"After reading a string of mediocre books, it was a great relief to read Pale Moon Rider. Marsha Canham has written a real winner here, with believable characters - not an evil sister in sight - and lots of suspense. Also, while it deals with dark subjects, like the French Revolution, it isn't a downer.

Tyrone Hart is a highwayman known as Captain Starlight. Renèe d'Anton, a refugee from France, tries to hire him. Though he doesn't trust her, Tyrone agrees to help her. As it turns out, Tyrone was right to be suspicious. Renèe is being forced to cooperate with Colonel Roth, the sadistic officer obsessed with bringing Starlight to justice. If she doesn't help capture Starlight, Roth will see to it that her young brother is tried for attempted murder.

Tyrone quickly finds out that Renèe is working with Roth. When he appears in her room, she shocks him by being honest about her involvement with Roth. She also surprises him by telling him she is trying to get out of her engagement to the coarse Edgar Vincent. Despite the danger, Tyrone agrees to meet with her in three days, as planned.

On the day of the planned rendezvous, Renèe decides to escape, but is thwarted by an unexpected visit by Roth and his henchmen. Renèe can't get away now; the rendezvous must go on, no matter the risk. The plot which follows is full of twists and turns. One of the greatest twists is the revelation of Tyrone's other identity. The reader discovers that Tyrone is nothing if not audacious.

The well-drawn hero and heroine set this book apart from the crowd. Renèe saw most of her family killed during the Reign of Terror, but England wasn't the great sanctuary she had hoped for. If it weren't for her brother, she might have given up. She faces her trials with courage and intelligence.

As befits a highwayman, Tyrone is an enigma. He is intelligent and learned, yet he is a criminal - one who is far more honorable than the men trying to hunt him down. He takes great risks because he no longer truly cares about survival. Because of his dangerous lifestyle, Tyrone has avoided intimate relationships, until now.

The secondary characters were also strong. Readers will fall in love with Renèe's brother, Antoine. He became mute when he saw his mother beaten to death in Paris; he suffered from nightmares, yet he managed to display wit. Unlike siblings in mediocre romances, Antoine added to the plot. The villains were creepy yet believable. Colonel Roth and Edgar Vincent were tied to each other by greed. They also had good reason to want Tyrone dead. Roth was the most villainous of the characters. Though the reader will learn about Roth's sadism, the worst elements, luckily, occur offstage.

This is the kind of plot where you expect Big Misunderstanding cliches to be rampant, but Marsha Canham deftly avoids that trap. After being shot, Tyrone does think Renèe betrayed him, but once he regains consciousness, he actually apologizes!

Readers who love romantic adventure set against history will enjoy this book." Desert Island Keeper Review, Anne Marble



An Excerpt...

This was undoubtedly the most foolish charade of the night, riding out to meet a man who would not be there. They had said all there was to say last night. Moreover, he would not risk drawing attention to himself by leaving the party so soon after her. His nose was probably nestled snugly in the cleft between Victoria Roswell's bosoms by now, resentful of any interruption that might delay his next conquest.

Just as two warm spots of anger started to prickle in her cheeks, she heard Finn call to the horses and felt a noticeable change in the speed of the coach. It was slowing. The churning of wheels rolled to a deliberate halt and a second voice, deep and bristling with authority, advised the driver to remain in his box and do nothing that might invite an unpleasant expenditure of a bullet.

Renée peered anxiously out the window but could see nothing through the distortion of the thick glass. It wasn't possible, was it...?

As the brisk crunch of footsteps approached the side of the coach, she shrank back against the cushions and stared at the door. A moment later the latch turned and the panel swung open to her soft gasp, for she was half expecting to see a man standing there dressed in a powdered wig and silver satin. Instead, she saw only sombre darkness. It was him; she recognized the scent of wind and moonlight and saddle leather. But he looked much like he had the first time she had seen him, his tricorn pulled low over his forehead, the upper collar of his greatcoat standing tall against his cheeks to guard against any stray light from the riding lamp.

"I see you came alone. Very good."

His words were crisp and businesslike and when a black-gloved hand reached inside the coach she recoiled as if it were a snake.

"What are you doing? Why are you here?"

"We arranged to meet tonight, did we not?"

"Well...yes, but..."

"Then meet we shall." A mildly impatient wagging of the gloved fingers invited her to disembark. "If you have no objections, mam'selle, I still prefer to keep my view of the surroundings unimpeded."

"But I do object. This is not necessary."

He sighed, releasing a surly breath of alcoholic vapors past her face. His hand closed around her wrist and he all but dragged her out of the seat and down the step to stand beside him.

