Product Description
As a half-breed who would never belong to his tribe, he sold himself for food, shelter and survival. As the Savage Lord who would never belong to the ton, he sold himself for social acceptance. As a man with nothing left to lose, he's learned that survival doesn't mean as much as self-respect and he'll never sell himself again. Keeping that vow might cost him his heart, his soul and his future.
Colt grew up under the not so tender care of the stepfather who named him "Sky Who Walks" as a permanent reminder of his blue eyes that proclaim he can never be a real warrior. Disowned by his stepfather for disobedience after he tries to rescue his mother, Sky survives by trading the use of his body to widowed squaws for food and shelter. When the Earl who had abandoned his mother claims his son, Colton Simon Haversham trades the use of his body to society ladies to gain acceptance to the ton. Disowned by his biological father for refusing to step into a marital trap, Colt Star makes his way to California, vowing never to tread English soil again. Tormented by nightmares, Colt makes another vow --that the price of his passage to manhood is one he will never pay again.
The English Earl wants a second chance from the son who doesn't believe in them and crafts a scheme to force Colt into a situation where he needs one himself. The Earl arranges for Colt and his partners to buy a claim, a cabin and a commercial lot in Hangtown, a California gold mining camp. Then he sells the remaining interest in the venture to Lady Viv, an English ice princess whose independent soul craves a future that does not require her to sell herself into a loveless marriage. The father knows his son, and Colt's savage fire melts her ice, but his hatred of cages crafted in the name of love, and his scorn for all things English send the lady fleeing for home.
Can Colt's Gypsy partner and an English Duke gifted with a sixth sense force him to face his love for the lady he scorned? Will Colt tread the soil he foreswore and reconcile with the father who abandoned and disowned him? If he does it might cast Colt back into his darkest nightmares.
Colt grew up under the not so tender care of the stepfather who named him "Sky Who Walks" as a permanent reminder of his blue eyes that proclaim he can never be a real warrior. Disowned by his stepfather for disobedience after he tries to rescue his mother, Sky survives by trading the use of his body to widowed squaws for food and shelter. When the Earl who had abandoned his mother claims his son, Colton Simon Haversham trades the use of his body to society ladies to gain acceptance to the ton. Disowned by his biological father for refusing to step into a marital trap, Colt Star makes his way to California, vowing never to tread English soil again. Tormented by nightmares, Colt makes another vow --that the price of his passage to manhood is one he will never pay again.
The English Earl wants a second chance from the son who doesn't believe in them and crafts a scheme to force Colt into a situation where he needs one himself. The Earl arranges for Colt and his partners to buy a claim, a cabin and a commercial lot in Hangtown, a California gold mining camp. Then he sells the remaining interest in the venture to Lady Viv, an English ice princess whose independent soul craves a future that does not require her to sell herself into a loveless marriage. The father knows his son, and Colt's savage fire melts her ice, but his hatred of cages crafted in the name of love, and his scorn for all things English send the lady fleeing for home.
Can Colt's Gypsy partner and an English Duke gifted with a sixth sense force him to face his love for the lady he scorned? Will Colt tread the soil he foreswore and reconcile with the father who abandoned and disowned him? If he does it might cast Colt back into his darkest nightmares.
From the Inside Flap
The night he latched the flapping door on the fly of his pants didn't differ much from any other night during the ton season.
He stood docile as a well-trained hound while big-bosomed Barbara, also known as Lady Barrington, paused on her way out of the gazebo to slip her hands in the crotch of the pants he was trying to button. He didn't mention that the rushed toilette that repaired her hair and garments didn't do anything to remedy her smell. The odor was almost as much the point as her insistence that he spill some of his load on the damned gown that cost more than a winter's worth of food for a tribe. Odor times two only supplied more proof of her rite of passage - screwing the Savage Lord.
The fondling marked the finale of their rough and tumble romp. When she'd fluffed his staff until it plumped like a well-stuffed sausage, she stood back to survey the results. She nodded and said, "There, that should do it," before she swept through the rear nook and past the shrubbery without a word of farewell. He watched her steps temper like her demeanor so that she was every bit the naughty, haughty bitch as she re-entered the ballroom by a small side door popularly known as the party pass.
Colt snorted as his hands returned to the familiar task of buttoning his loaded pants. He shook out the straight black hair that brushed his shoulders and sauntered out the front entrance. At the top of the terrace steps stood three young lordlings doing the thing that invariably, inevitably and immediately wiped the twinkle from Colt's baby blues. They wore the regal pout - tilted chins, scrunched noses and raised brows. In the hopes of avoiding the sort of confrontation that led to flying fists and hours of lectures from his father, Colt veered to the far side of the stairway. It didn't surprise him much when the lordlings responded by fanning out so he couldn't brush by.
"Who was the second passenger on the red stick tonight, Haversham?" Chilton Asquith asked in the lilting tones of one who's already had a couple too many.
Colt raised his own brows, bit the inside of his cheek and counted to ten, all of which allowed him to respond fairly calmly. "Fuck you, Asswipeth and by the way, you're one off. Since you're keeping score and all."
For him, the response approached the sedate. Colt pushed skinny Chilton aside only to have the other two sturdier lads close ranks. He sighed and stopped.
"Babs Keeworth," Nigel Davies informed the other two. "Saw her sneaking in the party pass just before Walking Dick strutted out the front."
"What the hell did you call me?"
"It's tradition among your people, isn't it?" Ellery Edmonds asked in the entitled tone of one who expected his old man to kick it any time now. "Adopting a name for your most important body part?"
"Most important? It's the only bloody part that the females give a fig about. I hear he does some Injun tricks with that red stick that drive 'em wild," Davies said, giving Colt a sudden shove backward into a small alcove. "Of course, that's not what pisses me off."
