Authors: Michelle; Griep
The Captive Heart
The Captive Heart
The Captive Heart
is filled with heart-tripping action and romantic tension between a half-Cherokee frontiersman and a proper English governess. Quickly engaging, fast-paced, and set on the American frontier, the novel reminded me of
The Last of the Mohicans
in all the right ways. Well done, Michelle Griep!
—Julie Klassen, bestselling author
Bold and captivatingly beautiful,
The Captive Heart
is a book destined for accolades. Fans of the movies
The Patriot
and
The Last of the Mohicans
have found new characters to love in Samuel and Eleanor. A masterpiece, from first page to last.
—Elizabeth Ludwig, author of
Tide and Tempest
Reminiscent of the wildness, adventure, and romance of
The Last of the Mohicans, The Captive Heart
sizzles on every page. This is Michelle Griep’s best book yet and one that played out before my eyes like an epic movie I kept wanting to watch over and over.
—MaryLu Tyndall, author of the award-winning
Legacy of the King’s Pirates series
I am adding Michelle Griep to my list of favorite authors!
—Laura Frantz, author of
The Mistress of Tall Acre
This is my first Michelle Griep novel, but it will not be my last. From the opening scene to the final words, Griep kept me spellbound with her lyrical prose and her masterfully drawn characters. Who can resist a pair of misfits who each think they are unworthy of the other? I promise you’ll be thinking about Samuel and Eleanor long after you’ve turned the last page of
The Captive Heart
!
—Kathleen Y’Barbo, bestselling author of the contemporary Pies,
Books & Jesus Book Club series
and the historical Secret Lives of Will Tucker series
Michelle Griep has managed to combine all my favorite story elements into one gorgeous book—
The Captive Heart
is utterly captivating!
—Roseanna M. White, author of the Ladies of the Manor series
Oh, wow! Not enough praise can be given to Michelle Griep’s
The Captive Heart.
This riveting, action-packed adventure set on the American frontier will leave you breathless with its beauty and power. By far, my favorite book of the year.
—Margaret Brownley, author of
Left at the Altar
© 2016 by Michelle Griep
Print ISBN 978-1-63409-783-3
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-785-7
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-784-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover design: Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P. O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683,
www.shilohrunpress.com
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
To the ones who hold my heart captive:
the Savior of my soul,
and the frontiersman who shares my life, Mark.
Chapter 1
London
February 1770
My precious Lord;
My only hope;
My Saviour, how I need You now.
E
leanor Morgan repeated the words, over and over, scrubbing her fingernails more vigorously with each repetition. Prayer was always better than blood. Perhaps if she focused on the simple child’s verse she taught her charges, she wouldn’t feel like heaving. She bit her lip, trapping a scream behind her teeth. A merciless idea. Better had she cried out at the unfairness of it all, for now blood wasn’t merely under her nails. Saltiness warmed the tip of her tongue.
A rap on her chamber door stopped her scrubbing. The nailbrush clattered into the basin, her heart into her stomach. Before she could think, she turned and snatched one of the brass candlesticks off the bureau. Hot wax spilled onto her skin, the pain barely registering. Duke or not, this time she’d do more than scratch the man’s face. Lecher. Beast. She raised the makeshift weapon, the flame extinguishing as the door swung open.
A tiny woman in a lace wrap entered. Eleanor choked. The candlestick slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor.
My precious Lord;
My only hope …
Duchess Brougham’s gaze darted to the rolling candlestick, then back to Eleanor’s face. One of her brows lifted.
Eleanor rushed forward and sank to her knees in front of the woman, not caring to grab a dressing gown to cover her shift. Why bother? Humiliation was cloak enough. “Your Grace, I swear I did not encourage your husband’s advances. Please, you must believe me. I would never—”
“Rise, Miss Morgan.” The lady waited, a single furrow marring her forehead, until Eleanor stood on shaky legs. Was that compassion on her face … or resentment?
Duchess Brougham sighed, long and loud, as if she might expel whatever demon anguished her soul.