"I have had a very long and tiring day, mam'selle. Kindly oblige me by sharing a few final moments of your company. Oh, and Mr. Finn--" as he led her away from the coach, he glanced up at the silent figure perched in the driver's box. "I would advise you to keep your eyes straight ahead and your ears tuned to the sound of the wind in the grasses."

Renée heard a grumbled retort from the driver's box and saw Finn's shoulders stiffen at the warning. They had been as rigid as his upper lip all day, for he had not taken the news of Roth's visit well. Her valise was still packed, however, and Antoine had been told to be ready and waiting when they arrived home. If it was true her uncle was arriving within the next day or two, they could not afford to delay their departure any longer.

Thus, it was with a small pang of guilt that she felt the sharp facets of the cravat pin dig into her flesh as she walked. She had not dared leave it behind where a snooping Mrs.Pigeon might find it, and although she had exchanged the blue velvet for a softer evening gown of pale pink muslin, the pin was snuggled beneath her breast and she could feel it pressing with each step.

"I did not think you would come, m'sieur," she said, panting slightly at the haste with which he distanced them from the coach. "I thought we had decided there was no further reason to meet."

"It would have been rather ungallant of me to leave you sitting out here in the dark on your own, would it not?"

"You took a terrible risk, m'sieur. Will you not be missed? Will no one wonder where you have gone in such a hurry?"

"Who the devil would wonder? The mustachioed Miss Wooleridge? Had you been paying attention, you might have noticed that I deftly deferred her into the hands of young Winston St.Clair, the earl of Kenilworth's nephew--addled as a newt, but by far a better catch."

"And Lady Roswell? Did you defer her as well?"

He stopped abruptly and swung around to face her. "So you were paying attention?"

"Do not flatter yourself, m'sieur. It was simply difficult not to notice the two of you laughing and playing together all evening."

"Playing?"

"Charades. Whist. Commerce." Her voice trailed away, taking the unexpected flare of resentment with it. "She is a very beautiful woman. I am sure everyone noticed you together."

"She was only hoping her lover would."

Renée tipped her face up.

"They had a spat," he explained. "She wanted to annoy him."

"By making love with you?"

"I would hardly consider a game of charades to be making love."

She waved a hand to disparage the differentiation. "M'sieur...please. Who you walk with, who you talk with, who you take to your bed is none of my affair. I am only questioning why you would come all this way to meet me when it was not the least bit necessary. Nor," she added tautly, "is the gun."

"Force of habit," he muttered, tucking the weapon beneath his coat. "And as it happens, I thought the meeting was necessary. In fact," he paused and cast a glance along the empty ribbon of road, " I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever that Roth would know within the hour if the coach was not intercepted."

"You could have arranged to have someone else meet it."

"I could have," he agreed.

Renée looked away. "If Colonel Roth does have someone watching us, he will now be able to report all has gone as planned, yes? There is no further reason to stand out here in the cold."

Tyrone released another huff of breath. Her cloak was glowing pale against the darkness, outlining the slender shape of her shoulders. Wisps of gold escaped the confines of the hood and it took all his willpower not to reach out and push back the offending garment, to remove the pins and combs that held the curls so tightly in place, and to run his fingers through the silky mass until it was free and tumbling over her shoulders like liquid moonlight.

It was indeed dangerous to remain a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. But he had been in a decidedly dangerous mood all evening long watching how Roth and Vincent had hovered over her like hawks. Vincent in particular had put his big possessive paws on her every opportunity that availed itself and while Tyrone normally paid little heed to mismatched couples other than to decide if the wife was amenable to a night or two of diversion, it put a knot in his gut to think of Renée pinned beneath Vincent's sweating hulk. He had tried to ease the knot by drinking too much and making too much noise and yes, by giving serious consideration to losing himself in Victoria Roswell's soft and opulent body. But every time Renée d'Anton had moved so much as a hand he had noted it. And every time Edgar Vincent had leered into her bodice he had wanted to take up a board studded with nails and smash it across his face.

After another long moment of inner debate, he reached beneath his greatcoat and withdrew a small, cloth-wrapped packet. He cradled it in his palm and traced his thumb back and forth over the bumpy surface, then, with a soft soundless oath, he held it out to her.

"Here. Take this."

He heard a soft whisper of silk as she faced him again. "What is it?"

"Just take it. Use it to buy yourself a fresh start somewhere."

Her eyes searched through the gloom for his. She did not make any move to accept the packet and after several more thunderous heartbeats, he swore again and unfolded the layers of overlapped velvet. Nestled at the heart was the brooch containing the Pearl of Brittany.

