The Bride's Rescuer Read online

  “I love you, Celia. Marry me.”

  With happiness coursing through her, Celia sat up and stared at him. “You’re serious?”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

  Cameron’s response stunned her into silence. She wanted nothing more than to remain on Solitaire with him, but she wondered why he’d undergone yet another change of heart.

  He grasped her shoulders, then slid his hands down the length of her arms. She responded to his touch with a shiver of pleasure, an echo of what they’d just shared.

  “If you remain on Solitaire,” he said, “it must be because you love me. I couldn’t bear having you here if you didn’t return my love.”

  She lifted her lips to his once more, then after a long moment pulled away. “I do love you, Cameron, and I will marry you.”

  He pulled her down beside him, sculpting his body to hers like nesting spoons. “Sleep well, Celia. We have much to do tomorrow.”

  In the warm shelter of his arms she fell instantly asleep.

  Had she known what the future held for her, she wouldn’t have slept at all.

  Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

  Deck the halls with romance and suspense as we bring you four new stories that will wrap you up tighter than a present under your Christmas tree!

  First we begin with the continuing series by Rita Herron, NIGHTHAWK ISLAND, where medical experiments on an island off the coast of Georgia lead to some dangerous results. Cole Hunter does not know who he is, and the only memories he has are of Megan Wells’s dead husband. And why does he have these intimate Memories of Megan?

  Next, Susan Kearney finishes her trilogy THE CROWN AFFAIR, which features the Zared royalty and the treachery they must confront in order to save their homeland. In book three, a prickly, pretty P.I. must pose as a prince’s wife in order to help his majesty uncover a deadly plot. However, will she be able to elude his Royal Pursuit of her heart?

  In Charlotte Douglas’s The Bride’s Rescuer, a recluse saves a woman who washes up on his lonely island, clothed only in a tattered wedding dress. Cameron Alexander hasn’t seen a woman in over six years, and Celia Stevens is definitely a woman, with secrets of her own. But whose secrets are more deadly? And also join Jean Barrett for another tale with the Hawke Family Detective Agency in the Christmastime cross-country journey titled Official Escort.

  Best wishes to all of our loyal readers for a “breathtaking” holiday season!

  Sincerely,

  Denise O'Sullivan

  Associate Senior Editor

  Harlequin Intrigue

  THE BRIDE’S RESCUER

  CHARLOTTE DOUGLAS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Charlotte Douglas has loved a good story since she learned to read at the age of three. After years of teaching that love of books to her students, she now enjoys creating stories of her own. Often her books are set in one of her three favorite places: Montana, where she and her husband spent their honeymoon; the mountains of North Carolina, where they’re building a summer home; or Florida, near the Gulf of Mexico on Florida’s west coast, where she’s lived most of her life.

  Books by Charlotte Douglas

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  380—DREAM MAKER

  434—BEN’S WIFE

  482—FIRST-CLASS FATHER

  515—A WOMAN OF MYSTERY

  536—UNDERCOVER DAD

  611—STRANGER IN HIS ARMS*

  638—LICENSED TO MARRY

  668—MONTANA SECRETS

  691—THE BRIDE’S RESCUER

  HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

  591—IT’S ABOUT TIME

  623—BRINGING UP BABY

  868—MONTANA MAIL-ORDER WIFE*

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Cameron Alexander—A compellingly handsome and enigmatic British exile, the owner of Solitaire Island.

  Celia Stevens—Flees from marriage with one dangerous man only to end up in potentially greater peril.

  Mrs. Givens—Cameron’s devoted housekeeper, who has raised him from an infant.

  Noah—Cameron’s handyman, another exile with secrets of his own.

  Darren Walker—Celia’s fiancé with a deadly past.

  Jack Utley—A hired killer.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Prologue

  Celia Stevens stood before the cheval mirror in the bride’s parlor of the Chapel by the Sea, smoothing the satin skirt of her Vera Wang gown and adjusting her flowing veil with a trembling hand.

  She’d bought the dress on impulse, the first one she’d tried on. But that whim had turned out okay, she assured herself. She’d purchased her bookstore, Sand Castles, on impulse too, and the business was headed for success. Another impulse had compelled her to agree with Darren, her fiancé, to move up the date of their wedding to October, not waiting for the June ceremony she’d always dreamed of. She’d been spontaneous all her life, rushing headlong into one experience after another, and so far everything had turned out fine.

  So why was she feeling today as if her luck was about to run out?

  “Are you okay?” Tracey Morris, her best friend and maid of honor, hovered behind her, and Celia could read the concern in Tracey’s brown eyes in the reflecting glass.

  “Sure,” Celia said with a bravado she didn’t feel. She couldn’t meet her own gaze in the mirror. The trepidations she was experiencing were the normal prewedding jitters, that’s all. “It’s my wedding day. The happiest day of my life.”

  “Is it?”

  Celia whirled and faced her friend. “Of course.”

  She didn’t sound convincing, even to herself, and she could tell Tracey wasn’t buying her declaration. “I’m marrying a man who loves me, who’s thoughtful, kind—”

  “Who gives you goose bumps and makes you hear bells ring and see fireworks when he walks into a room?” Tracey prodded.