Colt's temper didn't wait to hear what pissed off the man grinding him into a wall. He led with his right and jerked his left hand clear of Edmonds' limp-wristed grip. He followed with a left to Davies' slightly chunky gut. It backed the belligerent bastard far enough away for him to take a step forward before running footsteps heralded a newcomer to the group and he winced. He didn't have to look up to know that rescue hadn't arrived. In this crowd, help wasn't coming unless one of the so-called ladies developed a mighty serious itch. The thought pricked him, packing a larger wallop than Barton Quicke's fist. He'd have doubled over himself except that now four sets of hands shoved him into the wall.
"Haversham causing trouble, lads?" Barton asked.
"He's interrupting my explanation of what pisses me off about the females panting after his package," Davies replied. "Now I get to finish. You see, Walking Dick," Davis said, placing a hand on his shoulder that was only half-angry, "I get tea pot ticked that the redskin chants or spells or voodoo you use to mesmerize the fairer sex keeps them adding your name to the guest lists. The females send the invitations."
"My name is on their bloody guest lists because I'm the son of an Earl," Colt snarled. "I have the same status as all of you. After all, I'm a lord too."
The four bloods chortled, their glee nearly allowing him to slip away. But only nearly because they slammed him back against the wall after a half step. At least it got Davies' paw off his shoulder. The part of the paw that hadn't been angry made his stomach churn.
"You're a savage, half-breed who has less blue blood than my bastard whelps," Asquith replied. "All my little bastards at least have British blood."
"You're a lord too," Quicke smiled, shook his head and made a tssking noise with his tongue. "I think you actually believe that you belong. You naive little sod. You're not even the lord of your pants."
He stood docile as a well-trained hound while big-bosomed Barbara, also known as Lady Barrington, paused on her way out of the gazebo to slip her hands in the crotch of the pants he was trying to button. He didn't mention that the rushed toilette that repaired her hair and garments didn't do anything to remedy her smell. The odor was almost as much the point as her insistence that he spill some of his load on the damned gown that cost more than a winter's worth of food for a tribe. Odor times two only supplied more proof of her rite of passage - screwing the Savage Lord.
The fondling marked the finale of their rough and tumble romp. When she'd fluffed his staff until it plumped like a well-stuffed sausage, she stood back to survey the results. She nodded and said, "There, that should do it," before she swept through the rear nook and past the shrubbery without a word of farewell. He watched her steps temper like her demeanor so that she was every bit the naughty, haughty bitch as she re-entered the ballroom by a small side door popularly known as the party pass.
Colt snorted as his hands returned to the familiar task of buttoning his loaded pants. He shook out the straight black hair that brushed his shoulders and sauntered out the front entrance. At the top of the terrace steps stood three young lordlings doing the thing that invariably, inevitably and immediately wiped the twinkle from Colt's baby blues. They wore the regal pout - tilted chins, scrunched noses and raised brows. In the hopes of avoiding the sort of confrontation that led to flying fists and hours of lectures from his father, Colt veered to the far side of the stairway. It didn't surprise him much when the lordlings responded by fanning out so he couldn't brush by.
"Who was the second passenger on the red stick tonight, Haversham?" Chilton Asquith asked in the lilting tones of one who's already had a couple too many.
Colt raised his own brows, bit the inside of his cheek and counted to ten, all of which allowed him to respond fairly calmly. "Fuck you, Asswipeth and by the way, you're one off. Since you're keeping score and all."
For him, the response approached the sedate. Colt pushed skinny Chilton aside only to have the other two sturdier lads close ranks. He sighed and stopped.
"Babs Keeworth," Nigel Davies informed the other two. "Saw her sneaking in the party pass just before Walking Dick strutted out the front."
"What the hell did you call me?"
"It's tradition among your people, isn't it?" Ellery Edmonds asked in the entitled tone of one who expected his old man to kick it any time now. "Adopting a name for your most important body part?"
"Most important? It's the only bloody part that the females give a fig about. I hear he does some Injun tricks with that red stick that drive 'em wild," Davies said, giving Colt a sudden shove backward into a small alcove. "Of course, that's not what pisses me off."
Colt's temper didn't wait to hear what pissed off the man grinding him into a wall. He led with his right and jerked his left hand clear of Edmonds' limp-wristed grip. He followed with a left to Davies' slightly chunky gut. It backed the belligerent bastard far enough away for him to take a step forward before running footsteps heralded a newcomer to the group and he winced. He didn't have to look up to know that rescue hadn't arrived. In this crowd, help wasn't coming unless one of the so-called ladies developed a mighty serious itch. The thought pricked him, packing a larger wallop than Barton Quicke's fist. He'd have doubled over himself except that now four sets of hands shoved him into the wall.
"Haversham causing trouble, lads?" Barton asked.
"He's interrupting my explanation of what pisses me off about the females panting after his package," Davies replied. "Now I get to finish. You see, Walking Dick," Davis said, placing a hand on his shoulder that was only half-angry, "I get tea pot ticked that the redskin chants or spells or voodoo you use to mesmerize the fairer sex keeps them adding your name to the guest lists. The females send the invitations."
"My name is on their bloody guest lists because I'm the son of an Earl," Colt snarled. "I have the same status as all of you. After all, I'm a lord too."
The four bloods chortled, their glee nearly allowing him to slip away. But only nearly because they slammed him back against the wall after a half step. At least it got Davies' paw off his shoulder. The part of the paw that hadn't been angry made his stomach churn.
"You're a savage, half-breed who has less blue blood than my bastard whelps," Asquith replied. "All my little bastards at least have British blood."
"You're a lord too," Quicke smiled, shook his head and made a tssking noise with his tongue. "I think you actually believe that you belong. You naive little sod. You're not even the lord of your pants."
