Her One Desire

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Book Description

For His Love

Astride a stolen horse, encircled by the shackled arms of Broderick Maxwell, a Scottish spy escaping certain death in the Tower of London, Lizbeth Ives rides to the north, hidden by the merciful darkness. By stealth and by cunning, the daughter of the Lord High Executioner has undone her father’s cruel work, compelled to save the innocent man with her. There is no turning back—they are bound as one in his iron chains. Consumed by mortal fear, driven by passion, they disappear into the night…

A single raven follows them. Is it an omen? Or only the first of those who would capture them? They must ride on. If captured, they will face death together. But if they reach Scotland, he will claim her for his own…forever.

Her One Desire was a 2009 RITA® finalist in the RITA®: Best First Book category.

Reviews

  • “A sensual and spirited romance by a masterful new writer."

—Patricia Rice, New York Times Bestselling Author

  • 4 Stars - Romantic Times BOOKreviews magazine

The War of the Roses provides a fascinating backdrop for this well-crafted romance. The appeal of Killion's characters comes from their honor, intelligence and humanity. As they play out their story within the confines of the mores and events of the era, they bring history to life and make it accessible. —Kathe Robin ...Read the Review...

  • This debut novel totally rocked!

—Barbara Vey, Reviewer for Publisher Weekly ...Read the Review...

  • 5 out of 5 stars

HER ONE DESIRE is packed with vivid imagery, likable characters and an absorbing premise by a talented new author. —Amelia Richard, Singletitles.com Reviewer ...Read the Review...

  • 4.5 out of 5 ribbons

Kimberly Killion skillfully draws readers into her world of political upheaval during the end of the fifteenth century by weaving a tapestry of a love between two extraordinary individuals —J.T., Romance Junkies Reviewer ...Read the Review...


Awards

Recognitions

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE - England, 1483

Father must protect me or I am dead.

Lizbeth Ives stumbled off the last step of the stairwell in her haste and landed hard on her knees. The guards’ footsteps echoed in the distance. She glanced over her shoulder. Dancing shadows brought the torch-lit stone walls to life and sent her already pounding heart into a frenzy.

Scrambling to her feet, Lizzy clutched the neck of her mantle, safeguarding the document hidden in the bodice of her gown, already envisioning her head atop the chopping block. Her throat burned with every step. The passageway seemed longer, narrower, darker than it had when she was a child. She rounded the corner, and a bout of dizziness set her off balance. Her eyelids pinched shut, if only for a moment to ease her escalating fear. She swallowed hard then inhaled the sour stench of the dungeon, a smell she would never grow accustomed to regardless of the years she’d spent in the Tower.

Two men, who’d guarded the dungeon since her childhood, straightened in front of the arched doorway as she approached. She forced her steps to a calm, even clip.

“Good den, Lady Ives.” One guard dipped his head in greeting.

“Sirs.” She acknowledged them with a quick bow. “I have need to speak with my father.”

“He is at work,” the taller replied. “Lord Ives will not be pleased with your interruption, m’lady.”

“Then I will suffer his fury of my own will. Now step aside, and allow me entrance.” The authority in her voice shocked her, but she had no time for niceties. Lord Hollister’s blackguards would be upon her any moment.

“As ye wish.” Each guard slid sideways, granting her access.

She entered the antechamber and set the bolt in place. A single rushlight illuminated the short passage before her.

Only ten more steps.

She clutched Mother’s rosary, sliding her fingers over the glass beads to count her steps, until she reached the chamber door.

Crack.

The sound of Father’s whip snapped in her ears and jarred her insides. Her fingers stilled over the door lever. She cursed her lack of bravery and wished for the thousandth time she’d been born to the smith or the miller. She wrapped her rosary around her wrist, shook out her hands, and then fisted them to cease their trembling.

Father would not pity a coward.

She summoned the courage to push open the heavy door. The sharp odor of burnt flesh singed her nostrils, sending her hand immediately to her face. She set the iron bar in its catch, then turned toward her father. READ MORE

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