Pirates

Pirates

Bestselling author Linda Lael Miller sweeps readers away—and through time itself—when a thoroughly modern woman encounters a dangerous, dashing eighteenth-century buccaneer. The result is a sensuous, joyous, utterly heartwarming tale of love. Phoebe Turlow needs to get out of Seattle and forget about the man she just divorced, her dwindling finances, and the lonely nights that stretch ahead of her. But she can’t foresee what awaits her on Paradise Island... Duncan Rourke is known to historians as “the pirate patriot.” He’s been dead for two centuries—or at least he’s supposed to be, until Phoebe Turlow steps out of a van, into a run-down island hotel, and into his world. Neither Phoebe nor her sexy pirate can envision the glorious adventure that is about to unfold. They understand only that they have found each other, and a grand passion, across the chasm of time...and they fear only the moment when the magic they have discovered may vanish. Passionate, emotional, and completely entrancing, Pirates will steal your heart. ""Pirates" is Linda Lael Miller at her scintillating best." -- Harriet Klausner, "Affaire de Coeur" The daughter of a town marshal, Linda Lael Miller is a #1 New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of more than one hundred historical and contemporary novels, most of which reflect her love of the West. Raised in Northport, Washington, Linda pursued her wanderlust, living in London and Arizona and traveling the world before returning to the state of her birth to settle down on a horse property outside Spokane. Published since 1983, Linda was awarded the prestigious Nora Roberts Lifetime Achievement Award in 2007 by the Romance Writers of America. She was recently inducted into the Wild West Heritage Foundation's Walk of Fame for her dedication to preserving the heritage of the Wild West. When not writing, Linda loves to focus her creativity on a wide variety of art projects. Visit her online at LindaLaelMiller.com and Facebook.com/OfficialLindaLaelMiller. Chapter One When the dog deserted her and moved in with Jeffrey and his new bride, it was, for Phoebe Turlow, the proverbial last straw. She had weathered the divorce well enough, considering how many of her dreams had come crashing down in the process. She'd even been philosophical about losing her job as a research assistant to Professor Benning, at a time when finding a comparable position was virtually impossible, given recent government budget cuts. After all, the professor had been writing and lecturing on the subject of American History at Seattle College for forty-five fruitful and illustrious years; he was ready, by his own admission, to spend his days reading, fishing, and playing chess. Phoebe had held herself together, through it all. And now even Murphy, whom she'd rescued from the pound as a mangy, slat-fibbed mongrel and carefully nursed back to health, had turned on her. She lowered the telephone receiver slowly back into its cradle, gazing at the dismal Seattle rain sheeting the window of her rented house. The glass reflected a hazy, pixielike image of a woman with short chestnut hair, large blue eyes, high cheekbones, and fair skin. But Phoebe was looking through herself, mentally reliving the phone call she'd just received. Heather, Wife Number Two and widely proclaimed light of Jeffrey's life, hadn't been able -- she probably hadn't even tried -- to suppress the smug note in her voice when she called to relay the news that the hound of hell was "safe and sound" in their kitchen. To hear Heather tell it, that furry ingrate had crossed a continent, fording icy rivers and surmounting insurmountable obstacles, enduring desperate privations of all sorts -- Phoebe could almost hear the theme music of a new movie, rated G, of course. Murphy, Come Home. Muttering to herself, Phoebe crossed the worn linoleum floor, picked up the dog's red plastic bowl, and dumped it into the trash, kibbles and all. She emptied the water dish and tossed that away as well. Then, running her hands down the worn legs of her blue jeans and feeling more alone than ever before, Phoebe wandered into her small, uncarpeted living room and stared despondently out the front window. Mel, the postman, was just pulling up to her mailbox in his blue and white jeep. He tooted the horn and waved, and Phoebe waved back with a dispirited smile. Her unemployment check was due, but the prospect didn't cheer her up. If it hadn't been for her savings and the small amount of insurance money she'd received when her mother and stepfather were killed in a car accident years ago, Phoebe figured she would have been sitting on a rain-slicked sidewalk down by the Pike Place Market, with a cigar box in front of her to catch coins. Okay, she thought, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration. She could last for about six months, if she didn't get a new job soon, and then she would join the ranks of Seattle's panhandlers. An inspiring prospect, for