About the Book
After the Great War, Abby Fraser returns to India with her small son, where her husband is stationed with the British army. She has longed to go home to the land of glittering palaces and veiled women . . . but Nick has become a cruel stranger. It will take more than her American pluck to survive.
Major Geoff Richards, broken over the loss of so many of his men in the trenches of France, returns to his cavalry post in Amritsar. But his faith does little to help him understand the ruthlessness of his British peers toward the Indian people he loves. Nor does it explain how he is to protect Abby Fraser and her child from the husband who mistreats them.
Amid political unrest, inhospitable deserts, and Russian spies, tensions rise in India as the people cry for the freedom espoused by Gandhi. Caught between their own ideals and duty, Geoff and Abby stumble into sinister secrets . . . secrets that will thrust them out of the shadows and straight into the fire of revolution.
A sigh escaped as Abby’s anger changed to an overwhelming sense of loss. She could love a man like Geoff. Oh, help me . . . I do love him.
Geoff moved closer. “Aim at the target. Gently. Squeeze the trigger.”
The gun exploded into sound. Her pulse pounded, and her breath went shallow. But it wasn’t from the shot. She was used to that. With his nearness the soft hairs on his forearm brushed against hers. She bit down on her lip.
“There now,” he said. “You did fine. Exceptionally fine . . . for a beginner.” His brows drew together, but he talked in that soothing voice he used with the people he cared for—Eshana, the children at the mission, Cam. And her. Just one of the many.
But she wanted more from Geoff. She wanted him to hold her hand. Hold her. Wanted him to help her at night to tuck Cam into bed, and his gentle smile as they watched her son go to sleep. Her lip bled a little, and she tasted the metallic tang of blood. She wanted Geoff’s kiss.
Tears pricked at the back of her eyes. God would never allow that. And Geoff could not––or more accurately––would not ever give her that. Like Joseph in his treasured Bible he’d run from her with disgust filling his face. She was married. Even if she divorced Nick, Geoff would never marry her.
The beating of her heart seemed to clang inside an empty steel vessel. She lifted the rifle, pressed the butt into her shoulder, laid the stock next to her cheek. She and Geoff could never be more than friends, and they must remain friends from afar. But for this moment she would be herself with him. Nick would never be interested, but she wanted Geoff to see the person she was.
Each muscle along her spine uncoiled. She checked the breeze, adjusted her aim, and squeezed the trigger. With her focus on the bull’s eye she hardly noticed the bang. She shot back the bolt and emptied the spent cartridge onto the ground at their feet. Sliding the bolt in, a fresh cartridge now in place, she began to rapidly empty the MK III, creating a small wreath of spent bullets on the target.
It felt as though every inch of her skin warmed in Geoff’s silent awe. Someone she—yes she would say it—someone she loved was interested enough to look at her and . . . see.
As the last shot reverberated in ever decreasing waves, silence shyly entered and filled the glade. She turned her back to Geoff. With her whole being she yearned to love this good man. But because of his impossible standards, she would have to hide her love from him and cast him from her life. Get rid of his big brother forbearance before it shred her heart further.
He followed her out of the clearing.
Could he not see into her soul as she walked at his side, that she’d longed for him and had thrust those longings away, all in the space of half an hour? The lonely years ahead opened before her like a dark chasm.
Before they reached the campsite he put out a hand to stop her. His gaze lowered to her mouth. He reached into his pocket, removed a clean white handkerchief and pressed it to her lower lip. All breath left her at his touch. When he removed the handkerchief, he glanced at the speck of blood, his eyes a somber gray.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Abby?”
“I just did,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Are you as proficient with a handgun?”
He placed his hand on her shoulder, indicating they go on. When he withdrew his hand, a piece of her heart felt as though it fell to the ground, spent.
Christine Lindsay is an Irish-born writer, proud of the fact that she was once patted on the head by Prince Philip when she was a baby. Her great grandfather, and her grandfather—yes father and son—were both riveters on the building of the Titanic. Tongue in cheek, Christine states that as a family they accept no responsibility for the sinking of that great ship. It was stories of her ancestors who served in the British Cavalry in Colonial India that inspired her historical series Twilight of the British Raj of which Book 1 Shadowed in Silk has won several awards. Book 2 Captured by Moonlight is being released this May, and she is currently writing the final installment of that series called Veiled at Midnight.
Aside from this, Christine is an ordinary woman who loves and serves an extraordinary God, who turned her broken heart into an award-winning writing career. She now lives in British Columbia, Canada with her husband David, and their three grown children, and three grandsons.