romance fiction because at heart she’s just a big softie. She works now in close collaboration with a scruffy old one-eyed cat who sits on the desk and yawns when she doesn’t get it right, but winks when she does.

Shores Of Love

Alex Ryder

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_c5babc25-7abc-50bd-a379-f1b1c0ee3d3e)

AVALON swore under her breath, then clenched her fists and bit her lip in anger. It had happened again! How was it possible? You’d have thought that just for once Fate might have given her a break instead of dropping her in the sludge yet again. You’d have thought that just for once it might have left her to get on with her life in peace. What did it have against her, for heaven’s sake? She was kind to animals and she always gave up her seat in the bus to older people or young mums with kids. But no. Someone up there really seemed to have it in for her. And this time it wasn’t just your common-or-garden-type disaster. She was used to coping with them. This time it was mind-blowingly serious. When someone poked a gun into your ribs and snarled, ‘I’ll deal with you later,’ then pushed you into your cabin and locked the door, you were entitled to break into a cold sweat.

She shivered with apprehension, then took a deep, steadying breath. One thing was for sure. Panic wouldn’t get her anywhere. If she was going to get out of this mess in one piece she’d have to keep her wits about her.

The cabin was tiny and too cramped to pace back and forward so she sat down on her bunk, her green eyes flickering with anger. She’d had a bad feeling about this job right from the start and she should have trusted her instincts. There had been something about Mr Smith and his partner—not to mention their ‘wives’—that hadn’t rung true, but at the time she’d been desperate enough to put her suspicions aside and jump at the chance of working her passage back to England. Anyway, when you were stranded in a foreign country with no money, no passport and nowhere to sleep, your options were pretty limited.

She’d warned them that she was no cordon bleu cook but Mr Smith had assured her that all that would be required of her was plain, simple fare. As long as she could scramble eggs and grill an occasional steak they’d be satisfied.

The lying toad, she thought bitterly. They hadn’t wanted a cook. They’d hired her to be a scapegoat in case anything had gone wrong with their plan and now that she’d found out what they were really up to they were going to make damned sure that she never got the chance to go to the police. They were probably going to dump her overboard when they were far enough away from the coast.

From their point of view it couldn’t have been simpler. Her job was done. No one but they knew that she was aboard this motor-cruiser and if she mysteriously disappeared off the face of the earth there was no way they could be connected with the affair. Anyway, who would miss her enough to make enquiries? Not one single soul that she could think of.

Well, either she could sit here moaning and getting more terrified by the minute as she waited for Mr Smith to return or she could do something about it. Getting resolutely to her feet, she leaned over the bunk and peered through the porthole. It was almost dark but she could see the even darker mass of a coastline barely a quarter of a mile away. Where were they, anyway? It had been five days since they’d left Portugal. Surely they must be near England by now?

The porthole wasn’t very big, but then neither was she. It would be a tight squeeze but she reckoned she could make it. The cabin was right at the stern of the boat, so unless anyone happened to be looking back from the bridge she should be able to get away without being spotted. She was a fairly good swimmer and the sea didn’t appear to be too rough.

If only there were a sign of habitation ashore. A light from a house. Anything. She’d have to get in touch with the authorities and she couldn’t do that if she ended up on some deserted little island. If that happened she’d either die of starvation or exposure.

Suddenly she blinked, and rubbed her eyes and stared towards the land. There! There it was again! A bluish-white light flickering—like a huge candle-flame. It died away but her heart had already given a wild beat of hope. A light meant people…civilisation!

Realising that it was now or never, she quickly unscrewed the brass butterfly nuts and opened the glass cover, then put her arms and head through the opening. Once her shoulders were through she turned awkwardly on her back and reached up. Her scrabbling fingers found the edge of the deck and she pulled and hoisted the rest of her body through the porthole. For a ghastly moment her slim hips got firmly wedged and she could neither get out nor go back in. She kept squirming and struggling and bruising her skin against the hard edges then, like a cork out of a bottle, she popped free.

Six feet beneath her the dark, oily-looking water slid by and she could see the frothy wake astern of the ship. She was in a crouching position, her toes on the bottom lip of the porthole and her fingertips desperately clinging to the deck above. The big danger now was the propellers. She’d have to jump far enough backwards to be clear of them. Raising herself higher, she took a quick look forward towards the bridge to make sure that no one was looking astern then, taking a deep breath, she pushed with her legs and launched herself into space.

The shock as she hit the water drove the breath from her body and she fought and struggled her way to the surface, choking and gasping for air. My God! It was absolutely freezing! Where was she? Iceland? Her teeth began chattering and as she rose on a heavy swell she saw the stern light of the cruiser disappearing into the night

At that moment she was far too concerned with her ability to survive in this icy water to feel any sense of triumph at her escape, and in desperation she struck out for the shore. After a few yards she trod water and kicked off her sandals. It would be better to reach land barefooted than not reach it at all.

A spasm of cramp gripped her thigh muscles and she almost sobbed in despair. The sense of feeling was leaving her fingers and toes and she knew that the numbness would gradually creep all over her until she no longer felt anything. At that point she’d get drowsy and simply give up. It would be the end of everything.

Slowly she drew nearer to the shore and she heard the rumble of the surf dashing against the rocks. Her strength was ebbing fast and she no longer had the energy to swim. She was completely at the mercy of the elements now. She closed her eyes, sobbed and prayed.

The tide swept her relentlessly towards the shore then one wave, larger than the others, bore her high in the air then tossed her carelessly on to a large slab of granite. The receding water surged around her inert body and she felt a sharp pain in her head—and then…nothing.

The dream came later. There was a sensation of floating on a warm, soft cloud and from a great distance she heard a woman’s voice saying, ‘I told you she was coming, didn’t I? From the sea, just like the others. The legend has come true after all.’

‘You say that old Gavin found her?’ That was a man’s voice. Deeply resonant. A voice used to command and demanding respect.

‘Aye. On the rocks just past the point.’

‘But where did she come from?’

‘Does that matter?’

‘Of course it matters, woman. The legend may or may not be true. I’m going to need a lot more evidence than this. Her eyes are half-open. Have you tried talking to her?’

‘It’s concussion. She can’t see or hear anything. All she needs is a good night’s rest and she’ll be as right as rain in the morning—apart from a sore head.’

The man didn’t sound too convinced. ‘You’re sure there are no other injuries? Nothing broken?’

‘Positive. Have a look for yourself.’