  “That’s the stuff of fairy tales,” Celia insisted. “We’re mature adults—”

  “Hogwash,” Tracey muttered loudly. “This is marriage we’re talking about, not a business contract. Do you love him, Cel?”

  “There’re all kinds of love. I care about Darren. Just not in the Hollywood head-over-heels fashion you seem to think so important.”

  Celia sank into the nearest chair, heedless of wrinkling the bridal satin. She’d had this same conversation with Tracey many times before, and each time she’d begged her friend not to broach the subject again. She couldn’t blame Tracey, however, for her skepticism. Celia had misgivings of her own. Ever since her parents had died in that horrendous car crash, she’d been alone. When Darren Walker had entered her life and offered marriage and a family, Celia, sick and tired of solitude, had leaped at his proposal. A home, a husband, and the prospect of children promised to fill the void left by her parents’ deaths.

  Now that the hour of her wedding was almost upon her, however, her confidence that she’d made the right decision was wavering. Tracey’s probing questions only fed Celia’s uncertainty. But she’d come too far to back out now. The wedding gifts had been opened, the church was filled with relatives and friends, the yacht club decorated for the reception, and in just ten minutes, Darren would be waiting for her at the altar.

  “You’ve always been my best friend.” With a rueful smile, Tracey shook her head and held ou
t the skirt of her gown. “For no one else would I wear this bilious shade of pink.” Her expression sobered. “But I think you’re making a terrible mistake. It’s not too late to call it off.”

  For an instant, Celia almost agreed, but Darren was such a sweet man, she couldn’t desert him. She wouldn’t leave him standing at the altar like some pathetic character in a television sitcom.

  “I’m marrying Darren,” she declared, as much to shore up her own courage as to assure Tracey.

  With a resigned shake of her head, Tracey headed toward the door. “Our bouquets are in the refrigerator in the church kitchen. When I bring them back, it’s show time.”

  Her friend slipped out the door, and Celia clasped her hands in her lap to cease their trembling. Was she doing the right thing? She’d had niggling doubts from the day she’d accepted Darren’s proposal, but she’d always managed to shove them aside by considering the positive aspects of marriage to him. He was handsome, wealthy, well-mannered, well-educated…she ran through his attributes like a mantra, hoping to staunch the panic welling within her.

  With a start, she realized she was no longer alone in the room. A middle-aged woman with elegantly coifed graying hair stood just inside the parlor door. From the cut of her designer suit and the jewels on her fingers, Celia guessed her to be one of Darren’s guests.

  Celia rose to her feet. “If you’re looking for the sanctuary—”

  “I’m looking for you,” the woman said. “You are Celia Stevens, aren’t you?”

  Celia nodded. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s not important. Time is running out. You can’t marry that man.”

  “Darren?”

  The woman grimaced. “Is that what he’s calling himself these days?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The woman moved closer. “When he married my daughter, his name was David Weller.”

  Celia felt as if she’d entered a twilight zone. The woman seemed too self-possessed, too rational to be crazy. “Darren’s never been married.”

  At least that’s what he’d told her, and he’d never given her reason to doubt him. Or had he?

  Celia’s thoughts whirled in confusion.

  The woman nodded grimly. “Of course, that’s what he told you.” She slipped an expensive handbag from beneath her arm, opened it, and extracted a newspaper clipping. “See for yourself.”

  Celia took the paper from the woman and walked toward the window. The late afternoon sunlight fell on the newsprint, a photograph of a bride and groom with the heading, “Seffner-Weller Wedding.” The groom staring back at her was Darren Walker. Or his double.

  “There must be some mistake,” Celia said, feeling as if the floor had dropped out from under her.

  “There is,” the woman insisted, “and you’re making it.”

  Confused, Celia shook her head and sagged onto the sofa. “This can’t be Darren.”

  “It is. I watched him entering the pastor’s study. It’s the same man, all right.”

  “Why did your daughter divorce him?”

  “She didn’t.”

  Celia’s eyes widened and her stomach lurched. “You mean Darren is still married?”

  Terrible pain and sudden tears filled the woman’s eyes. “He’s a widower.”

  Relief flooded through her. At least Darren wasn’t a bigamist. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as you’ll be if you go through with this. He murdered my daughter.”

  Her nausea returned, and Celia rubbed her eyes with her fists. “You must be mistaken. If he’s a murderer, he’d be in jail.”

  “He’s a clever murderer, and an even better con man.”

  “Look, Mrs. Seffner, I’m sorry for your loss, but—”

  “Listen to me, girl. If my own daughter had listened, she’d still be alive today. Did you sign a pre-nuptial agreement?”

  Celia shook her head. “It seemed pointless. Darren has more money than I—”

  “My daughter’s money, left to her by her paternal grandfather. David—Darren refused to sign the agreement I insisted upon, and my poor daughter was too besotted to care. Just weeks after the wedding, she died in a boating accident on the lake near their home. David found her. Her death was suspicious, but no one’s been able to prove he did it—yet.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Six months. David disappeared after the funeral. I’ve been searching for him ever since.”