Eleanor knew she ought say something, but all her words dried up and blew away like the last leaf of autumn.
Slowly, the lady’s mouth curved into a fragile smile. “Did you not wonder, Miss Morgan, why we have had four governesses in the space of a year?”
Eleanor grimaced. She would have inquired had not pride muddled her thinking. The position of governess in a duke’s household didn’t seem nearly as prestigious anymore. La, what a foolish dolt she’d become.
“You’ll never aspire to anything higher than a trollop, girl.”
The sting of her father’s prophecy slapped her with more brutal force than she’d dealt her employer. She lifted fingertips to her own cheek, coaxing out a whispered confession. “I assumed lack on the part of the other women, Your Grace, and for that I am woefully repentant.”
Duchess Brougham’s eyes glinted with an odd intensity. “The
lack
is in my husband. I had hoped that this time … for you see, the children dearly love you …” Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. “It is a sorry business, but there is nothing to be done for it. For your sake, Miss Morgan, you should leave. Now. Walk out the door and do not come back.”
Leave?
The word made as little sense as finding the undressed duke in her bedchamber earlier. Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself, gaining what comfort might be found in the action. If nothing else, perhaps it would hold together her grip on reality. “But it is the middle of the night, Your Grace. Where am I to go? I have no relations, no one to—”
“You do not understand the severity of the duke’s anger.” Though a head shorter than Eleanor, the lady grew in stature as she lifted her chin. “You have done more than rebuke him. He shall have to account for the scratches on his face at the club tomorrow. The passions grafted onto wounded pride are the most inveterate, and my husband’s appearance
is
his pride. At best, the duke will see you never again work in England. At worst …”
She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. Just last week, Eleanor had heard the downstairs help gossiping about the fate of young Joe. For naught but a cross look at the duke, the lad now resided in a holding cell at Newgate on a trumped-up charge of thievery.
Eleanor retreated to the side of her bed and sank onto the counterpane, grateful to the mattress for holding her up. All her dreams of becoming London’s finest governess had just been yanked from beneath her, the unfairness of it staggering. Fresh tears burned tracks down her cheeks.
“There, there, Miss Morgan.” The duchess took a step toward her, then stopped and clasped her hands. Though Eleanor longed for a comforting touch, the woman would approach no closer. She had already breached propriety by coming to Eleanor’s chamber.
Drawing in a ragged breath, Eleanor gave in to a moment of self-pity, hating how weak she was in light of the lady’s strength and dignity.
“Do not despair so.” The duchess’s words were quiet. Intimate. As if she were speaking as much to herself as to her governess.
Eleanor looked up, surprised to see the lady’s eyes glistening with unshed tears. Indeed, the woman’s face was a portrait of misery, and why not? How awful it must be to live with an unfaithful husband.
“Now then.” The duchess sniffed, her shoulders straightening with the movement. “I have a cousin in Charles Towne, Mr. William Taggerton. I shall send him a missive, posthaste, recommending you. Lord knows his children could use a proper education in that uncivilized land. Book yourself passage, and I shall have him meet you with the fare once you land. The Colonies are the best I can manage on such short notice.”
The Colonies?
Eleanor swallowed back a sour taste. The tales she’d heard! The sideshows she’d glimpsed of savages and ruffians and wild animals. This was where she would spend the rest of her days? A shiver charged across her shoulders, leaving uncertainty in its wake. But besides a beggar’s cup—or debtor’s prison—what choice did she have?
None. For a moment she nearly gave in to opening the cage door to a wild hysteria. But truly, what would that accomplish other than possibly attracting the duke back to this chamber?
Sucking in a breath, she stood. So be it, then. If that were her fate, she’d do her best to not only embrace it but to conquer it. Mayhap across a sea, in a land of foreigners and anonymity, she’d finally be successful at blotting out her father’s words. Indeed. She would be a success or die in the trying.
“I thank you for your kindness, but …” She paused and angled her head for a clear view of the lady’s face. “Why? Why do this for me?”
