Fortune's Prince

Fortune's Prince
Allison Leigh

Once upon a time…There was a beautiful princess, raised in riches but lonely of heart. When Amelia Fortune Chesterfield discovered her Texas roots, she hurried to Horseback Hollow, eager to find her past. And there she found her future….The prince wore spurs and a Stetson and was unlike any man she had ever known. In one magical night, Quinn Drummond transformed the shy, reserved girl into a passionate, feeling woman. But in the morning, the princess had to flee, tearing asunder their happily ever after. The prince, in his anger, retreated. Would a small miracle reunite the gun-shy cowboy with his lady love? Don't miss the heartwarming conclusion of The Fortunes of Texas: Welcome to Horseback Hollow!

MEET THE FORTUNES!

Fortune of the Month:

Amelia Fortune Chesterfield

Age: 23

Vital Statistics: Doelike eyes, ivory complexion. As fragile as a china doll—and in the family way.

Claim to Fame: Did we mention that she’s English royalty?

Romantic Prospects: Many men have pursued her for her title, but will anybody love her for just herself?

“My whole life I’ve been a good girl, following the rules, being a proper princess. But everything changed when I met Quinn in Horseback Hollow. He made me realize what was really important. In his strong cowboy arms I finally felt safe. I never should have gone back to London. Everything went so wrong so fast! Now Quinn is acting like he hates me. How can I possibly tell him I’m carrying his child?”

* * *

The Fortunes of Texas:

Welcome to Horseback Hollow!

Fortune’s Prince

Allison Leigh

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

There is a saying that you can never be too rich or too thin. ALLISON LEIGH doesn’t believe that, but she does believe that you can never have enough books! When her stories find a way into the hearts—and bookshelves—of others, Allison says she feels she’s done something right. Making her home in Arizona with her husband, she enjoys hearing from her readers at Allison@allisonleigh.com (http://Allison@allisonleigh.com) or PO Box 40772, Mesa, AZ 85274-0772, USA.

For all the Fortune Women.

As always, it is an honor to be among you.

Contents

Chapter One (#uff372ecc-a82e-5afe-9db7-59c966264445)

Chapter Two (#u9688c093-7fcf-5316-94f0-8dd5c78fcfb8)

Chapter Three (#u6a3c8464-312d-585d-b5bf-0410acc09c8e)

Chapter Four (#u319a2b72-eb54-5637-975e-ccffc558e784)

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)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

He stopped cold when he heard a faint rustle. The only light there was came from the moonlight sneaking through the barn door that he’d left open behind him.

Standing stock-still, Quinn Drummond listened intently, his eyes searching the black shadows around him. He’d built the barn. He knew it like the back of his hand. He knew the sounds that belonged, and the ones that didn’t. Animal or human, it didn’t matter. He knew.

He reached out his right hand, unerringly grabbing onto a long wooden handle. He’d prefer his shotgun, but it was up in the house. So the pitchfork would have to do.

This wasn’t some damn possum rooting around.

This was someone. Someone hiding out in his barn.

He knew everyone who lived in his Texas hometown. Horseback Hollow was the polar opposite of a metropolis. If someone there wanted something, they’d have come to his face, not skulk around in the middle of the night inside his barn.

His hand tightened around the sturdy handle. His focus followed the rustling sound and he took a silent step closer to it. “Come on out now, because if you don’t, I promise you won’t like what’s gonna happen.”

The faint rustle became a scuffling sound, then the darkness in front of him gathered into a small form.

His wariness drained away. His tight grip relaxed. Just a kid.

He made a face and set aside the pitchfork. “What’d you do? Run away from home?” He’d tried that once, when he was seven. Hadn’t gotten far. His dad had hauled him home and would have tanned his butt if his mother hadn’t stepped in. “Never works, kid,” he advised. “Whatever you think you’re running from will always follow.”

The form shuffled closer; small, booted feet sliding into the faint moonlight, barely visible below the too-long hem of baggy pants. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” the shadow said.

Forget wariness. The voice didn’t belong to a child. It was feminine. Very British. And so damn familiar his guts twisted and his nerves frizzed like they wanted to bust out of his skin. A runaway would have been preferable to this. To her.