{"product_id":"mad-jack-isbn-9780515124200","title":"Mad Jack","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe fifth book in the Bride Saga from the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWinifrede disguises herself as a male valet to Grayson St. Cyre’s aunts, but when Grayson discovers the truth, he uncovers feelings he never imagined\u003cbr\u003ehe possessed.\"Coulter is excellent at portraying romantic tension between her heroes and heroines.\"\u003cb\u003e -\u003ci\u003eMILWAUKEE JOURNAL\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A good storyteller…Coulter always keeps the pace brisk.”—\u003ci\u003eFort Worth Star-Telegram\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ms. Coulter is a one-of-a-kind author who knows how to hook her readers and keep them coming back for more.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Best Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Coulter is excellent at portraying the romantic tension between her heroes and heroines, and she manages to write explicitly but beautifully about sex as well as love.”—\u003ci\u003eMilwaukee Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Coulter instinctively feeds our desire to believe in knights in shining armor and everlasting love—historical romance at its finest.”—BookReporter.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the genre’s great storytellers.”—\u003ci\u003eKansas City Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the masters of the genre.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Newark Star-Ledger\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Catherine Coulter is one of the best authors of exciting thrillers writing today.”—\u003ci\u003eMidwest Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eCatherine Coulter\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the FBI Thrillers featuring husband and wife team Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock. She is also the author—with J. T. Ellison—of the Brit in the FBI series. She lives in Sausalito, California.St. Cyre Town House\u003cp\u003eLondon, 1811\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMarch 25th GRAYSON ALBEMARLE ST.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCyre, Baron Cliffe, read the single page one more time,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethen slowly crumpled it in his hand. Some letter, he\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethought, as he threw the ball of paper into the fireplace.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot many words on the page, but most of the few there\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewere vicious and malevolent. He watched the paper slowly\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecrinkle around the edges, then burst into bright flame.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe walked out of the drawing room and down the long\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecorridor toward the back of his home. He opened the door\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto the library—his room—all somber and warm and filled\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith books and little else. The heavy, dark gold velvet draperies\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewere drawn tightly against the night, the fire low and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esluggish because none of the servants had known he would\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebe coming into this room at this time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey all thought he’d left five minutes before to visit his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emistress.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe thought of the damned letter and cursed, but not as\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efluently as his father had when he was so drunk he could\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003escarcely walk. He sat down at his desk and took a piece of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efoolscap from the top drawer, dipped the quill into the ink\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epot, and wrote: If I receive another threat from you, I will\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etreat you as you deserve. I will beat you senseless and leave\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou in a ditch to die.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe signed his initials, GSC, slowly folded the paper, and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eslid it into an envelope. He walked to the elegant Spanish\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etable that sat against the wall in the entrance hall and placed\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe envelope onto the ancient silver salver that his butler,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eQuincy, cleaned every other day, at one o’clock in the afternoon,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewithout fail.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe wondered as he walked in the cold, clear, early spring\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enight to the apartment of his sweet Jenny what would happen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enow.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eProbably nothing. Men of Clyde Barrister’s stamp were\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecowards.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCarlisle Manor\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNear Folkstone\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMarch 29th\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere was nothing more to say, damn her. He was panting\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith rage at her, the ungrateful little bitch. He couldn’t help\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehimself. He raised his hand to strike her, then got hold of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehimself. ‘‘If I hit you, Carlton will know it and perhaps not\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewant you.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe whimpered, her head down, her hair straggling long\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand tangled and sweaty down the sides of her face.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘Silent at last, are you? I never thought I’d see you mute\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas a tree. It’s refreshing for once not having to listen to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyour complaints and see those looks of yours. Silence and\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esubmissiveness are very charming in women, in you especially,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethough I’m just now seeing them for the first time.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWell, perhaps it’s over, eh? Yes, you’ve finally given up.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eYou won’t go against me anymore.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe said not a word. When he grabbed her chin in his\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehand and forced her head up, there were tears in her eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut still he frowned. He stared down at her hard, still\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebreathing hoarsely from his pacing and yelling. But his face\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas no longer as flushed as it had been a minute before,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand his voice no longer trembled with rage when he spoke.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e‘‘You will marry Sir Carlton Avery. He will return tomorrow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emorning. You will smile shyly at him and tell him that\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit is your honor to become his wife. I have given him my\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eblessing. The marriage settlements are agreed upon. Everything\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis done. You will not disobey me, or when I next see\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyou, I will make you very sorry.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe grabbed her chin again, saw the tear streaking down\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher cheeks, and smiled. ‘‘Good,’’ he said. ‘‘Tonight you\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewill bathe and wash your hair. You look like a slut from\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDrury Lane.’’ He swiftly left her bedchamber, humming\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith his victory. Still, because he didn’t want her to forget\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat he was serious, he slammed the door behind him. She\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eheard his key grate in the lock. She heard his heavy-booted\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efootsteps receding down the long corridor. She drew in a\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edeep breath, looked upward, and said, ‘‘Thank you, God.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThank you, God.’’\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe’d forgotten to retie her hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe lifted her hands, looked at the ugly, raw bruises on\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher wrists, and began to rub feeling back into them. She\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebent over to untie her ankles, then rose slowly from the\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003echair where she’d been trussed up like a criminal for three\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edays. She relieved herself and quickly downed two glasses\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof water from the carafe that sat on her bedside table. Her\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebreathing calmed. She was very hungry. He hadn’t allowed\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher any food since the previous evening.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut he’d forgotten and left her hands untied. Perhaps he\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehadn’t forgotten. Perhaps he believed he’d finally broken\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher and tying her hands didn’t matter. Well, she’d tried to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emake him believe that. To hold her tongue had cost her\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edearly. To squeeze tears out of her eyes hadn’t proved so\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edifficult.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWould he come back? That got her into action more\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003equickly than having Farmer Mason’s bull Prixil racing toward\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher across the south field would have. She had to\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eleave in the next three minutes, perhaps sooner.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe’d thought of this so often during the long hours of\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe past three days, had meticulously planned it, modified\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher plans, pictured everything she would be able to carry\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the small, light valise.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe next two minutes she spent tying the ends of her\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etwo sheets together, slinging them out of the second-floor\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewindow, and praying that she would fit through the tall,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enarrow opening. No doubt she was thinner now than she\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehad been three days ago. She’d stared at that window off\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eand on during the past three days, knowing it was her only\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eway out. She would have to squeeze through it. She had\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eno choice at all.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe managed, barely. When she was dangling six feet\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabove the ground, she looked briefly back up at her bedchamber\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewindow, then smiled. She let go and rolled when\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe landed on the soft, sloping ground. When she stopped,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshook herself, and found that she’d gained only a few\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebruises from her jump, she looked back at her home once\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emore, its lines soft and mellow beneath the brilliant light\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof the half-moon. A lovely property, Carlisle Manor, one\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat had belonged to her father, Thomas Levering Bascombe,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enot this bastard, not this man who’d married her\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emother after her father had died. And now Carlisle Manor\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas his, all his, and there was nothing anyone could do\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWith luck she wouldn’t be missed until the morning. Unless\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe remembered and came back to tie her hands. Then\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethings would be a bit more difficult.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAt least Georgie was far away from here, all the way up\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat York, and thus would be safe from their stepfather’s rage\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen he discovered that his pigeon had escaped the cage.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis pigeon also knew where to go.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305076740325,"sku":"NP9780515124200","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780515124200.jpg?v=1767732019","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/mad-jack-isbn-9780515124200","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}