Named of the Dragon

Named of the Dragon

Susanna Kearsley

Language: English

Pages: 336

ISBN: 140225864X

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


A haunting tale of intrigue from New York Times bestselling author Susanna Kearsley.

SOMEWHERE IN THE HEART OF LEGEND
LIES THE KEY TO HER TERRIFYING DREAMS

The charm of spending the Christmas holidays in South Wales, with its crumbling castles and ancient myths, seems the perfect distraction from the nightmares that have plagued literary agent Lyn Ravenshaw since the loss of her baby five years ago.

Instead, she meets an emotionally fragile young widow who's convinced that Lyn's recurring dreams have drawn her to Castle Farm for an important purpose--and she's running out of time.

With the help of a reclusive, brooding playwright, Lyn begins to untangle the mystery and is pulled into a world of Celtic legends, dangerous prophecies, and a child destined for greatness.

PRAISE FOR A DESPERATE FORTUNE
"A grand adventure... Susanna Kearsley just keeps getting better and better." -LAUREN WILLIG, New York Times bestselling author
"Enchanting! Beguiling! Gorgeously romantic! A truly brilliant book." -KATE FORSYTH, Award-winning author of Bitter Greens
"Susanna Kearsley deftly conjures a contemporary heroine as unique as she is memorable." -DEANNA RAYBOURN, New York Times bestselling author

Courting Ruth (Hannah's Daughters, Book 1)

Free to Fall

Her Secret Agent Man (Charlie Squad)

7 Minutes in Heaven (Are You Game?)

Stone Field

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

slender, and dressed all in blue, her calm features framed by a tightly stretched wimple that gave her a saintly appearance. I took a closer look, and shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know you.’ ‘Yes, you do.’ She stretched one hand towards me, and I saw the small child clinging to her sleeve. A blue-eyed boy of four or five, with tumbled golden curls. ‘My son,’ she said. ‘My only child. I beg you guard his life.’ ‘Who, me? But—’ ‘Please, you must. They mean him harm. They mean to take him

round the room, glanced over his shoulder and grinned. ‘He works it all off, between his farm and this one. But you’re right, if he ever retires, he’s in trouble.’ Pausing by the bookcase where I’d found the Wilkie Collins book, he crouched to examine its contents. ‘Hey, James, did you know Uncle Ralph has your books?’ ‘Of course he does. I gave them to him.’ ‘Ah, well that explains it, then. I shouldn’t have thought they were quite to his taste, really. Nor this,’ he added, prising out a

book. He’d been reading it in bed, apparently, and had left it face down, half hidden by the tangle of the blankets. A large hardback book with a glossy white jacket and vivid green letters that spelt out its title: The Druid’s Year. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Moreover, that weird legend of his birth, With Merlin’s mystic babble about his end Amazed me … Alfred, Lord Tennyson, ‘The Last Tournament’ ‘Christopher did it.’ Owen pointed the finger of accusation as Bridget reached to take

mind you wipe your feet,’ she said, switching off the hoover as we tramped in. ‘I’ve done this bit already; I’m not keen to do it over.’ Bridget defiantly shrugged off her jacket and shook out the damp before tossing it anyhow into the corner. ‘I’m off to have a bath,’ she announced. Christopher stepped through to set his box down in the kitchen. ‘Just shout if you need me to come scrub your back.’ I saw what it cost her to let that line pass without making some equally flirty reply, but she’d

shut behind me. Stepping out of my shoes, so as not to leave marks on the polished wood floors, I went to look in through the sitting-room door. She was curled on the sofa, half-sitting, one hand tucked beneath her pale cheek like a child’s. The remnants of her supper tray still littered the low table in front of her – a soup bowl, two browned apple slices, biscuit crumbs, a teapot. As I came into the room, her lashes fluttered, lifted, fell again. ‘Didn’t you hear me?’ I asked. ‘Too sleepy.’

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