Mad Dash to Gretna Green (Fenland Historical Romances)

A mad dash. A mistaken heart. A marriage worth waiting for.

In 1802 England, Luna Morris believes she knows her heart — and it belongs to Alfred Sharpe, the dashing neighbor her parents disapprove of. They prefer his more sensible brother, Neville, but Luna is determined to follow her own path. When Alfred proposes an elopement to Gretna Green, she leaps at the chance for romance and freedom.

But the journey is anything but simple. A green-cloaked horseman haunts their route, mysterious cards marked with a musical note appear in odd places, and Luna begins to question Alfred’s character — and his motives. As secrets unravel and danger draws closer, Luna must confront not only the truth about the man she thought she loved, but also what real love truly looks like.

Set against the misty landscapes of the English Fens and the rugged roads to Scotland, Mad Dash to Gretna Green is a spirited historical romance filled with wit, mystery, and heart.

Start reading Mad Dash to Gretna Green today and discover where Luna's heart truly leads.

Excerpt from the book

IN WHICH SARAH EDUCATES ME ABOUT MEN AND I MEET ALFRED SHARPE

“Men are simple things,” Sarah told me seriously. “They have simple pleasures and desires. Always remember that.”

I nodded, bowing to Sarah’s superior knowledge of such matters. Sarah Gotobed was every man’s dream of a girl – or woman, rather, although she had not yet attained the age of twenty-one. I never understood who decided twenty-one was such an important milestone in somebody’s life. Still, we all longed to attain such an eminent age, yet simultaneously worried that we would not find a man by then and would remain an old maid, sitting on the shelf gathering dust. Worry always hides behind smiles, and youth may not be as carefree as our memories suggest.

“I’ll tell you how to handle a man.” Sarah leaned closer. She was tall and blonde, with a face like peaches and cream, wide blue eyes, and cupid’s bow lips that invited a man to kiss her. All the Fens knew that Sarah was no better than she ought to be, yet all the Fens loved her, especially the young and single Fen men. It was impossible not to like Sarah unless one competed for the same man.

“How do we handle a man?” I asked, intrigued.

“Praise everything that they do,” Sarah told me. “Give them all the attention they desire, and you can twist them around your little finger. But gently. Men like a softly spoken woman. Let them think they are in charge while bending them to your will.”

I listened, wishing I had Sarah’s depth of knowledge, for I was unsure how to progress my friendship with the unbelievably handsome Alfred Sharpe.

“Love is a game,” Sarah informed me, smiling with her perfect lips. “We allow men to chase us until we catch them. Play the game to the end, Luna; snare your man and hold him tight.” She laughed, twirled a strand of hair through her fingers and held it across her eyes. “Play on his heartstrings and other attributes,” she said coyly, “never reveal all you have until you are sure you have him where you want him and then—” she clapped her hands together and made me start, “you have won the game. Silk, satin and steel. Beguile him with your silk and satin and hold him with your steel.”

I listened to Sarah’s words. Sarah was the queen of our little corner of the Fens, our guardian to the ways of the heart and a font of romantic wisdom. At least to my generation.

I was young then and ready for mischief and the game of love. I shuffled the pack and dealt the cards, looking for the queen and king of hearts, without care that somebody could draw an ace while trumps defeated all.

Before I begin my story, I must give you some background, so you know where we are situated and the period in which my tale unfolded. The latter is easy. The nineteenth century was only a few years old, the third King George was on the throne, and we were all patriotic British subjects. It was treason to be anything else, you see, when our old enemy of France loomed over us like a republican spectre, sharpening its claws and looking for an opening to strike.