Even in the poor light, the lustre of the pearl shone against the velvet. Daylight would reveal it to be a uniquely pale and iridescent dun color, larger than a hen's egg, mounted in a nest of gold. Coiled around it was a serpent made of rubies, with jewelled claws and two carat sized diamonds for eyes.

Renée had been but a child of four or five when she had first seen the brooch. The serpent had quivered and glittered in the candlelight and seemed poised to breathe flames, and she had stared so long and hard at it, waiting for it to do just that, the aging Duchesse de Blois had wondered aloud if her eyes were going to pop out.

"Take it," Tyrone said again, his voice gruff at the edges. "Get yourself the hell away from here and sell it for what you can ."

Her eyes rose to his again and he sighed, folding the corners of velvet over the brooch, smothering the glittering gems a quadrant at a time. When it was secure, he pressed it into her hand and curled her slender fingers around the bundle of velvet.

"Do not take less than five thousand; anyone who claims it is not worth at least that much is a thief."

Such advice, considering the source, would have made her smile if she were not so overwhelmed. She looked down at the bundle in her hand, then back up at Tyrone. "I do not know what to say, m'sieur. Or how to thank you."

"Just get safely away from here, and from Roth. That will be thanks enough."

Tyrone's keen eyesight picked out the brightness welling along her lashes. With a flush of genuine discomfort, he started to turn back toward the coach, careful to keep his own gaze deliberately averted, but Renée's hand stopped him. She reached out and caught his sleeve, freezing him to a block of stone.

"You did not have to do this."

"It...was just a trinket to me. When you asked me about it the other night, it sounded like it meant something to you."

"I knew the Duc and Duchesse de Blois very well," she whispered. "It was their son, Jean-Louis, who...who..."

He turned his head slightly.

"We would have married," she finished lamely.

He did not want to look at her. Every shred of common sense remaining, every instinct of self-preservation was screaming at him not to look at her, not to acknowledge the two enormous drowning pools that shimmered in her eyes.

But Renée foiled his good intentions again by sliding her hand up from his sleeve to his cheek and easing aside the staunch wool of his collar enough to press her lips to the muscles that had turned so rigid in his jaw. It was surely one of the most modest and proprietary kisses Tyrone had experienced in many a long year, yet he closed his eyes and felt the effect of it ripple to the soles of his feet. The contact was fleeting, meant only as a gesture of gratitude, but if there had been room in his boots, he was certain his toes would have curled in boyish ecstasy.

It was too much. And it was not nearly enough when what he really wanted to do was hold her and crawl inside her skin and hear her cry out his name like she had last night. She had not called him m'sieur or capitain. She had cried out his name, Tyrone, over and over, her voice so soft and shy and full of wonder it had only encouraged him to do things to make her cry it more.

With a groan he turned, deliberately replacing his cheek with his mouth. He captured her lips with his, smothering her small, startled gasp. His arm went around her waist, drawing her close and hard against his body. His tongue trailed fire along her lips, then between them, plunging deeply and possessively into the sweet recesses until she was moaning and trembling and her arms were creeping up and around his neck and she was pulling herself shamelessly into his heat.

This was not supposed to have happened. Renée had been so proud of herself for remaining so calm and cool in his presence. She had dismissed their one night together as just that: one night, with no possibility or probability of ever feeling herself enveloped so passionately in his arms again. Yet here she was being kissed half senseless and seeking to burrow her way, somehow, beneath the bulky folds of his greatcoat so that their bodies might once again thrill to the heat and pleasure discovered there.

Tyrone made it easier for her by opening the wide woolen wings and enfolding her inside, and when he felt her softness press urgently against him, he shuddered like an unseasoned youthling. His blood was raging and his heart was pounding in his ears. His arms were shaking and his body had grown so hard and tense he came perilously close to pushing her down on the grass beneath him and it took more strength than he thought he possessed to grasp hold of his failing wits and ease her to arms length, to hold her away in an effort just to think.

In the next instant, it was not his conscience screaming at him but the insistent jangle of an alarm going off at the back of his mind. Too late he saw the telltale flash of powder igniting in a firing pan, and far too late he heard the muted pooft, followed a fraction of a second later by the loud explosion of a gunshot. He shoved Renée to one side and flung himself in the opposite direction, rolling catlike onto his feet again with both pistols drawn and cocked. The shot had come from the front of the coach and Tyrone barely had time to bring the snaphaunces to bear on the crouched target before there was a second flash of sparks and another thunderous explosion of powder and shot.