THE CAPTIVE HEART - Michelle Griep - One Free Book

I lived in the �hood growing up, so my mom didn�t allow me to go anywhere by myself. Ever. One morning I was in the front yard playing by myself. A school bus pulled up to the curb and the driver swung open the door. He said, �Hey, little girl, do you want to go to Sunday school?� I didn�t know what that was but it sounded better than pushing my baby doll around in a stroller. I ran in the house and asked if I could go, and lo and behold . . . my mom said yes. Reflecting back on this event, that was a miracle of Red Sea proportion because that woman seriously never let me go anywhere. I attended Sunday school that day and every week thereafter, hearing about Jesus, and never doubting a word of it.

Carl Sandburg, which may be tricky since he�s dead. But his poetry blows me away. His rhythm. His perspective. Awesome.

Okay, back to the living. I kind of have a literary crush on Travis Thrasher. He has a way of describing everyday things we take for granted in a fresh, new way. I want to learn how to do that.

MaryLu Tyndall is one of my favorite historical romance writers. I�d invite her because she�s one of the sweetest, most gracious people I�ve ever met. She�s such an encouragement.

Anne Voskamp, while not a fiction writer, is an amazingly creative inspirational author. The way she puts words together is amazing.

I try to avoid public speaking as much as possible. It gives me hives. No, really. Super itchy welts because it�s so terrifying. That being said, I have been known to speak to writers groups.

Really? I really have to answer this? Sheesh. Okay, let�s get this over with quickly. I was tubing down the Apple River in Wisconsinwith my husband-to-be. We went over some rapids and I lost something. Or part of something. The top part. Moral of the story: Always wear a one-piece bathing suit with snug shoulder straps. My fianc�s eyes widened and he quickly pulled me off the tube and into the water so that I could fix the wardrobe malfunction in private.

I�d say someday never comes, so quit talking about it and just do it. There�s never a �right� time to write a book. Life never slows down. Stop using busy as an excuse.

The wild American wilderness is no place for an elegant English governess.

On the run from a cruel British aristocratic employer, Eleanor Morgan escapes to America, the land of the free, for the opportunity to serve an upstanding Charles Town family. But freedom is hard to come by as an indentured servant, and downright impossible when she�s forced to agree to an even harsher contract�marriage to a man she�s never met.

Backwoodsman Samuel Heath doesn�t care what others think of him�but his young daughter�s upbringing matters very much. The life of a trapper in the Carolina backcountry is no life for a small girl, but neither is abandoning his child to another family. He decides it�s time to marry again, but that proves to be an impossible task. Who wants to wed a murderer?

Both Samuel and Eleanor are survivors, facing down the threat of war, betrayal, and divided loyalties that could cost them everything, but this time they must face their biggest challenge ever ... Love.

Eleanor Morgan repeated the words, over and over, scrubbing her fingernails more vigorously with each repetition. Prayer was always better than blood. Perhaps if she focused on the simple child�s verse she taught her charges, she wouldn�t feel like heaving. She bit her lip, trapping a scream behind her teeth. A merciless idea. Better had she cried out at the unfairness of it all, for now blood wasn�t merely under her nails. Saltiness warmed the tip of her tongue.

A rap on her chamber door stopped her scrubbing. The nailbrush clattered into the basin, her heart into her stomach. Before she could think, she turned and snatched one of the brass candlesticks off the bureau. Hot wax spilled onto her skin, the pain barely registering. Duke or not, this time she�d do more than scratch the man�s face. Lecher. Beast. She raised the makeshift weapon, the flame extinguishing as the door swung open.

A tiny woman in a lace wrap entered. Eleanor choked. The candlestick slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor.

Duchess Brougham�s gaze darted to the rolling candlestick, then back to Eleanor�s face. One of her brows lifted.

Eleanor rushed forward and sank to her knees in front of the woman, not caring to grab a dressing gown to cover her shift. Why bother? Humiliation was cloak enough. �Your Grace, I swear I did not encourage your husband�s advances. Please, you must believe me. I would never��

�Rise, Miss Morgan.� The lady waited until Eleanor stood on shaky legs, a single furrow marring her forehead. Was that compassion on her face. . .or resentment?

Duchess Brougham sighed, long and loud, as if she might expel whatever demon anguished her soul.

Eleanor knew she ought say something, but all her words dried up and blew away like the last leaf of autumn.

Slowly, the lady�s mouth curved into a fragile smile. �Did you not wonder, Miss Morgan, why we have had four governesses in the space of a year?�

Eleanor grimaced. She would have inquired had not pride muddled her thinking. The position of governess in a duke�s household didn�t seem nearly as prestigious anymore. La, what a foolish dolt she�d become.

The sting of her father�s prophecy slapped her with more brutal force than she�d dealt her employer. She lifted fingertips to her own cheek, coaxing out a whispered confession. �I assumed lack on the part of the other women, Your Grace, and for that I am woefully repentant.�

Duchess Brougham�s eyes glinted with an odd intensity. �The lack is in my husband. I had hoped that this time. . .for you see, the children dearly love you�� Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. �It is a sorry business, but there is nothing to be done for it. For your sake, Miss Morgan, you should leave. Now. Walk out the door and do not come back.