  Celia reeled with shock. Darren had entered her life only five months ago, just a short time after her parents’ death. She had thought his willingness to help settle her parents’ affairs had been kindness, but in looking back, she recognized his intense interest in their estate.

  And her inheritance.

  The newspaper clipping was testament to his untruthfulness. Why hadn’t he told her of his previous marriage? What else hadn’t he told her?

  The woman stepped forward and tipped Celia’s chin until their eyes met. “I know your mother’s gone, so I’m begging you in her name, don’t go through with this wedding. Take time to investigate what I’ve told you.”

  She smoothed a strand of hair from Celia’s face in a gesture that reminded her so much of her own mother, she had to fight back tears. The stranger then pivoted on her expensive high heels and left the room.

  In the solitude, Celia’s doubts swelled and multiplied. Snippets of formerly harmless conversations with Darren replayed in her memory, laden now with sinister implications. He had no family, he’d told her. And he’d been vague about his work. Investments, he’d called it. Nothing exciting. Nothing she’d want to hear about. He’d traveled in his work, never really settling down, so there was no place he called home. And most of his close friends and business associates were traveling out of the country and would be unable to attend the wedding. She had swallowed his explanations and excuses whole, never dreaming they might not be the truth.

  Suddenly, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She hurried to the parlor door and into the corridor. Running as if the devil himself were after her, bridal gown lifted to her knees and her veil trailing in the wind, she raced from the church, sprinted through the filled parking lot, and dodged traffic as she crossed the main road that bisected the beach community. Avoiding the clubhouse at the yacht club, she followed the pathway to the marina at its rear and thundered down the dock toward the farthest slip.

  Her father’s sailboat, a classic 32-foot Morgan, was moored in its usual spot. With shaking hands, Celia disengaged the lines, tossed them onboard, and leaped onto the deck. Within minutes, she had the auxiliary engines started and was moving the boat into the channel.

  Suddenly the voice of the harbormaster, a man she’d known since she was a child, sounded over the public address system. “Celia, return to port. There’s a storm brewing.”

  She’d weathered storms in the Morgan before. Returning to port meant facing Darren, a man with possible homicidal tendencies, and over fifty curious wedding guests. Returning also meant dealing with the ominous accusations of the strange woman, Mrs. Seffner. And worst of all, returning meant admitting to herself that she’d almost married a man she didn’t love.

  A storm, the harbormaster had warned. Maybe that was just what she needed. A big wind to blow all her troubles away.

  As soon as Celia reached the channel, she raised the sails and headed west into the Gulf of Mexico and the gathering storm.

  Chapter One

  “Is she dead?”

  The deep drawling voice invaded Celia’s consciousness, and dead ricocheted in her mind like a frightened bird in a too-small cage. She couldn’t be dead. A dead person felt nothing. Her ribs ached. Her head pounded. Her arms and legs throbbed. Her skin burned from the scorching sun, but she shivered in the cool breeze.

  The coolness of a shadow fell across her, blocking the sun’s assault, and strong, gentle fingers probing her neck for a pulse pressed her cheek deeper into hot sand. She winced as breaking waves of saltwater stung
her lacerated ankles.

  All around her a peculiar blackness vibrated with shifting lights, shapeless moats of brightness and color that ebbed and flowed like the water at her feet. Weariness seeped through her, making her eyelids too heavy to open. She wanted to cover her ears to block the relentless roar of the surf, but her hands refused to respond. Exhausted, she settled deeper into the soft, hot sand and drifted back into darkness.

  “You gonna have to pry her hands off that board.” The voice roused her once more, and awe tinged the words, uttered in a thick and lazy Southern drawl. “Hanging on to it’s probably the only thing saved her.”

  “Dear God, why did you send her here?” A second deep, rich voice, this one with a cultured British accent, rang with torment, and gentle fingers traced the curve of her jaw and cupped her face. “Careful with her hands, Noah.”

  Someone loosened her fingers from an object she hadn’t known they clasped, and she cried out in pain. The second man wrapped her in a garment—his shirt?—and her shivering eased. Strong arms lifted her from the sand and cradled her against a warm, hard body. The heat from his skin warmed her, and her shivering ceased.

  “Rest easy, miss. We’ll take good care of you.”

  The tenderness in the masculine British voice soothed her more than his words. The comforting rhythm of his heartbeats thudded where her cheek rested on his bare chest, and she relaxed in his embrace and opened her eyes. She focused slowly on a strong, tanned jaw, generous mouth, classic nose and wide amber eyes combined in a face so handsome it took her breath away.

  Her sudden intake of air drew his attention, and her rescuer glanced down at her. His remarkable tawny eyes filled with tenderness.

  Before she could ask his name, he called to the other man, the one he’d called Noah.

  “I’m taking her to Mrs. Givens,” the Englishman stated. “She’ll care for her, but I want this woman kept out of my sight. Lock her in her room if she has to.”

  Celia struggled to reconcile the strangeness of his words with the tenderness she had seen in his expression. Maybe a blow to the head had addled her brains. Why would he want her locked away? She was in no shape to be a threat to anyone.